"Last one off the premises is the witch's behind," said Tom calmly.
They ran out so fast, the proprietor gasped and clutched forty-five copper pennies in one fist, thirty-six in the other.
Outside in the glare of the uneasy street lights Douglas and Tom made a terrible discovery.
The tarot card was empty, there was no message.
"That can't be!"
"Don't get excited, Doug. It's just a plain old card; we only lost a penny."
"It's not just a plain old card, it's more than a penny, it's life and death."
Under the fluttering moth light in the street Douglas's face was milky as he stared at the card and turned it, rustling, trying somehow to put words on it.
"She ran out of ink."
"She never runs out of ink!"
He looked at Mr. Black sitting there finishing off his bottle and cursing, not knowing how lucky he was, living in the arcade. Please, he thought, don't let the arcade fall apart, too. Bad enough that friends disappeared, people were killed and buried in the real world, but let the arcade run along the way it was, please, please....
Now Douglas knew why the arcade had drawn him so steadily this week and drew him still tonight. For there was a world completely set in place, predictable, certain, sure, with its bright silver slots, its terrible gorilla behind glass forever stabbed by waxen hero to save still more waxen heroine, and then the flipping waterfalling chitter of Keystone Kops on eternal photographic spindles set spiraling in darkness by Indian-head pennies under naked bulb light. The Kops, forever in collision or near-c
ollision with train, truck, streetcar, forever gone off piers in oceans which did not drown, because there they rushed to collide again with train, truck, streetcar, dive off old and beautifully familiar pier. Worlds within worlds, the penny peek shows which you cranked to repeat old rites and formulas. There, when you wished, the Wright Brothers sailed sandy winds at Kittyhawk, Teddy Roosevelt exposed his dazzling teeth, San Francisco was built and burned, burned and built, as long as sweaty coins fed self-satisfied machines.
Douglas looked around at this night town, where anything at all might happen now, a minute from now. Here, by night or day, how few the slots to shove your money in, how few the cards delivered to your hand for reading, and, if read, how few made sense. Here in the world of people you might give time, money, and prayer with little or no return.
But there in the arcade you could hold lightning with the CAN YOU TAKE IT? electrical machine when you pried its chromed handles apart as the power wasp-stung, sizzled, sewed your vibrant fingers. You punched a bag and saw how many hundred pounds of sinew were available in your arm to strike the world if it need be struck. There grip a robot's hand to Indian-wrestle out your fury and light the bulbs half up a numbered chart where fireworks at the summit proved your violence supreme.
In the arcade, then, you did this and this, and that and that occurred. You came forth in peace as from a church unknown before.
And now? Now?
The witch moving but silent, and perhaps soon dead in her crystal coffin. He looked at Mr. Black droning there, defying all worlds, even his own. Someday the fine machinery would rust from lack of loving care, the Keystone Kops freeze forever half in, half out of the lake, half caught, half struck by locomotive; the Wright Brothers never get their kite machine off the ground....
"Tom," Douglas said, "we got to sit in the library and figure this thing out."
They moved on down the street, the white unwritten card passing between them.
They sat inside the library in the lidded green light and then they sat outside on the carved stone lion, dangling their feet over its back, frowning.
"Old man Black, all the time screaming at her, threatening to kill her."
"You can't kill what's never lived, Doug."
"He treats the witch like she's alive or was once alive, or something. Screaming at her, so maybe she's finally given up. Or maybe she hasn't given up at all, but's taken a secret way to warn us her life's in danger. Invisible ink. Lemon juice, maybe! There's a message here she didn't want Mr. Black to see, in case he looked while we were in his arcade. Hold on! I got some matches."
"Why would she write us, Doug?"
"Hold the card. Here!" Douglas struck a match and ran it under the card.
"Ouch! The words ain't on my fingers, Doug, so keep the match away."
"There!" cried Douglas. And there it was, a faint spidery scrawl which began to shape itself in a spiral of incredible corkscrew calligrapher's letters, dark on light ... a word, two words, three ...
"The card, it's on fire!"
Tom yelled and let it drop.