Read Online If I Were You by L. Ron Hubbard - Free Book Online Page B

corner gang, who exacted his tribute with regularity.
    “I ain’t got any dough,” said O’Brien, made truculent by Mac’s possible trouble.
    “No?” said Guanella. “O’Brien, we been very reasonable. The las’ guy who wouldn’t pay out a policy got awful boint when his jernt boined down.”
    And just to show his aplomb, Guanella reached out and tossed off one of the cocktails which had been used on the flies.
    In paralyzed horror the four stared at Guanella, wondering if he would go up or shrink.
    “Hey, who’s the funny guy?” said Guanella, snatching off his hat, his voice getting shriller. He looked at the band. “No, it’s got my ’nitials.” He clapped it back on and it fell over his face.
    With a squeal of alarm he tumbled off the stool. Whatever he intended to do, he was floundering around the floor in clothes twice too big for him. Shrill, mouselike squeaks issued from the pile of clothing. Chivvis and Larkin and Guckenheimer looked around bug-eyed. Presently the Panama detached itself from the pile of clothes and began to run around the room on a pair of small bare legs.
    A customer had just come in, and had started to climb a stool. He looked long and carefully at the hat. Then he began tiptoeing out. Before he reached the door, the hat started toward the door also. The customer went out with an audible swish, the hat scuttling after him.
    “Oh, my!” said O’Brien. “He won’t like that. No, sir! He’s sensitive about his size anyway. We better do something before he brings his whole mob back. Will you telephone again, Mr. Guckenheimer?”
    As Guckenheimer moved to do so, O’Brien went into furious action to make another shrinko cocktail. He was just about to add the syrup when the shaker skidded out of his trembling hands and smashed on the floor. O’Brien took a few seconds of hard breathing to get himself under control. Then he hunted up another shaker and began over again. If Mac’s swello cocktail had contained a pony of syrup, an equal amount in the shrinko cocktail ought to just reverse the effect. He made a triple quantity just to be on the safe side.
    Guckenheimer waddled back from the booth.
    “They found him!” he cried. “He’s down by the McGraw-Hill building, hanging on to the side. He says he doesn’t dare let go for fear his legs will break under his weight!”
    “That’s right,” said Chivvis. “It accords with the square-cube law . The cross-sectional area, and hence the strength in compression, of his leg bones would not increase in proportion to his mass—”
    “Oh, forget it, Chivvis!” snapped Larkin. “If we don’t hurry—”
    “—he’ll be dead before we can help him,” finished Guckenheimer.
    O’Brien was hunting for a thermos bottle he remembered having seen. He found it, and had just poured the shrinko cocktail into it and screwed the cap on when three men entered the Hole in the Wall. One of them carried Frankie Guanella in the crook of his arm. Guanella, now a foot tall, had a handkerchief tied diaperwise around himself. The three diners, now the only customers in the place, started to rise.
    One of the newcomers pointed a pistol at them, and said conversationally, “Sit down, gents. And keep your hands on the table. Thass right.”
    “Whatchgonnado?” said O’Brien, going pale under his ruddiness.
    “Don’t get excited, Jack. You got an office in back, ain’tcha? We’ll use it for the fight.”
    “Fight?”
    “Yep. Frankie says nothing will satisfy him but a dool. He’s sensitive about his size, poor little guy.”
    “But—”
    “I know. You’re gonna say it wouldn’t be fair, you being so much bigger’n him. But we’ll fix that. You make some more of that poison you gave him, so you’ll both be the same size.”
    “But I haven’t any more of the stuff!”
    “Too bad, Jack. Then I guess we’ll just have to let you have it. We was going to give you a sporting chance, too.” And he raised the gun.
    “No!” cried