The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (8 page)

Stark with admiration Julian said, “Gee, sir, that’s right. I ought to have thought of that.” Then he added, “But if I d-d-did that, shouldn’t I p-p-put another washer here?”

The colonel said, “Good for you.
I
should have thought of that.” And he drew the washer in and then added, “I guess you’re a pretty bright kid. What did you say you were going to do with this?”

Julian was filled with exultation. “Get it p-p-patented, especially now that you fixed it. Gee, sir, thanks. You’re g-g-great.”

The bus favoured Allon for just as he reached the vicinity of the colonel it gave a violent lurch as the driver swerved to avoid a pothole and enabled the agent to let himself be thrown up against the seat. His quick eye registered the small boy next to the colonel who was of no interest and at the same time gave him a split-second glimpse of the drawing on the colonel’s lap, that of an extraordinary and heretofore unknown piece of ordnance on which the colonel was working with a pencil.

Even so the trained eye of the Intelligence operative was not as fast as was the Japanese mini-camera palmed in his right hand which practically fell about the colonel’s shoulder from the lurch and which took six pictures during the time Allon mumbled “Sorry,” regained his balance and continued down the aisle.

Frank Marshall saw it all happening but it didn’t register. Not even a minute splinter of light which seemed to flash from the unsteady passenger’s hand and which might have been the reflection of a ring. Marshall’s mind was on the amount of time the colonel seemed to be giving to Julian. Wouldn’t it be funny if there really was something to Julian’s invention? If it worked, wouldn’t every kid want one?

As the passenger came teetering along Marshall perforce looked up and saw that his colour was a muddy green, he was sweating violently, his mouth was distorted and his right hand was tightly clenched as though in a spasm. He thought,
Oh Christ, the poor bastard’s going to be sick. I hope he makes it.

The colonel studied the diagram a moment longer. How old could the kid be; nine, ten? He had been so engrossed in the simplicity and ingenuity of the invention that he had not even looked up when a shadow had fallen athwart it and somebody was apologizing for having stumbled against the seat. He had simply murmured, “That’s all right,” and continued with his examination. He said, “There, that ought to fix it,” and suddenly with a curious glance at Julian, “Look here, young fella, what about you? Are you really going to Washington to patent this?”

“Uh huh.”

“What do you know about getting a patent?”

Julian fished forth the crumpled article from
Popular Mechanics.
The colonel glanced through it. “Sure,” he said, “the article’s okay. Anybody
can
get a patent for an original invention, but you know, sonny, there’s a lot more to it than this and it’s not mentioned here.” He tapped the paper. Then he added, “By the way, who are you travelling with? This fellow Marshall?”

Julian nodded, “Yes sir.”

The colonel suddenly felt bewildered and began to wish he had not become involved. He said, “I see,” and then was compelled to ask, “And what about your parents? Do they know all about this caper?”

Julian again knew himself close to panic. Questions, questions, always questions. But he nodded his head.

Sisson said, “Well, and when you get to Washington? Have you got any money? Do you know anybody?”

The word “money” led to “grandmother” and birthday present. Grandmother would do.

Julian said, “My grandmother lives in Washington.”

The colonel snorted and said, “Your grandmother will be a great help in the Patent Office.”

Subliminally Marshall was aware of Allon emerging from the lavatory too soon to have been ill and marching past him up the aisle quite steadily, his hand no longer clenched, his colour seemed to have returned. But what was far more interesting was that Julian and the colonel were still actively chatting.

Marshall did not bother any more about Allon except to notice that the man was busying himself with taking his satchel down from the rack again and the bus was entering the outskirts of Tucson.

The colonel handed back Julian’s diagram which he folded up and began putting in his pocket. The colonel said, “You know, this whole thing sounds cockeyed to me, young man, and I’m not sure I believe a word of it.” But then he indicated the paper which Julian was stowing away and said, “However, I’ve seen a lot crazier ideas than this come off. The point is, your engineering is sound. Look here, if you need any help in Washington, get in touch.” He produced a wallet from which he took a card with his name, rank, department and the telephone number of his office in the Pentagon Building. He initialled it and then handed it to Julian. “Keep this safe. You might need it.”

