The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (24 page)

For a moment the examiner found himself bewildered,
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on the identical diagram,
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on the boy’s hand, a colonel of ordnance in the Pentagon! What kind of kid stuff or foolishness was involved? The immediate escape hatch from what seemed to be some kind of nonsense was the return strictly to business which was what he was being paid for.

He therefore turned to Julian and said, “Actually, young fellow, a complete duplicate set of these drawings and applications passed through my office late yesterday afternoon. They’re probably being processed right now. Here, wait a minute, let me have a look.”

He got up from his desk and went out into the corridor. Julian slipped down off his chair and followed him. He had only half-understood what the man had been saying. Perhaps it was only something to do with the formalities, something perhaps that had escaped him or Colonel Sisson. Yet he could feel his heart thumping violently in his chest.

As he and the examiner emerged from the office, almost at the same moment, about three down, a door opened and to his complete astonishment and bewilderment, Julian saw Marshall accompanied by a fat, busy little man, and another who was obviously an official and was saying to the fat man, “That’s all okay, Jim. You know where to go now. Third floor, second office on the right. They’ll look after you.”

Julian’s lips formed the word “Frank” but no sound issued and he was aware that he was suddenly horribly frightened.

Julian’s examiner was saying to the other official, “Oh, Fred, see here, wait a minute. Here’s something pretty funny. I’ve got an identical set of plans for that same invention presented by this kid as his own. What goes on here? Can we have a look?”

The official said, “Yeah, sure, why, what’s wrong?” The two groups moved closer to one another.

The sudden unexpected appearance of his friend had set up not only an inexplicable fear in Julian but a total confusion of thoughts, bewilderments, explanations.

It
was
Frank Marshall. Frank Marshall, his pal. It couldn’t be anybody else. There was the handsome, stalwart figure, the worn battle jacket with the spots where the ribbons, shoulder patches and chevrons had been removed and those unforgettable bright blue half-mocking, half-friendly eyes. What was it that had happened? Of course. He had gone to make a telephone call at the terminal and then they had managed to lose one another in the crowd. Any other possibility but the one that now followed in Julian’s mind was unacceptable and he was suddenly flooded with relief because of what he chose to believe. Of course: Marshall knew that he, Julian, would be at the Patent Office and naturally this would be where he would come to find him.

Julian said, “We got lost, didn’t we? When you didn’t come out I went into the station to look for you but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Frank Marshall did not reply. It was as though he had not heard. And then Julian noticed that now those bright blue eyes were neither friendly nor mocking but stony cold as they stared over the top of his head.

Julian’s examiner said to Marshall, “Do you know this boy?”

Marshall replied, “Who, the kid? Never saw him before in my life.”

One stricken cry emerged from Julian, “But, Frank!”

Marshall turned his back. The examiner said to the other official, “Can I see those papers a minute again, Fred?” He took them and gave them a cursory glance and said, “That’s right, those are the ones,” and handed them back.

The official said, “They came through last night just before closing. We decided to process them this morning.”

“Yes, thanks, I know. They’re the ones I accepted yesterday.”

Marshall turned to his group and said, “Okay?”

The official nodded and the fat man took the papers.

Marshall said, “Then, let’s go.”

Julian watched them go off down the corridor. He felt sick. As from a far distance he heard the examiner say, “Well, that seems to be that. Suppose we go back to my office for a minute, sonny, and have a little chat.”

Numbly Julian followed him and then he was once more propped up in the straight-backed chair and the distant voice was saying, “If you say this originates with you, young man, I have to take your word for it. I’ve been in this office long enough to see duplicate inventions submitted but never anything like this. However, it’s none of my business.”

Julian simply sat quietly, like one paralysed, his eyes seeing the man, his ears hearing him but his thoughts now ranging far in search of the answer to the impossible. How could Marshall have done this? When could he have, and above all, why? His friend. The diagram had never left his pocket or person until he handed it over to Colonel Sisson. Where? When? How? The roster of cities passed through his mind. St. Louis, Indianapolis Columbus, but they had always been together sauntering through the bus stations during the stopovers. What was it he half-remembered then? Where was it? Pittsburgh. And as a long-ago night-time dream recalled, it seemed to Julian that he had been asleep and there had been a shadow that had fallen across him and a touch and then he had slept the more deeply and the more peacefully because it would have been surely the friendly, comforting pressure of Frank Marshall’s hand upon his shoulder. He had awakened an hour or so after they had left Pittsburgh.

