"Have you ever read it, Mr. Dark?"
"Read it! I've had every page, paragraph, and word read at me, sir!" Mr. Dark took time to light a cigarette and blow smoke toward the NO SMOKTNG sign, then at Will's father. "Do you really imagine that books can harm me? Is naivete really your armor? Here!"
And before Charles Halloway could move, Mr. Dark ran lightly forward and took the Bible. He held it in his two hands.
"Aren't you surprised? See, I touch, hold, even read from it."
Mr. Dark blew smoke on the pages as he riffled them.
"Do you expect me to fall away into so many Dead Sea scrolls of flesh before you? Myths, unfortunately, are just that. Life, and by life I could mean so many fascinating things, goes on, makes shift for itself, survives wildly, and I not the least wild among many. Your King James and his literary version of some rather stuffy poetic materials is worth just about this much of my time and sweat."
Mr. Dark hurled the Bible into a wastepaper basket and did not look at it again.
"I hear your heart beating rapidly," said Mr. Dark. "My ears are not so finely tuned as the Gypsy's, but they hear. Your eyes jump beyond my shoulder. The boys hide out there in the warrens? Good. I would not wish for their escape. Not that anyone will believe their gibberings, in fact it's good advertisement for our shows, people titillate, night-sweat, then come prowling down to look us over, lick their lips, and wonder about investing in our special securities. You came, you prowled, and it wasn't just for curiosity. How old are you?"
Charles Halloway pressed his lips shut.
"Fifty?" purred Mr. Dark. "Fifty-one?" he murmured. "Fifty-two? Like to be younger?"
"No!"
"No need to yell. Politely, please." Mr. Dark hummed, strolling the room, running his hand over the books as if they were years to be counted. "Oh, it's nice to be young, really. Wouldn't forty be nice, again? Forty's ten years nicer than fifty, and thirty's twenty years nicer by an incredible long shot."
"I won't listen!" Charles Halloway shut his eyes.
Mr. Dark tilted his head, sucked on his cigarette, and observed. "Strange, you shut your eyes, not to listen. Clapping your hands over your ears would be better--"
Will's father clapped his hands to his ears, but the voice came through.
"Tell you what," said Mr. Dark, casually, waving his cigarette. "If you help me within fifteen seconds I'll give you your fortieth birthday. Ten seconds and you can celebrate thirty-five. A rare young age. A stripling, almost, by comparison. I'll start counting by my watch and by God, if you should jump to it, lend a hand, I might just cut thirty years off your life! Bargains galo
re, as the posters say. Think of it! Starting all over again, everything fine and new and glorious, all the things to be done and thought and savored again. Last chance! Here goes. One. Two. Three. Four--"
Charles Halloway hunched away, half crouched, propped hard against the shelves, grinding his teeth to drown the sound of counting.
"You're losing out, old man, my dear old fellow," said Mr. Dark. "Five. Losing. Six. Losing very much. Seven. Really losing. Eight. Frittering away. Nine. Ten. My God, you fool! Eleven. Halloway! Twelve. Almost gone. Thirteen! Gone! Four-teen! Lost! Fifteen! Lost forever!"
Mr. Dark put down his arm with the watch on it.
Charles Halloway, gasping, had turned away to bury his face in the smell of ancient books, the feel of old and comfortable leather, the taste of funeral dust and pressed flowers.
Mr. Dark stood in the door now, on his way out.
"Stay there," he directed. "Listen to your heart. I'll send someone to fix it. But, first, the boys ..."
The crowd of unsleeping creatures, saddled upon tall flesh, strode quietly forth into darkness, borne with and all over upon Mr. Dark. Their cries and whines and utterances of vague but excruciating excitements sounded in his husky summoning:
"Boys? Are you there? Wherever you are ... answer."
Charles Halloway sprang forward, then felt the room spin and whirl him, as that soft, that easy, that most pleasant voice of Mr. Dark went calling through the dark. Charles Halloway fell against a chair, thought: Listen, my heart! sank down to his knees, he said, Listen to my heart! it explodes! Oh God, it's tearing free!--and could not follow.
The Illustrated Man trod cat-soft in the labyrinths of shelved and darkly waiting books.
"Boys ...? Hear me ...?"
Silence.
"Boys ...?"