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  Raymer straightened up. Nick said, “Hiyuh, Mr. Halloran. Beer?”

  “Yeah. Come on, Bill. What’s this stuff about the end of the world coming on Saturday night?”

  Raymer shrugged. “Name of a painting. Some artist painted a picture of a Paris cafe called the ‘End of the World.’ He called his painting ‘End of the World, Saturday Night.’ That’s all.”

  “So what?” Halloran wanted to know.

  “So nothing. I just sort of like it. Let’s skip the whole thing. Gimme another beer, Nick.”

  “That would be a headline,” Halloran said, “‘WORLD WILL END AT 1:45 TONIGHT.’ Gimme another beer, Nick.”

  Nick chuckled. “Maybe she end tonight, huh, Mr. Halloran? This is Saturday night, sure enough.”

  Raymer smiled wryly. “That would be a story to end all stories, all right. Only you couldn’t get away with it—if you’re thinking of trying it. One edition of that and you’d spend the rest of your life in jail, if people didn’t lynch you first.”

  Halloran nodded. He put his glass down, empty, and started to turn from the bar.

  His eyes fell on Johnny Gin, asleep back in the corner. Sodden, fuzz-witted old Johnny, whose last name nobody knew nor cared about—just another punchy stew-bum, who had attached himself to the Greek’s place because Nick gave him drinks and pretzels for sweeping out and mopping up and cuspidor cleaning.

  Halloran laughed. He said, “Wonder what Johnny Gin’d do if he thought the world was going to end tonight. Gimme one more beer, Nick.”

  Raymer raised one eyebrow half a pica. “Mean you’re thinking of running off a special edition just to find out?”

  “Special edition, hell. Johnny can’t read any type small-er’n headlines. All we got to do is get a galley proof of a banner head and paste it over the regular headline. For that matter, we wouldn’t even need a paper; we could just wake him up and tell him the world is going to end. But—uh—”

  “But it lacks the artistic touch,” supplied Raymer. Nick said, “Johnny, he just get dronk, that’s all.”

  “Would he?” Halloran said. “He’s drunk all the time anyway. I’ll bet it’d wake him up.”

  Raymer said, “I think Nick’s right, Halloran. He’d just get a little drunker than usual.”

  Halloran was feeling good now. He said, “Okay you mugs, I’ll prove it to you. When I take lunch time at eleven I’ll bring in a doctored-up—Wait, better, I’ll give it to the kid sells papers down on the corner. After I’m in here—and we’ll tell Johnny I don’t work for the paper any more so he won’t wonder why I didn’t know already—”

  “Johnny, he wouldn’t wonder nothing,” said the Greek. “We’ll make it good anyway,” Halloran told him. “So after I’ve been in here a while the kid will stick his head in the door and yell….”

  *

  “EXTRA! Extra-EXTRA! ReaDALL aBOUT–”>

  “Gimme one,” said Halloran. He gave the kid a coin and got the top paper from the stack. The kid ran back out.

  Johnny Gin had been leaning against the end of the bar. Nick had called him over there just before Halloran came in. Halloran had bought him a beer and he had lifted it in a grave toast to his benefactor. But he knew they wouldn’t want him to join in the conversation, and that was all right with Johnny Gin.

  He didn’t have anything to say to them, or they to him. His world was different; his world was made up of things like the pattern of smudges on the mirror, the feel of that little ridge in the wood of the bar as he ran his fingers back and forth over it, the smell of whisky, and the strange and dreamlike thoughts he had sometimes—and could never remember clearly afterwards.

  He took another pull at the beer. It was weak stuff, but—

  “My God!” Halloran was saving, “Nick! Johnny! Look!”

  Halloran sounded excited. Probably, Johnny thought, something about war. People got excited about war.

  To be polite he peered down the bar at the paper Halloran was holding up. He squinted, but it was just gray paper with a blacker strip running across the top. He had to walk closer, until he was almost near enough to reach out and touch Halloran before that top line came in focus. It was in big black type, clear across the top of the front page.

  “WORLD WILL END AT 1:45 TONIGHT!”

  His lips formed the words, mumblingly.

