Read Online Charles Beaumont: Selected Stories by Charles Beaumont - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Beaumont
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starve; and, besides, what else would he do? It wasn't as if anything important had changed. He'd go on punching the clock and saying good morning to people who didn't see him, and he'd run the tapes and come home beat, nothing altered, and some day he'd die and that would be that.
All at once he felt tired.
He sat down on a cement step and sighed. Distantly he realized that he had come to the library. He sat there, watching the people, feeling the tiredness seep through him, thickly.
Then he looked up.
Above him, black and regal against the sky, stood the huge stone lion. Its mouth was open, and the great head was raised proudly.
Mr. Minchell smiled. King Richard. Memories scattered in his mind: old King Richard, well, my God, here we are.
He got to his feet. Fifty thousand times, at least, he had passed this spot, and every time he had experienced that instant of wild craving. Less so of late, but still, had it ever completely gone? He was amazed to find that now the childish desire was welling up again, stronger than ever before. Urgently.
He rubbed his cheek and stood there for several minutes. It's the most riduculous thing in the world, he thought, and I must be going out of my mind, and that must explain everything. But, he inquired of himself, even so, why not?
After all, I'm invisible. No one can see me. Of course, it didn't have to be this way, not really. I don't know, he went on, I mean, I believed that I was doing the right thing. Would it have been right to go back to the University and the hell with Madge? I couldn't change that, could I? Could I have done anything about that, even if I'd known?
He nodded sadly.
All right, but don't make it any worse. Don't for God's sake dwell on it!
To his surprise, Mr. Minchell found that he was climbing up the concrete base of the statue. It ripped the breath from his lungs-and he saw that he could much more easily have gone up a few extra steps and simply stepped on-but there didn't seem anything else to do but just this, what he was doing. Once upright, he passed his hand over the statue's flank. The surface was incredibly sleek and cold, hard as a lion's muscles ought to be, and tawny.
He took a step backwards. Lord! Had there ever been such power? Such marvelous downright power and-majesty, as was here? From stone-no, indeed. It fooled a good many people, but it did not fool Mr. Minchell. He knew. This lion was no mere library decoration. It was an animal, of deadly cunning and fantastic strength and unbelievable ferocity. And it didn't move for the simple reason that it did not care to move. It was waiting. Some day it would see what it was waiting for, its enemy, coming down the street. Then look out, people!
He remembered the whole yarn now. Of everyone on Earth, only he, Henry Minchell knew the secret of the lion. And only he was allowed to sit astride this mighty back.
He stepped onto the tail, experimentally. He hesitated, gulped, and swung forward, swiftly, on up to the curved rump.
Trembling, he slid forward, until finally he was over the shoulders of the lion, just behind the raised head.
His breath came very fast.
He closed his eyes.
It was not long before he was breathing regularly again. Only now it was the hot, fetid air of the jungle that went into his nostrils. He felt the great muscles ripple beneath him and he listened to the fast crackle of crushed foliage, and he whispered:
"Easy, fellow."
The flying spears did not frighten him; he sat straight, smiling, with his fingers buried in the rich tawny mane of King Richard, while the wind tore at his hair -
Then, abruptly, he opened his eyes.
The city stretched before him, and the people, and the lights. He tried quite hard not to cry, because he knew that forty-seven-year-old men never cried, not even when they had vanished, but he couldn't help it. So he sat on the stone lion and lowered his head and cried.
He didn't hear the laughter at first.
When he did hear it, he thought that he
All at once he felt tired.
He sat down on a cement step and sighed. Distantly he realized that he had come to the library. He sat there, watching the people, feeling the tiredness seep through him, thickly.
Then he looked up.
Above him, black and regal against the sky, stood the huge stone lion. Its mouth was open, and the great head was raised proudly.
Mr. Minchell smiled. King Richard. Memories scattered in his mind: old King Richard, well, my God, here we are.
He got to his feet. Fifty thousand times, at least, he had passed this spot, and every time he had experienced that instant of wild craving. Less so of late, but still, had it ever completely gone? He was amazed to find that now the childish desire was welling up again, stronger than ever before. Urgently.
He rubbed his cheek and stood there for several minutes. It's the most riduculous thing in the world, he thought, and I must be going out of my mind, and that must explain everything. But, he inquired of himself, even so, why not?
After all, I'm invisible. No one can see me. Of course, it didn't have to be this way, not really. I don't know, he went on, I mean, I believed that I was doing the right thing. Would it have been right to go back to the University and the hell with Madge? I couldn't change that, could I? Could I have done anything about that, even if I'd known?
He nodded sadly.
All right, but don't make it any worse. Don't for God's sake dwell on it!
To his surprise, Mr. Minchell found that he was climbing up the concrete base of the statue. It ripped the breath from his lungs-and he saw that he could much more easily have gone up a few extra steps and simply stepped on-but there didn't seem anything else to do but just this, what he was doing. Once upright, he passed his hand over the statue's flank. The surface was incredibly sleek and cold, hard as a lion's muscles ought to be, and tawny.
He took a step backwards. Lord! Had there ever been such power? Such marvelous downright power and-majesty, as was here? From stone-no, indeed. It fooled a good many people, but it did not fool Mr. Minchell. He knew. This lion was no mere library decoration. It was an animal, of deadly cunning and fantastic strength and unbelievable ferocity. And it didn't move for the simple reason that it did not care to move. It was waiting. Some day it would see what it was waiting for, its enemy, coming down the street. Then look out, people!
He remembered the whole yarn now. Of everyone on Earth, only he, Henry Minchell knew the secret of the lion. And only he was allowed to sit astride this mighty back.
He stepped onto the tail, experimentally. He hesitated, gulped, and swung forward, swiftly, on up to the curved rump.
Trembling, he slid forward, until finally he was over the shoulders of the lion, just behind the raised head.
His breath came very fast.
He closed his eyes.
It was not long before he was breathing regularly again. Only now it was the hot, fetid air of the jungle that went into his nostrils. He felt the great muscles ripple beneath him and he listened to the fast crackle of crushed foliage, and he whispered:
"Easy, fellow."
The flying spears did not frighten him; he sat straight, smiling, with his fingers buried in the rich tawny mane of King Richard, while the wind tore at his hair -
Then, abruptly, he opened his eyes.
The city stretched before him, and the people, and the lights. He tried quite hard not to cry, because he knew that forty-seven-year-old men never cried, not even when they had vanished, but he couldn't help it. So he sat on the stone lion and lowered his head and cried.
He didn't hear the laughter at first.
When he did hear it, he thought that he
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