Джон Макдональд: Half-Past Eternity

“How about his habits?”

“Habits? Oh, I see what you mean. He’ll get six hours’ sleep in five hours. There’ll be physiological phenomena— accelerated heartbeat, respiration and so on. And, unless there is a training period, the change will be too noticeable to intimates. I had to keep Goth here and coach him in how to walk, talk, eat and so on. I had to continually urge him to slow down, to make each gesture with a conscious slowness.”

“Doc, are we in business?”

“You can honestly do what you said for my research program?”

“Yes. You need more funds and more help.”

“Well — then it’s a bargain. Come in the house. I believe there is a bottle of fair sherry about somewhere.”

They went into the kitchen. The girt turned from the sink. Tomlinson said, “Ah, there you are, Linda. My dear, this is Mr. Banth. He is my new... uh... partner.”

“Him?” she said. “Sticking needles in mice?”

“Mr. Banth has ideas which are somewhat more expansive.”

“I should imagine,” Linda said dryly. She straightened up, drying her hands on the thighs of the jeans. She stared at Sam for a long, long second. “Keep a close watch on the gold in your teeth, Pop,” she said, still staring full into Sam’s eyes.

“He seems quite — straightforward, Linda,” Tomlinson said. “You know, he might resent such a—”

Linda smiled and nodded. “You win. Pop. He is straightforward. Like the way a snake strikes. Welcome to our happy rustic little group, Mr. Banth.”

“You’d better call me Sam, Linda.”

“Sraightforward Sam, the Confidence Man.”

“Do you young people dislike each other on sight?” Tomlinson complained.

Sam finally forced her to drop her eyes. “Not at all, doctor. We just talk like this because we each recognize a kindred spirit.”

“That I could resent.” Linda said.

“The truth is ever bitter.”

Sam watched the kid in centerfield. He had the expert’s knack of starting at the crack of the bat. His name was Wally Christopher. It was the lower half of the eighth. The last man up slammed a hard one over the second baseman’s head. Christopher came in fast, took it expertly on the bounce, came around with a greased throwing motion to second, nailing the runner to first. He trudged back out to his position.

It had taken six weeks to locate this boy and Sam Banth liked what he saw. He went over the statistics. Age nineteen, five foot eleven, a hundred and sixty-five pounds. Errors for the season, none. Batting average 166.

Christopher was up in the top of the ninth. He went down swinging after a ball, two foul tips and a called strike. He walked disconsolate from the batter’s box. Banth grinned. He’d been pulling for a hitless day for the kid, to yank the average down a little further.

This was bush-league ball, and even with Christopher’s outfield talent, he was slowly but very certainly slipping out of baseball because of that powderpuff batting average.

He left before the inning was over, confident that his note would bring Christopher to the hotel room in this small Pennsylvania city.

“Come right up and knock,” he had said in the note.

A few minutes after six there was a hesitant knock on the door. “Come on in,” Banth called.

Christopher came in. He was heavy-jointed with good hands and wrists, a reddened complexion, clear eyes and a diffident manner. “You Mr. Banth?”

“Sit down, Christopher. This is just a friendly little chat.”

The boy seemed despondent. “Sure.”

“You didn’t look so sharp out there today.”

“I knew that without coming up here, mister. Nothing for four. I’ve had other news. They’re letting me go the end of the week.”

Banth felt an inner excitement. This was better than he’d hoped. He sat down facing the boy. “What do you want to do with your life?”

“Play baseball. Ever since I was six years old that’s all I ever wanted to do. Fat chance I’ve got now.”

“This is the end of the road. Once they let you out here, you’re all done.”

Christopher squinted at him. “You trying to make me feel good?”

“How long do you expect to live?”

“Now that’s a damn-fool question.”

“Okay. We’ll try another one. Suppose you played baseball and maintained the best batting average in the country. How long would you last in the game?”

“Hell, up into my forties I suppose. Some do.”

“When they let you go, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Go back home. Gel a job. Bread truck or something.”

“Here’s my card. I’m the president of a concern called Champions, Incorporated It’s a very hush-hush organization. We run a training course.”

“I can’t afford anything like that.”

“It won’t cost you a dime. All you have to do is sign a contract stating that you will pay us fifty percent of all your future earnings in baseball.”

“Fifty percent of nothing is nothing.”

“We’ll take that chance, provide free transportation, give you your training course and give you a chance to show your stuff to a good club after you’re trained.”

“What’s the catch?”

“We think you’ve got what it takes. But there is one thing. Our training course is very, very strenuous. It won’t cut short your active playing career, Christopher, but it may shorten your life a little. We want that understood.”

The boy frowned. “But you’ll take a chance on me just when I’m getting the can?”

“Yes.”

“If you want to be soft in the head, Mr. Banth, I guess I can be crazy too.”

“Have you got to finish out the week?”

“I think they’d rather I wouldn’t.”

“Then clear with them, pack up and meet me in the lobby tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. Here’s fifty. Put that against your expenses. There’s plenty more coming.”

With Christopher beside him Banth slowed the powerful convertible for Kingston traffic, then opened it up again. He came around the last bend.

“There’s the layout,” he said.

The twenty acres had been enclosed with hurricane fence topped by barbed wire and electrified wire. Two trucks loaded with building materials were just turning in at the gate. The gate guard, uniformed in slate blue, saw Banth approaching and yelled to the truckers to move along. A new white stone building stood a hundred yards back of the barn. Two foundations for other buildings were taking shape. Amidst the bustle of activity the sagging farmhouse looked forlorn, forgotten.

Sam pulled up beside it, gave a blast on the horn and said, “End of the line, Christopher.”

The boy got out. He looked puzzled. “That sign says Tomlinson Research Foundation.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve got the right place.”

As they reached the foot of the porch steps Linda came out the door. She smiled warmly. “Welcome home, Sam.” She wore a soft gray dress that matched her eyes. Her black hair had been done in the latest fashion and her fingernails were long and the color of blood.

“Miss Tomlinson, this is Wally Christopher.”

“Nice to meet you, Wally.”

“Same here.”

“Bring your bag along and I’ll show you your room. I’m sorry the new dormitory isn’t ready yet. That will be another month.”

Sam was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Linda came back down. She paused two stairs from the bottom. He reached up, took her by the waist with his big hands and lifted her lightly down. “Miss me?”

“Mmmm. Hard to tell.”

“Was I right in calling you Miss Tomlinson?”

“It came through yesterday. Restoration of maiden name and all.”