  “Jeez,” Nick said. “Tonight.”

  Halloran turned the paper around again. His hands trembled a little as he held it so he could read the fine type.

  “Collision with—uh—Mars. Mars pulled out of its orbit by—by sudden gravitational shift in sun’s power. Mars pulled toward the sun and coming for Earth like a bat out of hell, and it’ll hit us at one forty-five tonight—impact will reduce both planets to fine dust—”

  “Jeez,” said Nick.

  “Harvard Observatory, Lick Observatory, all of them confirm it.”

  He put down the paper. He looked across the bar. “My God,” he said. “Nick, we’ll be dead in—in two and a quarter hours! All of us. Dead!”

  He sounded awfully worked up about it, Johnny Gin thought. But then maybe it would matter a lot to some people. Maybe Halloran had a lot to live for, although he didn’t look like it.

  So the world was going to end. Well, then there wasn’t anything he, Johnny, could do about it, was there? Except, of course—He sensed that both of them—both Mr. Halloran and Nick—were looking at him now waiting for him to say something, wondering what he was going to say.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh—Nick, can I have a bottle of that Brentwood? A pint, maybe. I’ll—” He was going to offer to do some extra work tomorrow, and then realized how silly that was. There wouldn’t be any tomorrow. “Uh—can I?”

  Nick shrugged. “Told you so,” he said to Halloran. “Well, you stuck my neck out. I gotta give it to heem now.”

  Halloran looked disgusted. “The God damn bum!” he snarled. “Hasn’t got the guts to be afraid.” He stomped out.

  Nick took a pint bottle from the back-bar and slid it along to Johnny. Johnny opened it with the ease of long practice.

  He said, “Thanks. Looking at you—last time.” He tilted the bottle and took a moderate swig. He didn’t want to get too drunk; he’d make his bottle last him. He wanted to be able to walk out into the street a little before it happened, and watch the fireworks. Might be worth seeing.

  He went back to the chair in the corner and sat down.

  One comforting thought; he wouldn’t have to sweep and mop tonight. Nick closed at two, and that would be fifteen minutes too late.

  But just the same, he was sorry it was going to happen. It wasn’t a bad world; it was a blurry, confusing one sometimes. But he rather liked it, except for those rather dreadful periods when things weren’t confusing at all. The times when things were bitingly clear to him, and he knew what his name had been and what he had been—not that it was anything to brag about, much—and knew what he was now. And those times he drank a lot, and fast, and the memories went away and stayed for a while.

  Tonight he didn’t remember. And that was good. Tonight would be a bad night for remembering.

  He took another drink and looked up.

  Halloran was gone. Nick was leaning against the back bar, staring at nothing. Maybe Nick was worried; maybe Nick was afraid to die. Maybe he should say something to make Nick feel better. Nick wasn’t a bad guy, except that he was crabby sometimes when there were no customers around.

  Johnny said, “It’s all right, Nick. We probably won’t even feel it when it happens.”

  Nick swore at him.

  So Nick was in that mood. Too bad; might be a good time to talk to somebody. But not Nick. Not if Nick felt like that.

  Maybe he should go out. Out on the bridge a few blocks away, where he liked to walk once in a while, to watch the dancing reflections of the lights on the black water.

  Sure, and why shouldn’t he have a bottle of good whisky—just for this once and last time—to take with him. Why not
celebrate? Why not—except for the mood Nick was in—borrow that big automatic Nick kept in the cash drawer under the bar, and—about one o’clock, say—fire it into the sky and yell. Like New Year’s—or better.

  Hell, the end of the world came only once. A guy ought to do something.

  He said, “Nick—”

  Nick was coming past the end of the bar, heading for the door that led to the rooms back of the tavern. Nick said, “Back in a few meenutes, Johnny. Call me eef someone come in.”

  The door closed behind him.

  Johnny Gin sat there maybe a minute before it came to him that this was his chance to do what he wanted. Nick was crabby; Nick would never give him a bottle of the good stuff, nor let him borrow the gun. But what did either of those things matter to Nick, when you thought about it? He’d never sell the good whisky, nor need the gun, would he?

