by L. Ron Hubbard (This story was originally published in Volume 9, Issue 1 of ASI Magazine.)
Johnny Aldrich stifled a yawn and stifled it promptly. He sat up straight behind his desk and wondered if anybody passing in the outer lobby had seen him yawn.
Evidently nobody had but he kept sitting up straight and looking straight ahead. From the closed side of the French doors his image was coming smokily back to him as he sat there looking.
He saw a dim young man backed by a gaudy crazy quilt of folders in a rack against the wall. He could not read the lettering in the door glass but he knew what all the pictures were and what the covers said.
Red letters, blue letters, green palms and purple seas. Tahiti, the Argentine, Monte Carlo and Scandinavia. Brown women, yellow women, black women. Mozambique, Peking, Moscow and Coney Island.
Johnny Aldrich sat there looking for a long time and then slumped back into his hard chair and glanced upward until he could see the racked travel folders all upside-down above him.
Singapore, Manila, Hudson's Bay. Sydney, Arabia, Santa Catalina.
Johnny Aldrich turned sideways and looked toward the street door of the travel agency. Through it he could see men and women going back and forth across the glass square which constituted Johnny's outlook upon a busy world. A man in a plaid suit passed carrying a Gladstone bag all plastered with worn-through labels depicting Switzerland and China and Rio.
Johnny sank back into his chair and looked dully at the Alaskan penholder carved from a walrus tusk.
He began to remember his own travels in the world and as he mulled them over his young, sensitive face took on a bitter cast, his lips a twisting, mocking smile which did not show his teeth.
He had been to the Bronx once. Three years ago.
He had visited the Statue of Liberty. Last month.
He had gone to the top of the Empire State Building. Last spring.
His regular run went from this agency on 45th Street to Times Square. The subway took him to 23rd Street and he walked half a block to get to his dingy, dark rooming house which always smelled of fried onions.
When he looked at the image in the door glass again, the row on row of bright paper faces behind him were more insulting than ever.
With some difficulty he shook off his lethargy. Some day, God damn it, he'd get the hell of out this place. He'd find a million dollars on the sidewall which nobody would claim and he'd take a Pan Am to Lima or someplace.
He'd gotten pretty tired of telling people, "Yes, Mrs. Umph, I know you'll find Bermuda quite restful." "Indeed, Mr. Woosh, Shanghai is very exciting." "Of course, Mrs. Huhnuh, Miami is very restful."
How the hell did he know? He'd never been there.
Well he'd show 'em. He'd find a million dollars on the sidewalk which nobody would claim and then....
That was better. He was coming out of it nicely.
Then he'd walk in here and open up the drawer like this and take out his rate schedule....
He was beginning to feel pleased now. He looked into the drawer. The rate schedule was lying in the right place alongside a nickel-plated revolver which was there in case somebody wanted to hold the place up.
Johnny started to reach for the schedule and diverted his fingers toward the revolver. He'd take that. Might be some bandits in Canton or wherever he'd go. You never could tell what you'd run up against out in the world. Yes, he'd take....
The street door slid inward and sagged back against its air cushion. A break of spring air stirred thoughtfully along the ranks of bright folders.
Johnny Aldrich looked up.
Gliding toward him down the narrow office he saw a woman in black. Her face was as exquisite as a tropical flower, ivory white and delicate. Her smoothly fitting street dress pressed her tightly as a passionate lover, showing every gentle curve of her flawless body.
There was something in her stride to suggest the jungle cat, and also something to show that she was afraid.
She came to the desk and Johnny bounced to his feet. His heart was doing queer gymnastics under his gray vest. The polite formula of business was a wad of cotton in his throat.
Their eyes met and Johnny felt the physical jar of looking into her deeply troubled glance. He sensed the restlessness of her hands which mauled a black bag she carried.
It was a large bag and, from the way she held it, it contained something very precious to her.
Her voice came to him like a throb of music.
The silkiness of her white throat was pulsating as she glanced in fear toward the door.