The man was still talking. “I’ll accept this application if you like, but I think it’s only fair to tell you that you’d be wasting your time and money. The one you saw go down the hall is time-stamped as having been received yesterday and the serial number is twenty-seven ahead of yours. In other words, if the research proves it patentable, it will always have priority. I can’t say I was overly impressed with that young man there and if there was any funny business, I suppose you could sue. What about your family? Have you got a father or someone?”

He looked up at Julian and then down at the papers again. Julian was unable to reply. The chill that began at his feet seemed to have moved up, gripping his middle.

The examiner said, “Wait a minute, I just had an idea. Did you ever make a model of your invention?”

Julian nodded in assent.

“Well, that’s something. Have you got it?”

Julian moved his head in negation.

“Where is it, then?”

“I gave it to the baby.”

“Eh? Gave it to . . . what baby?”

“The taxi-man’s baby. The one where I stayed last night. He wanted it.”

It seemed to Julian as though one part of him had been turned to ice, no longer flesh and blood capable of thought or movement, but yet there was another part that could remember, and in some recess of his mind he heard again the baby’s gurgle of delight as the jet stream of bubbles emerged from the muzzle of the Bubble Gun and went sailing about the Morrow apartment the night before, sticking here, there and everywhere on bits of furniture and one even on the end of the baby’s nose. When the baby had reached for it, it had disappeared leaving him with the mystery of a droplet in his palm.

The baby’s name was Matthew, he was a year and a half old and sat in a high chair. Julian had had the most fabulous dinner, ham steak with candied yams and peas and apple pie and cheese.

There was Della, the daughter, aged twelve, and Tom, the boy of fifteen and Abbie, Mrs. Morrow, who Julian thought had the most beautiful face of anyone he had ever seen. It was hard to tell why it was so beautiful except that when she looked at you it made you feel good all the way through, and happy.

After supper Julian had had to re-enact the shooting of the hijacker for the benefit of all, which he had then performed after suitable protestations that, “Aw, it was nothing,” which Julian somehow knew was obligatory to prefacing an account of any extraordinary deed. Meech Morrow played the hijacker, Tom took the part of the bus driver, Matthew screamed with delight, Della applauded and Abbie Morrow had looked upon the boy with wonder and admiration.

Afterwards, Julian had been bedded down on the couch of the living-room-dining-room and Mrs. Morrow had covered him with a blanket and dropped a featherlike kiss upon his cheek. Morrow had looked in and ordered, “Now, you go to sleep. Don’t worry, I’ll get you up in the morning and we’ll be back at the Pentagon at ten o’clock.”

Replete and drowsy, Julian murmured, “Thank you for everything, Mr. Morrow. Gee, that was a great supper.”

And in the morning he had filled the soapy solution compartment of the Bubble Gun for the last time and presented it to the baby as the only thank-you gift he felt he could leave behind. And as he went out through the door with Morrow, the last thing he saw was the iridescence of a bubble floating across the room and the last thing he heard was the laughter of Matthew.

The examiner suddenly felt himself on the verge of losing his temper. He repeated, “The taxi-man’s baby wanted it? What are you talking about, boy? What taxi-man? Where was all this?”

The part of Julian that was still able to function replied, “I don’t know, sir, I can’t remember where it was.”

The examiner recovered his temper, for in a curious way something of Julian’s state of mind had managed to penetrate to him. There was more behind this curious mix-up and the strange encounter in the hall. That man who denied ever having seen a boy who had called him by his first name. But, whatever it was, the official now wanted to be quit of it and with a sigh of defeat and resignation, he said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you then, but it’s up to you now, my boy.” He picked up the sheaf of papers and held them so Julian could take them if he wished.