  A bit fearfully, Johnny stood up and tiptoed around behind the bar. He left the pint Brentwood bottle, still more than half full, back on the table in the corner. He looked over the bottles on the back bar.

  A cognac bottle took his eye. A fifth, two-thirds full. That would be plenty. And cognac he had drunk once, somewhere. Paris, that was it. Paris on leave and he’d been in a uniform and his arm had been in a sling and he’d had to drink left-handed. He grinned at the partial recollection. He bent close to peer at the label. Three-Star Hennessey. He took the bottle gently and reverently, and then turned to the drawer and pulled it open. There was a lot of money there, but money wasn’t worth anything now. Nick kept just small change in the register. This was where he kept the big bills for cashing pay-checks.

  Johnny Gin reached across the money and picked up the gun. It was big, and heavy in his hand. A forty-five automatic. But it felt familiar. He’d had one of these once, and known how to use it. That had been in France, too.

  He didn’t hear the back door open, but he heard Nick’s shout and turned as Nick, his face distorted with rage, was running toward him, reaching out huge hands. Black murder in Nick’s face. And Nick only a few feet away. The gun went off.

  Johnny hadn’t meant for it to. Panic had squeezed his hand tight on the gun as he had turned. That was all.

  In the confined space of the tavern room the roar of the forty-five was like—like the end of the world.

  Nick stopped coming at him, and stood still a minute, his face stupid.

  Johnny whimpered. “Nick, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t stealing—Nick, it’s the end of the world and I just wanted to—”

  Nick fell down and lay there back of the bar and blood came out on the front of his white shirt and a little blood out of his mouth too.

  And Johnny Gin knew it wasn’t any use trying to explain to Nick any more. Blind panic hit Johnny Gin.

  He couldn’t walk out from behind the bar without walking over the thing that had been Nick Karapopulos. But somehow he was around in front of the bar, so he must have climbed over it. Then he was out in the street, the automatic still clutched in one of his hands and the other tightly gripping the neck of the cognac bottle.

  He ran half a block before he stopped, panting. He leaned against a telephone pole until his breath came back. He needed a drink and he pulled the cork of the cognac bottle with his teeth, spat the cork, and took a long pull. It was raw and fiery and yet smooth, too.

  Yes, he remembered that taste now. With the pleasant burn in his throat he stood looking up at the sky and the stars seemed nearer and more fiery and he wondered if they were as hot as the cognac. And this was the last night the stars would shine—so anybody could see them.

  The end of the world! You fool, Johnny Gin, what does it matter that you’ve killed a man when he was going to die within an hour anyway? What does anything matter anymore?

  The end of the world. It’s the end of the world! The end of the world!

  Yell at the sky that’s going to kill you and fire your gun at it once and maybe you’ll hit a star. It’s the end of everything, Johnny Gin, and the sky has killed Nick Karapopulos already and you’ll never have to mop out his place again.

  Windows were going up. Somebody yelled something angry at him. Maybe they’d been asleep, these people, and hadn’t seen papers or had their radios on. Maybe they didn’t know-Johnny yelled it to them as he ran toward the bridge. That was the place. Those lights on the black water, and the stars down deep in the water under the river. The fiery stars in the murderous sky.

  Yell, Johnny Gin. But save your bullets until the fireworks really start. Only he was panting again and had to drop to a walk. And there were footsteps behind him now, heavy footsteps that ran, pounding against sidewalk.

  They were coming after him, and he tried to hurry faster, and he heard the yell behind him, and then “Stop or I’ll fire!” and the bang of a gun, and then the gun in his own hand went off as he whirled around.

  And then the blue uniform was down on the sidewalk, not coming toward him any more, and there weren’t any more pounding footsteps on the sidewalk.

  He hadn’t meant to do that, either. He hadn’t known that he could—or else that shot had been uncannily lucky. He hadn’t meant to—but he couldn’t let them stop him now. Not with the fireworks, the big fireworks, so near. He stumbled on, then had to rest a moment again, leaning against a building. He put the cognac bottle to his lips, gulped, then choked and coughed.

