Armageddon Read online

  Armageddon

  Fredric Brown

  Armageddon

  by Fredric Brown

  It happened—of all places—in Cincinnati. Not that there is anything wrong with Cincinnati, save that it is not the center of the Universe, nor even of the State of Ohio. It’s a nice old town and, in its way, second to none. But even its Chamber of Commerce would admit that it lacks cosmic significance. It must have been mere coincidence that Gerber the Great—what a name!—was playing Cincinnati when things slipped elsewhere.

  Of course, if the episode had become known, Cincinnati would be the most famous city of the world, and little Herbie would be hailed as a modern St. George and get more acclaim than a quiz kid. But no member of that audience in the Bijou Theater remembers a thing about it. Not even little Herbie Westerman, although he had the water pistol to show for it.

  He wasn’t thinking about the water pistol in his pocket as he sat looking up at the prestidigitator on the other side of the footlights. It was a new water pistol, bought en route to the theater when he’d inveigled his parents into a side trip into the five-and-dime on Vine Street, but at the moment, Herbie was much more interested in what went on upon the stage.

  His expression registered qualified approval. The front-and-back palm was no mystery to Herbie. He could do it himself. True, he had to use pony-sized cards that came with his magic set and were just right for his nine-year-old hands. And true, anyone watching could see the card flutter from the front-palm position to the back as he turned his hand. But that was a detail.

  He knew, though, that front-and-back palming seven cards at a time required great finger strength as well as dexterity, and that was what Gerber the Great was doing. There wasn’t a telltale click in the shift, either, and Herbie nodded approbation. Then he remembered what was coming next.

  He nudged his mother and said, “Ma, ask Pop if he’s gotta extra handkerchief.”

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Herbie saw his mother turn her head and in less time than it would take to say, “Presto,” Herbie was out of his seat and skinning down the aisle. It had been, he felt, a beautiful piece of misdirection and his timing had been perfect.

  It was at this stage of the performance—which Herbie had seen before, alone—that Gerber the Great asked if some little boy from the audience would step to the stage. He was asking it now.

  Herbie Westerman had jumped the gun. He was well in motion before the magician had asked the question. At the previous performance, he’d been a bad tenth in reaching the steps from aisle to stage. This time he’d been ready, and he, hadn’t taken any chances with parental restraint. Perhaps his mother would have let him go and perhaps not; it had seemed wiser to see that she was looking the other way. You couldn’t trust parents on things like that. They had funny ideas sometimes.

  “—will please step up on the stage?” And Herbie’s foot touched the first of the steps upward right smack on the interrogation point of that sentence. He heard the disappointed scuffle of other feet behind him, and grinned smugly as he went on up across the footlights.

  It was the three-pigeon trick, Herbie knew from the previous performance, that required an assistant from the audience. It was almost the only trick he hadn’t been able to figure out. There must, he knew, have been a concealed compartment somewhere in that box, but where it could be he couldn’t even guess. But this time he’d be holding the box himself. If from that range he couldn’t spot the gimmick, he’d better go back to stamp collecting.

  He grinned confidently up at the magician. Not that he, Herbie, would give him away. He was a magician, too, and he understood that there was a freemasonry among magicians and that one never gave away the tricks of another.

  He felt a little chilled, though, and the grin faded as he caught the magician’s eyes. Gerber the Great, at close range, seemed much older than he had seemed from the other side of the footlights. And somehow different. Much taller, for one thing.

  Anyway, here came the box for the pigeon trick. Gerber’s regular assistant was bringing it in on a tray. Herbie looked away from the magician’s eyes and he felt better. He remembered, even, his reason for being on the stage. The servant limped. Herbie ducked his head to catch a glimpse of the under side of the tray, just in case. Nothing there.

  Gerber took the box. The servant limped away and Herbie’s eyes followed him suspiciously. Was the limp genuine or was it a piece of misdirection?

  The box folded out flat as the proverbial pancake. All four sides hinged to the bottom, the top hinged to one of the sides. There were little brass catches.

  Herbie took a quick step back so he could see behind it while the front was displayed to the audience. Yes, he saw it now. A triangular compartment built against one side of the lid, mirror-covered, angles calculated to achieve invisibility. Old stuff. Herbie felt a little disappointed.

  The prestidigitator folded the box, mirror-concealed compartment inside. He turned slightly. “Now, my fine young man—”

  What happened in Tibet wasn’t the only factor; it was merely the final link of a chain.

  The Tibetan weather had been unusual that week, highly unusual. It had been warm. More snow succumbed to the gentle warmth than had melted in more years than man could count. The streams ran high, they ran wide and fast.