Johnny felt that his brain had never been clear before. Everything in the room was standing out with a crystal brilliance which hurt his eyes.
He did not seem to belong in his own body.
Johnny shut his eyes tightly and thoughts raced like pictures across the closed screen of his lids.
"You've got to help me. I must get to Miami by the first plane. Here. I have money. Any amount of money. Please... please help me."
The drawer was still open under Johnny's hand. In it lay the rate schedule of all airlines and beside that lay the nickel-plated revolver....
The door swung violently inward and hissed as it began to close. A thickly built gentleman had entered to halt and stare down the narrow, folder-lined office. He shook the spots of daylight out of his eyes and saw the woman at the desk.
The man was obviously a foreigner. He wore a French slouch hat as shapeless as his decayed-meat complexion. Only his eyes lived and they were cold and triumphant.
The fellow's gait was not hurried now. He came with easy, blood-chilling assurance up the ranks of bright folders, still watching the woman.
"We meet again, Dolores."
Her pallor grew as she faced him. Her hands clutched the black bag so hard that Johnny heard the brittle clasp snap when it broke under her slim, strong fingers.
The man was still walking toward her, still easy and confident. There was no more expression on his face than upon that of a drowned corpse.
The man was reaching out not, reaching for her arm. She seemed hypnotized. She made no effort to draw away until the fingers sank into her shoulder like so many bayonets.
She struggled then. She tried to wrench herself away.
"You can't have them, Rankin! You'll... you'll have to kill me first."
"You are a stubborn woman, Dolores."
No inflexion. The voice was as dead as the face.
The fingers sank deeper and her lips tightened with pain and she strove to throw Rankin away from her. She beat against him with the black bag but her blows might as well have been directed against a concrete wall.
Johnny heard himself speaking.
Rankin turned toward the desk, seeing Johnny for the first time. "Keep out of this."
"You're hurting her. Let go of her arm."
Rankin pinioned the woman's wrists and walked backwards, dragging her toward the door.
"Please," she whimpered. "Please. He'll kill me!"
Under Johnny's hand lay the nickel-plated revolver. It was very cold and hard and the click-clack of the cocking hammer was brittle in the office.
"Leave her alone or I'll shoot."
Rankin stopped. Suddenly he cast Dolores to one side and took a step threateningly toward the desk.
"Stop or I'll fire," said Johnny.
The revolver was badly balanced, poorly made. But it jarred against Johnny's palm, violently loud.
Rankin stopped beside the ranks of red-faced folders. He leaned sideways toward the rack, his hand going inside his coat in a jerky motion.
The revolver shook Johnny's arm again.
Rankin fell sideways against the racks and spilled the scarlet paper over him in a gory Niagara.
Dolores was up from the rug, still clutching the black bag. She paused beside Rankin for an instant, looking down at the bloated face. Her face was strained as she reached the desk and Johnny.
"You've killed him. You can't stay here!"
Johnny was still staring at Rankin.
"You must come with me to Miami," she said insistently.
Johnny looked at her. "Miami?"
Suddenly he sat down in his chair. He reached for his dog-eared rate schedule and then ran his finger down a column.
He took down a blank from a pigeon hole and scribbled on it. He filled in the tickets.
Nobody seemed to be coming.
Rankin was still sprawled upon the rug, half covered with folders as red as his shirt.
Johnny put the tickets in his pocket along with the nickel-plated revolver. He reached for his gray hat and set it on his head.
The girl was hurrying him toward the door.
Johnny looked back. All over Rankin folders said, "Tahiti, Japan, Nova Scotia...."
The woman dragged him across the sidewalk and into a taxi.
"Newark," she told the driver.
From Newark to Miami. It lived in his mind as the constant drone of mighty engined and the curious regard of her eyes. Swift hours, not without a certain dragging dread, fractions of seconds to Johnny Aldrich.
He had never known it would be like this. He had never before had a woman look at him with a caress in her glance.