  He was stumbling on again, and there was the long approach to the bridge and he was going up, and then there was water under the bridge and he stopped and leaned over looking down into the star-spangled blackness of the water and the rippling lights and the quiet silver wake of the sailing moon.

  He put the gun in his pocket to have a hand free and he lifted the bottle again. There was only a little in the bottom; most of it must have slopped out while he ran. It burned his throat, and his throat and his soul felt raw, and there was no surcease in the quiet of the water below him.

  You’ve killed a man, Johnny Gin. Two men, probably, and one of them a policeman. And the end of the world is sour on your stomach and you remember the blood that came out of Nick Karapopulos’ mouth, and you’re beginning to remember other things, too.

  It’s messy, Johnny Gin. It’s not a good end to the world, and you know it. And you may not even last till it comes, because they’ll be sending the squad cars for you, and they are sending them, because there is the far wail of the siren, shrieking closer.

  And here on the open bridge, no place to hide. Shrieking closer. They’ll shoot you, Johnny Gin. Shrieking closer.

  And the black water not far below, and he was climbing over the rail. They’d never find him there, in the black water.

  The awful shock of the cold water. And floundering and drowning—only then not drowning for he was standing on the bottom, once he’d righted himself, and the water was only chest-high, and his teeth were chattering. Chattering so that he wondered that the squad car shrieking overhead didn’t hear the sound.

  He was cold, deathly cold, and cold sober. The shock, and then the worse shock as things came back to him and he knew what had happened.

  With the shock of the cold water, the curse of clarity was upon him. Slowly, the man who had been Johnny Gin worked his way toward the shore of the black, icy water….

  *

  The voice of the girl at the downstairs switchboard sounded strange, very strange:

  “Yes, Mr. Halloran, he says to tell you he’s coming up to see you.”

  Halloran bellowed, “The hell with him. Damn it, you know one forty-five’s deadline for the final and it’s almost that now. He’ll have to—”

  The voice of the switchboard girl was stranger still. “I—but Mr. Halloran, he’s got a gun. He says he won’t be stopped. But he wants you to know he’s coming.”

  “Huh?” said Halloran. “What’d you say his name is?”

  “John Wilcox, Mr. Halloran—and” Halloran heard the girl hesitate and another voice say something to her. “—and he says he’s got to see you by one forty-
five. He says the world is going to—uh—end, at one forty-five. I—uh—think he’s—uh—serious, Mr. Halloran.”

  Halloran’s face went pale. He looked up at the clock.

  “Get the police,” he said, “the minute he leaves to come up here!”

  “All right, Mr. Halloran, he says to tell you now he’s com—”

  Halloran slammed down the receiver and ran.

  And it was nice timing. He made his deadline—though not the way he intended.

  It was just exactly one forty-five when Halloran ran out of the back door into the alley. And John Wilcox, who had been Johnny Gin, had figured that was what Halloran would do and was waiting for him there.

  The end of the world for Halloran, and just when he’d predicted it. Quite a joke on him and too bad, really, that he didn’t live to appreciate it. At that, he might not have. I told you he wasn’t very subtle.

  The Motive Goes Round and Round

  THERE WAS SOMETHING STANDING by Mr. Nicholas Razatsky’s bed.

  In the shadowy dimness of light coming through canvas, it might have been anything. It might have been a lavender antelope with gilded hoofs.

  In fact, it was.

  Knowing that it was, Mr. Razatsky didn’t worry about it. He rolled over and the canvas cot shivered under his weight, but didn’t collapse. He opened one eye sleepily.

  Something had awakened him and it couldn’t have been the lavender antelope. For the antelope was made of wood. It stood there motionless and silent, although it suggested motion, for its gilded hoofs were raised in a running position and its body was supported by a brass rod running up from the flooring through its stomach and out its back in the darkness above.

  Mr. Razatsky opened his other eye and raised himself up on one elbow.

  Beyond the antelope was a laughing zebra, but its laugh was set in silent plastic. It was a beautiful zebra, much shinier and handsomer than the wooden animals, and Mr. Razatsky wished he could replace all of his menagerie with the newfangled plastic ones.