Bradbury, Ray - SSC 09 by The Small Assassin (v2.1) Page A

wheels and the
whole accident and the running of feet and the curiosity. The crowd
faces mixed and spun into the wild rotation of the wheels.
                 He
awoke.
                 Sunlight, a hospital room, a hand taking his pulse.
                 “How
do you feel?” asked the doctor.
                 The
wheels faded away. Mr. Spallner looked around.
                 “Fine—I
guess.”
                 He
tried to find words. About the accident. “Doctor?”
                 “Yes?”
                 “That
crowd—was it last night?”
                 “Two
days ago. You’ve been here since Thursday. You’re all right, though. You’re
doing fine. Don’t try and get up.”
                 “That
crowd. Something about wheels, too. Do accidents make
people, well, a—little off?”
                 “Temporarily, sometimes.”
                 He
lay staring up at the doctor. “Does it hurt your time sense?”
                 “Panic
sometimes does.”
                 “Makes
a minute seem like an hour, or maybe an hour seem like
a minute?”
                 “Yes.”
                 “Let
me tell you then.” He felt the bed under him, the sunlight on his face. “You’ll
think I’m crazy. I was driving too fast, I know. I’m sorry now. I jumped the
curb and hit that wall. I was hurt and numb, I know, but I still remember
things. Mostly—the crowd.” He waited a moment and then
decided to go on, for he suddenly knew what it was that bothered him. “The
crowd got there too quickly. Thirty seconds after the smash they were all
standing over me and staring at me .  . .
it’s not right they should run that fast, so late at
night. . . .”
                 “You
only think it was thirty seconds,” said the doctor. “It was probably three or
four minutes. Your senses—”
                 “Yeah,
I know—my senses, the accident. But I was conscious! I remember one thing that
puts it all together and makes it funny, God, so damned funny. The wheels of my car, upside down. The wheels were still
spinning when the crowd got there!”
                 The
doctor smiled.
                 The
man in bed went on. “I’m positive! The wheels were spinning and spinning
fast—the front wheels! Wheels don’t spin very long, friction cuts them down.
And these were really spinning!”
                 ’You’re
confused,” said the doctor.
                 “I’m
not confused. That street was empty. Not a soul in sight. And then the accident
and the wheels still spinning and all those faces over me, quick, in no time. And
the way they looked down at me, I knew I wouldn’t die. . . .”
                 “Simple
shock,” said the doctor, walking away into the sunlight.
                  
                 They
released him from the hospital two weeks later. He rode home in a taxi. People
had come to visit him during his two weeks on his back, and to all of them he
had told his story, the accident, the spinning wheels, the crowd. They had all laughed with him concerning it, and passed it off.
                 He
leaned forward and tapped on the taxi window.
                 “What’s
wrong?”
                 The
cabbie looked back. “Sorry, boss. This is one helluva town to drive in. Got an accident up ahead. Want me to
detour?”
                 “Yes.
No. No! Wait. Go ahead. Let’s—let’s take a look.”
                 The
cab moved forward, honking.
                 “Funny
damn thing,” said the cabbie. “Hey, you ! Get that fleatrap out the
way!” Quieter, “Funny thing—more damn people. Nosy people.”
                 Mr. Spallner looked down and watched his fingers tremble
on his knee. “You noticed