  Along the streams some prayer wheels whirled faster than they had ever whirled. Others, submerged, stopped altogether. The priests, knee-deep in the cold water, worked frantically, moving the wheels nearer to shore where again the rushing torrent would turn them.

  There was one small wheel, a very old one that had revolved without cease for longer than any man knew. So long had it been there that no living lama recalled what had been inscribed upon its prayer plate, nor what had been the purpose of that prayer.

  The rushing water had neared its axle when the lama Klarath reached for it to move it to safety. Just too late. His foot slid in the slippery mud and the back of his hand touched the wheel as he fell. Knocked loose from its moorings, it swirled down with the flood, rolling along the bottom of the stream, into deeper and deeper waters.

  While it rolled, all was well.

  The lama rose, shivering from his momentary immersion, and went after other of the spinning wheels. What, he thought, could one small wheel matter? He didn’t know that—now that other links had broken—only that tiny thing stood between Earth and Armageddon.

  The prayer wheel of Wangur Ul rolled on, and on, until—a mile farther down—it struck a ledge, and stopped. That was the moment.

  “And now, my fine young man—”

  Herbie Westerman—we’re back in Cincinnati now—looked up, wondering why the prestidigitator had stopped in mid-sentence. He saw the face of Gerber the Great contorted as though by a great shock. Without moving, without changing, his face began to change. Without appearing different, it became different.

  Quietly, then, the magician began to chuckle. In the overtones of that soft laughter was all of evil. No one who heard it could have doubted who he was. No one did doubt. The audience, every member of it, knew in that awful moment who stood before them, knew it—even the most skeptical among them—beyond shadow of doubt.

  No one moved, no one spoke, none drew a shuddering breath. There are things beyond fear. Only uncertainty causes fear, and the Bijou Theater was filled, then, with a dreadful certainty.

  The laughter grew. Crescendo, it reverberated into the far dusty corners of the gallery. Nothing—not a fly on the ceiling—moved.

  Satan spoke.

  “I thank you for your kind attention to a poor magician.” He bowed, ironically low. “The performance is ended.” He smiled. “All performances are ended.”

  Somehow the theater seemed to darken, although the electric lights still burn
ed. In dead silence, there seemed to be the sound of wings, leathery wings, as though invisible Things were gathering.

  On the stage was a dim red radiance. From the head and from each shoulder of the tall figure of the magician there sprang a tiny flame. A naked flame.

  There were other flames. They flickered along the proscenium of the stage, along the footlights. One sprang from the lid of the folded box little Herbie Westerman still held in his hands.

  Herbie dropped the box.

  Did I mention that Herbie Westerman was a Safety Cadet? It was purely a reflex action. A boy of nine doesn’t know much about things like Armageddon, but Herbie Westerman should have known that water would never have put out that fire.

  But, as I said, it was purely a reflex action. He yanked out his new water pistol and squirted it at the box of the pigeon trick. And the fire did vanish, even as a spray from the stream of water ricocheted and dampened the trouser leg of Gerber the Great, who had been facing the other way.

  There was a sudden, brief hissing sound. The lights were growing bright again, and all the other flames were dying, and the sound of wings faded, blended into another sound-rustling of the audience.

  The eyes of the prestidigitator were closed. His voice sounded strangely strained as he said: “This much power I retain. None of you will remember this.”

  Then, slowly, he turned and picked up the fallen box. He held it out to Herbie Westerman. “You must be more careful, boy,” he said. “Now hold it so.”

  He tapped the top lightly with his wand. The door fell open. Three white pigeons flew out of the box. The rustle of their wings was not leathery.

  Herbie Westerman’s father came down the stairs and, with a purposeful air, took his razor strop off the hook on the kitchen wall.

  Mrs. Westerman looked up from stirring the soup on the stove. “Why, Henry,” she asked, “are you really going to punish him with that—just for squirting a little water out of the window of the car on the way borne?”

  Her husband shook his head grimly. “Not for that, Marge. But don’t you remember we bought him that water gun on the way downtown, and that he wasn’t near a water faucet after that? Where do you think he filled it?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “When we stopped in at the cathedral to talk to Father Ryan about his confirmation, that’s when the little brat filled it. Out of the baptismal font! Holy water he uses in his water pistol!”

  He clumped heavily up the stairs, strop in hand.

  Rhythmic thwacks and wails of pain floated down the staircase. Herbie—who had saved the world—was having his reward.

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  Fredric Brown, Armageddon

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