The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun Read Free Page A

toddled off. The colonel, clutching his briefcase, turned away. Nobody saw the black look of baffled rage come over his face or heard him grate to himself, “Goddamn effing busybody bitch!”
    The episode over, Julian now reached into his pocket and pulled out a page torn from a popular science magazine, smoothed it out and examined briefly an article headlined ANYONE CAN PATENT AN INVENTION. Suddenly he became aware of a bustle and looking up at the ticket window saw that the ticket seller had arrived behind it and was arranging his gear preparatory to opening. There was a general surge in the direction of the window. Julian put away his article, got up and made for it.

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    J ulian had to detour, for the special policeman was on one of his rounds and heading in the direction of the news-stand on the other side of the terminal and, now that actual departure was becoming imminent, Julian was even more undesirous of attracting attention. When he reached the ticket window there was already a line, several of them people he had noted before.
    The two high school kids were at its head and then the colonel with his briefcase and the man with the toothbrush moustache, the dark foreigner with the strange instrument case and two unidentified passengers. Julian got behind them and back of him the queue lengthened, including Frank Marshall, Clyde Gresham and a dozen or so others.
    The ticket seller queried Marge and Bill, “Where to?”
    Bill gave Marge a look of sudden panic, of which she was unaware. The phony wedding ring had given her confidence, but Bill, now faced with ultimate decision, had lost his cool. He was momentarily unable to reply.
    The ticket seller said sarcastically, “Any time. We got all morning.”
    Bill looked at Marge for help but only found an expression of trust as she said, “You say.”
    Bill gulped and made his decision. “Two. El Paso. Round trip.” The ticket seller repeated the order, stamped and handed out the tickets. Bill paid.
    Colonel Sisson appeared next at the window. He said, “Washington, one way, please.”
    The ticket seller droned, “Washington, one way.”
    As the colonel put down his briefcase on the floor for a second to reach for his wallet, Allon, directly behind him, twitched, momentarily so close to giving way to his impulse, that he broke into a cold sweat. He could have bent down, whipped up the case and been away in seconds, yet in time he realized that a hue and cry was not part of his assignment. At the ticket window he had recovered sufficiently, once the colonel had departed, to say, “Washington, please. One way.”
    And then there occurred an incident which basically did not either surprise or discomfort Julian since he was used to grownups overwhelming or pushing kids about and accepted this as a fact of life. The cowpuncher in the filthy dungarees and stained jacket who suddenly appeared out of nowhere and thrust himself in front of Julian did not worry him except that the man smelled bad and Julian was used to clean things. But what happened immediately afterwards was strange and exciting.
    Frank Marshall, three passengers back, saw the action of Sam Wilks and it irritated him. He stepped out of line, strolled forward, picked up Julian by the elbows and set him down in front of Wilks.
    Confused and bewildered by what was happening, Julian looked up to see a young, tall, handsome man, with the strangest, brightest blue eyes ever, confronting the filthy, ugly-visaged cowboy. A veteran of television conditioning, Julian knew that here it was, in real life, a confrontation between a baddie and a goodie. What would happen?
    The goodie had the sweetest smile upon his face, behind which Julian was unable to read the slight hint of derision and challenge, but there was no mistaking the anger and truculence on the face of the baddie, though Julian had no inkling of the man’s rising gorge or how dangerously near he was to a fatal explosion. But the bulk of