After he had been overwhelmed with “Gee, thanks,” and “Say, you’re the greatest,” and Julian had departed, he said to himself,
For sweet Jesus’ sake, Sisson, why can’t you mind your own business? What the hell did you have to do that for?
But he excused himself with,
Goddammit, the country needs kids like that.
His mind then turned back to the problem of his mission and the bad luck that had attended it so far. He glanced ahead to where Allon was sitting and could not think of a single solitary thing to do beyond going up to him, handing him the sheaf of blueprints with, “Here, your bosses would like to have a look at these.” The next move would have to be up to Allon.

Julian had dropped into the aisle seat next to Marshall as the bus slowed down through the streets of Tucson. He said excitedly, “Say, he was great,” and produced the diagram. “He showed me what to do. See here?” He took out a pencil of his own with an eraser, rubbed out certain lines on the diagram, traced over the colonel’s corrections and gazed with awe and delight upon the altered sheet. “B-b-boy, was I a dope. I should have s-s-seen that.” Then, looking proudly at Marshall, “But the colonel d-d-didn’t see something that I s-s-saw, like here.”

Marshall said, “Yeah,” and then casually, “Did he say it would work?”

Julian said, “Sure, why wouldn’t it? See, when I . . .”

Julian became aware that Marshall who had been showing the most intense interest was suddenly no longer listening to him and he looked up slightly bewildered to see that Marshall was gazing in a puzzled manner up towards the front of the bus.

Julian asked, “What are you looking at?”

Marshall replied, “Nothing. Never mind.”

Nevertheless he continued to watch the actions of the little man who had looked as if he were going to be sick. He now saw that Allon had removed his bag from the rack and there was a curious tension about Allon’s neck and shoulders and all he could think of was a memory of a high school track meet, and the eight-eighty and the way the back of the competitor on his mark a few feet ahead of him had looked, all bunched up and ready to explode. And there was something else that he kept trying to remember that tugged at his mind.

Julian began, “The colonel said, . . .” but Marshall swiftly put his hand on Julian’s arm in a gesture that meant keep quiet and half rose out of his seat to see what Allon was up to. He was getting ready to leave the bus fast and Marshall remembered Allon had bought a ticket to Washington.

Then there was the bus driver’s voice, “Tucson, Tucson, ten minutes, keep your seats please.” The bus drew up to a stop at the bus station. The doors hissed open and several new passengers boarded.

At this moment the subliminal, that same which so often had saved that other Marshall and helped him during certain dangerous days to avoid the trip wires hidden underfoot, grenades hung from trees, pressure mines that tore one’s legs and genitals to bloody shreds, the poisoned punji sticks buried in the ground and all the other booby traps, came startlingly to life and brought what had happened into focus. And even as Allon nipped out of the seat, out of the bus and was off running, with Colonel Sisson standing and looking at him in confusion, Marshall was down the aisle saying to Sisson, “Sir, excuse me, I may be wrong but I think that little guy that just got off took a picture.”

Sisson said, “What? Picture of what?” He couldn’t remember Allon’s movements.

Marshall was saying, “Over your shoulder. When the bus was swaying. He almost fell over you. I thought I saw something in his hand.”

Cold fear settled in the colonel’s stomach. He glanced at his briefcase, then gripped Marshall’s arm, “Christ! When? Did you notice when he got the picture?”

Marshall said, “When you were talking to the kid.”

The colonel yelled “Son of a bitch!” so loudly that it startled everyone in the vicinity but particularly the man named Wilks occupying the front seat. Beyond the offence of his appearance, his behaviour had been subdued ever since he had got on the bus; he hardly moved at all as though concerned with not attracting attention and did not get out during stopovers. He sat hunched by the window, hat pulled down over his eyes, moodily observing the scenery as it flashed by. Occasionally he pulled a road map from a pocket and studied it. The seat next to him was unoccupied. Two passengers had tried it, a man and a woman, and been driven away by his unwashed fetor. These defections did not seem to upset or worry the man.

But now as the colonel rushed past him and out through the still-open door while reaching inside his jacket for his shoulder holster, Wilks immediately arose, his hand moving in an exact duplicate of that of the colonel.