He had killed a man. He had stolen the tickets. In his pocket he had a few shiny coins. Not much money with which to evade the police of continents for the remainder of his life.
But he was being paid. Dolores was there. Salary enough.
And he was being paid in other coin.
It had gradually come over him, as the realization of pardon would to a condemned man, that he was free. No longer would the world be a collection of pretty pictures bracketed upon the wall. Hunted or no. Here was a beautiful woman, there stretched the endless horizon.
Miami was all heat and palms and white pavement - just as he had so often imagined it sitting at that shiny desk looking at the racks on the wall. All the way from the airport to the square, cream-colored hotel, they said nothing to each other. Johnny had the strange sensation of knowing that words were not needed between them. There was something deeper than sounds.
As though they had drilled each other for hours on their roles, they mounted the steps and crossed the lobby to the desk. They had no baggage but it did not disturb their calm.
Johnny smiled at the clerk. "Our baggage will be here this afternoon. We wish two adjoining rooms."
He took her arm. Her skin was like satin under his light fingers. A bellboy led the way.
Miami and a beautiful woman.
Johnny did not want to open his eyes and wake up. These dreams which had racked him for years were all parading themselves into inviting reality.
In New York they had found Rankin under his coverlet of faraway names. They had already checked the fact that Johnny Aldrich was missing.
And Johnny Aldrich did not care.
He left her in her room and went to his own. He gave the bellboy some of the coins and heard the door close as he went away. Johnny was standing before a full-length mirror looking at himself.
He had changed in those brief hours. The sullenness was gone from his young eyes, replaced with certain splendid recklessness. Was this the same man he had seen in the glass of the door?
He turned and threw his hat on the bed. He knew the adjoining door was open and that she was standing just inside it, watching him.
He took out his cigarettes and turned to offer her one. She did not glance down at the extended package and he dropped it to the table and reached out and took her hands, drawing her closer to him.
Even then they did not need to say anything. There was a certain warmth in her exquisite face. She was yielding and graceful against him.
He had left her sleeping and when he returned with the packages of clothing she had ordered him to get, he woke her gently with a kiss.
And while she lay stretching her white arms up toward the head of the bed he smiled at her and showed her the envelope with the tickets inside.
"I do not know why you are doing this," said Johnny.
She sat up and put her small white feet into her slippers. She looked up at him seriously.
"It is not fair of me not to have told you."
"I don't really want to know," said Johnny.
"When you opened my bag you saw the diamonds?"
"You are a strange boy, Johnny Aldrich. You have not even asked me my last name."
"I don't care about that."
"Nevertheless, it is De Meuron. Dolores De Meuron. Does it mean anything to you?"
"It should, Johnny Aldrich. You have made yourself a murderer for me. You have let your old life die...."
"With great glee," said Johnny.
"You do not care, perhaps, that there are others who would kill me before we can reach Tunis."
"I do not care," said Johnny.
He hoped he would not open his eyes to find her gone. He hoped the salt wind against his cheek was real and that the swishing, slapping sound he heard was really the sea beneath the keel of the fast liner.
He hoped that pressure against his hand was hers.
It was. But she was not a graceful, yielding woman suddenly. She was a jungle cat, eyes abruptly cunning and watchful.
She thrust herself back against him and her vibrant body was an electric impulse through him.
"It is Briis," she whispered. "Do not let him see us."
He stared down the gently moving deck and saw a thickly built man who had come out from the salon to stand against the rail with the wind whipping at his dark topcoat.
The silhouette was black against the painted moonlight on the water. Wisping smoke was coming back from a carelessly dangling cigarette.
"He knows we are aboard," whispered Dolores tensely.
He did not want to open his eyes and find that this was unreal even then. He wanted to go on feeling her against his side.
It was later now and the cabin was dark. The ship's engines were throbbing in tune to the heart which beat against his own, a dismal wind moaned in the halyards of the upper deck.
He lay awake thinking about Briis.
