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

that, too?”
                 “Sure,”
said the cabbie. “All the time. There’s always a
crowd. You’d think it was their own mother got
killed.”
                 “They
come running awfully fast,” said the man in the back of the cab.
                 “Same way with a fire or an explosion. Nobody
around. Boom. Lotsa people around. I dunno .”
                 “Ever
seen an accident—at night?”
                 The
cabbie nodded. “Sure. Don’t make no difference.
There’s always a crowd.”
                 The
wreck came in view. A body lay on the pavement. You knew there was a body even
if you couldn’t see it. Because of the crowd. The crowd with its back toward him as he sat in the rear of the
cab. With its back toward him. He opened the
window and almost started to yell. But he didn’t have the nerve. If he yelled
they might turn around.
                 And
he was afraid to see their faces.
                  
                 “I
seem to have a penchant for accidents,” he said, in his office. It was late
afternoon. His friend sat across the desk from him, listening. “I got out of
the hospital this morning and first thing on the way home, we detoured around a
wreck.”
                 “Things
run in cycles,” said Morgan.
                 “Let
me tell you about my accident.”
                 “I’ve
heard it. Heard it all.”
                 “But
it was funny, you must admit.”
                 “I
must admit. Now how about a drink?”
                 They
talked on for half an hour or more. All the while they talked, at the back of Spallner’s brain a small watch ticked, a watch that never
needed winding. It was the memory of a few little things. Wheels and faces.
                 At
about five-thirty there was a hard metal noise in the street. Morgan nodded and
looked out and down. “What’d I tell you? Cycles. A truck and a cream-colored Cadillac. Yes, yes.”
                 Spallner walked to the window. He was very cold and as he
stood there, he looked at his watch, at the small minute hand. One two three
four five seconds—people running—eight nine ten eleven twelve—from all over,
people came running—fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen seconds—more people,
more cars, more horns blowing. Curiously distant, Spallner looked upon the scene as an explosion in reverse, the fragments of the
detonation sucked back to the point of impulsion. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one
seconds and the crowd was there. Spallner made a gesture down at them, wordless.
                 The
crowd had gathered so fast.
                 He
saw a woman’s body a moment before the crowd swallowed it up.
                 Morgan
said, “You look lousy. Here. Finish your drink.”
                 “I’m
all right, I’m all right. Let me alone. I’m all right. Can you see those
people? Can you see any of them? I wish we could see them closer.”
                 Morgan
cried out, “Where in hell are you going?”
                 Spallner was out the door, Morgan after him, and down the
stairs, as rapidly as possible. “Come along, and hurry.”
                 “Take
it easy, you’re not a well man!”
                 They
walked out on to the street. Spallner pushed his way
forward. He thought he saw a red-haired woman with too much red color on her
cheeks and lips.
                 “There!”
He turned wildly to Morgan. “Did you see her?”
                 “See who?”
                 “Damn
it; she’s gone. The crowd closed in!”
                 The
crowd was all around, breathing and looking and shuffling and mixing and
mumbling and getting in the way when he tried to shove through. Evidently the
red-haired woman had seen him coming and