Marshall bumped Wilks as he dashed after the colonel and momentarily distracted him from completing his draw. Wilks remembered Marshall from the episode in the bus station and the irritation gave him pause just long enough to see that the sudden furor had nothing to do with him. He removed his hand from his clothing, shoved his hat on to the back of his head and mopped his brow. He sank back into his seat and watched through the window.

Colonel Sisson and Marshall were just in time to see Allon at a little distance giving a taxi-driver instructions. The colonel produced his gun, a black army .45. The bulk of the passengers in the bus were unaware of the curious drama being played out at the entrance to the bus station since Sisson had his back to them and they could not see the automatic.

There was a moment of frozen tableau like the stopping of a motion picture film on one frame as Allon, for one terror-stricken instant, his face a mask of fright, glanced over at the colonel, the gun and Marshall. Then he nipped into the cab, slammed the door and was gone.

Marshall was unable to keep a slight tinge of contempt from his voice as he said, “You could have had him, sir.”

For the first time Sisson took in Marshall wholly and recognizing an ex-soldier, the colonel reholstered his gun and said, “Thanks, but maybe I didn’t want him with holes in him,” and then he said, “Oh, goddammit, the stupid bastard.” And suddenly he felt as though he was nine years old like the kid with that design and wanted to cry from sheer helpless frustration. “What a son of a bitching foul up!” For a moment, almost stupidly he regarded his briefcase and then said bitterly, “They’ll have my chicken feathers for this. That crazy kid! Tell the bus driver I’m not coming back.”

Marshall said, “I don’t get it,” but Sisson was already running for a second taxi, exchanged a few words with the driver, was in and gone.

As Marshall climbed back into the bus, the driver asked, “What the hell was all that about? Where are they?”

Marshall said, “Skip it. They won’t be back.”

The driver was beginning to feel a sense of injury. He said, “What’s the matter with my bus all of a sudden? That’s three guys. Had I better report in?”

Marshall laid a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry. Like, now there’s nothing in the rules that says a guy’s got to go on riding if he doesn’t want to. Weirdos. Like I said, forget it.”

The driver looked up into Marshall’s face.
Smooth. Cool. Maybe he knew something that was nobody else’s business. What the hell. So two guys got off and took taxis. Report what?
The driver said, “Okay, bud.”

Marshall went back into the bus, passing Wilks whose thoughts were somewhat different.
Dangerous! If that son of a bitch starts anything he’ll be the first to get it between the eyes.

As the bus moved off and Marshall was back in his seat, Julian asked, “What happened? W-w-where did they go?”

Marshall replied, “Nothing,” and then realizing that the boy was too bright to be fobbed off, made the motion of closing his lips with a zipper and whispered, “Secret agents maybe.”

Wide-eyed, Julian said, “Gee, honest? Spies?”

Marshall did the zipper movement again and thought to himself looking at the diagram in Julian’s lap,
Now what the hell did that scared little monkey want with a picture of this? Had the man with the camera goofed too?
But then Marshall remembered that the colonel had always seemed to be working on things on his lap. The fellow had had plenty of time to make his pictures but apparently had waited for Julian’s advent to make his move. Aloud he said, “You sure the colonel said this would work?”

Julian nodded, “Uh huh. See there, he said I c-c-could move that b-b-back and I said to put another w-w-washer. It’ll be okay that way. Look, he gave me his address in W-w-washington.”

Marshall glanced at the card. So, he had been right about the colonel being in ordnance. Then, he returned to studying the diagram. “So, you pull the trigger and what happens?”

Julian said, “Like I told you, b-b-bubbles come out.”

Marshall repeated, “Bubbles come out. Yeah, I got that the first time.”
And for this that dopey little man had almost got himself shot in the ass with a .45.
For a moment his mind went wild. What were the bubbles? Nerve gas? Poison? The kid was being used like Rudyard Kipling’s Kim? He said to himself,
Oh, for sweet Jesus’ sake, Marshall, be yourself. Like the colonel said there was some kind of foul up which could cost him his eagles and none of it’s your business. The point is he said this thing will work and gave the kid his card. The boy really had something.
Aloud he said, “I call that pretty damn smart. When I was a kid I was always tinkering myself. I was gonna be an engineer.”

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