Footsteps were sibilant in the passageway outside their room. Brass rattled and the key dropped inside. The sliver of corridor light grew slowly wider to be blocked out by a head. It was not Briis, but another.
Johnny sat up, snatching under his pillow for the nickel-plated revolver. Dolores was instantly out of the berth.
The lights clicked on in a blinding flood.
The stranger held a .45 in his thick longshoreman hand. Briis was behind him with another gun. A third man, burdened with a curious white package, had closed the door.
Johnny started to swing his feet down but the motion of the guns bade him be still.
The third man began to lay the lengths of canvas on the floor. Four sections of anchor chain link clanked as they fell to the deck. Dolores understood.
She threw herself between Briis and Johnny. The jungle cat was uppermost in her now. She stood there, defiant.
"I won't let you touch him."
Briis stepped forward. "He got Rankin in New York. You've given us the slip long enough, you little fool. Where are they?"
"Take them but don't touch him!"
Briis smiled an ugly smile. The cigarette bobbed in his loose lips. He reached out and with a savage motion sent the back of his hand crashing into her face, knocking her away from the bunk.
Johnny leaped over the edge. He caught Briis by the wrists, wrenched away the gun.
Dolores tried to cry out a warning.
Johnny went down at the feet of the second man, blood streaming from a cut over his eyes where the gunsight had bitten deep.
Briis had the black bag now. He emptied out a shining cascade of diamonds into his sweaty palm and grinned at them.
The third man was binding Dolores' hands with wire. The second man was trussing Johnny and laying him on the outspread canvas. Johnny gnawed at his gag. He felt two heavy anchor chain links against the soles of his feet. A needle was working swiftly upward toward his face, confining him in canvas.
He raised his head and saw Dolores. Her chin was up until she saw Johnny. She tried to get free of the canvas and come to him.
The overhead lights were only a pale glow through the canvas over Johnny's face. And then they were carrying him swiftly through the door, down the passageway to the deserted deck.
Behind he could hear Briis carrying Dolores.
The heavy weights clinked dully against the rail as they were lifted over. Johnny could hear the rushing water along the side of the speeding ship. The rail was against his back. They had let go of him and he was slipping down.
Close by he heard the clink of other links.
And then the rail was no longer against his back. He was hurtling through nothingness....
Even then he did not want to open his eyes. But her voice was insistent.
"You've got to help me," she was pleading. "I must get to Miami by the first plane. Here. I have money. Any amount of money. Please... please help me."
The door swung violently inward and hissed as it began to close. A thickly built gentleman had entered to halt and stare down the narrow, folder-lined office. He shook the spots of daylight out of his eyes and saw the woman at the desk.
The man was obviously a foreigner. He wore a French slouch hat as shapeless as his decayed-meat complexion. Only his eyes lived and they were cold and triumphant.
The fellow's gait was not hurried now. He came with easy, blood chilling assurance up the ranks of bright folders, still watching the woman.
"We meet again, Dolores."
Her pallor grew as she faced him. Her hands clutched the black bag so hard that Johnny heard the brittle clasp snap as it broke under her slim, strong fingers.
The man was still walking toward her, easy and confident. Thre was no more expression on his face than upon that of a drowned corpse. The man was reaching out now, reaching for her arm. She seemed hypnotized. She made no effort to draw away until the fingers sank into her shoulder like so many bayonets.
She struggled then. She tried to wrench herself away.
"You can't have them, Rankin! You'll... you'll have to kill me first."
Johnny was suddenly cold all over as though he had dived into an Arctic Sea. What was this thing he was experiencing?
"You are a stubborn woman, Dolores."
No inflexion. The voice was as dead as the face.
The fingers sank deeper and her lips tightened with pain as she strove to throw Rankin away from her. She beat against him with the black bag but her blows might as well have been directed against a concrete wall.
Johnny glanced down. There was the telephone on his desk. And there in the open drawer beside his hand glittered the nickel-plated revolver.
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