He asked, “Well, what do you want to do, take them back or leave them?”

The numbness had set in upon Julian again, the feeling that something inside him had died, that even some part of his body no longer belonged to him. He arose from the chair and without taking the papers, turned and went out.

He found his way down the corridor and a flight of steps to the lobby where there was a marble bench and he sat down on it leaning his back against a pillar, listening but not hearing the shuffle of the feet of passing people. He was still in a state of shock and unaware that in his right hand he held the mussed and grubby original diagram of the Bubble Gun which the examiner had returned to him. Dry-eyed, he remained sitting there staring at nothing.

Julian did not see Frank Marshall as he emerged from the bank of elevators behind him, but Marshall caught sight out of the corner of his eye of the small figure dwarfed even more by the marble pillar. He kept on going. In this manner, he had snatched no more than a camera shutter’s glimpse at a fraction of a second of the child’s face of which he did not wish to be reminded. For already, indelibly imprinted on his memory was Julian just a while ago in the corridor when he had denied him. He would never be able to obliterate the look of incomprehension and bewilderment. Hitting a baby was one of the thoughts that had crossed Marshall’s mind, and then later when he had had time to think he went all the way back to his Sunday School days and wondered what had been the expression upon the face of Christ when Peter had denied him.

And yet he knew that it was necessary to be strong; strong and tough. In today’s jungle you had to look out for Number One! The patent lawyer had been sanguine about the chances of the invention. Marshall had no way of knowing that patent lawyers were always sanguine.

As he made for the revolving door, and his exit for ever from the life and times of Julian West. Inventor, Marshall felt himself yanked to a stop as though someone had flung a lasso about his shoulders and hauled it taut bringing him to a standstill.

Yet, of course, nothing of the kind had happened. He was simply rooted in front of the revolving door which was going bump-bump-thumpety-thump as turning upon its axis it let people in and others out, all except Frank Marshall who suddenly was unable to move or even twitch so much as a muscle to join them.

One half revolution through that door and before him would lie freedom. Behind him—? Frank Marshall slowly turned about to push himself with one last look at what he was leaving so that always it would remain with him.

He had not thought that it would be quite so dreadful or shattering. He had expected tears or abject misery but not the look of one whom shock and disillusionment had robbed of every aspect of childhood and had left nothing but a caricature.

His feet thought for him, for to his surprise he found that they were turning inexorably away from the door and wholly without his volition proceeding one behind the other until they brought him up standing, towering, over Julian and looking down upon the little figure.

The child did not look up. The two legs that had come to a halt before him meant nothing. Nothing would ever mean anything again.

Marshall squatted down, hunkering upon his heels and this brought his face level with that of the boy. He heard himself say “Julian,” and realized that he was still under that same spell that had seized and paralysed him at the door. But the way he spoke the name made Julian turn his head slightly so that Marshall was confronted with the full force of the white, stricken face.

Marshall said in a voice he hardly recognized as his own, “Okay, kid, so I’m a rat.”

Julian stared at him, a flicker of life was returning to the eyes behind the lenses of the spectacles but he remained silent.

The Frank Marshall that knew he simply had to speak and in some manner drive that terrible dead look of an old and beaten man from the face of the boy, made his attempt to explain.

He said, “Look, I guess maybe you won’t understand and it’s tough when you get a real kick in the pants, but see, it’s like this. You’re young, you’re a sort of a genius. You’ve got a great head on you. You’re gonna invent a whole lot of other things beside the Bubble Gun.” He paused and his voice dropped a note lower and he wished he could turn his head away as he added, “But right now, Julian, I need it more than you do.”

Their eyes, on a level, were caught up. Julian said nothing.

Marshall continued, “See, I put my last buck down for that patent. No kidding. You know, all those drawings and stuff cost money. I suppose you got the colonel to do it for you. I’m flat on my—” He had started to say “flat on my ass”, but cleaned it up quickly to “I’m flat broke, but I can get some sort of a job to keep myself going and when the patent goes through, I’ll have a stake. See? I could get a real start.”