Walk to the Station

"Those are not people," the fat man said. "They are not people at all. If you think of them as people, you lose everything."

Peter struck a match and watched the small flame blink in the wind. He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tossed it away.

"How easy it is," he said, "for you to decide what to think."

The fat man shifted the black suitcase to his other hand and grimaced. "It isn't easy at all," he said, grunting with the (continued on page 66)Walk to the Station(continued from page 17) effort and the late afternoon heat. "But too many thoughts are unnecessary. During the war..."

"There wasn't time to think."'

The two men turned off Fifth Avenue and walked east along 42nd Street. They were carrying black overnight cases with tennis racquets strapped to them. The offices had started to empty, and they made their way awkwardly through the rush of bodies. Exhaust piled up from the taxis and buses inching forward in cross-town traffic.

"The eyes are most of it," Peter said. "I find myself looking at a single pair of eyes, and very often the eyes look back."

"Yes," the fat man said. "I had that trouble at first." He hesitated. "Thirteen years ago. It doesn't seem that long."

"Of course," Peter said with heavy irony. "In your case, however, they stopped looking back soon enough."

"The trick," the fat man continued, ignoring the interruption, "is to look at them as a group, so that there are no complications. Once -- when we were first putting them in the cars -- an old man tripped and sprained his ankle. I rushed to help him before I knew what I was doing. I knew at the time that it was quite ridiculous, an obsolete impulse." The fat man paused and smiled. "If he had been shot I wouldn't have bothered. As it was, it nearly cost me my job."

They entered Grand Central Station and stood on the marble-surfaced steps, resting the black suitcases. There was no hurry. Peter looked down into the busy space before them. "A goldfish bowl," he said.

"That's right. You see? It becomes easier when you think like that."

They picked up the suitcases and went down the steps, becoming part of the station's movement. Peter stopped before a poster of a famous, smiling face. Beneath the face, printed in large letters, was a request for civilian defense volunteers. Peter turned away from the picture. "Do you think they really expect a warning from the sky?" he asked.

The fat man grinned thickly at him, and wiped his forehead with a white handkerchief. "Would you like some ice cream?" he said. "There are still a few minutes, and this heat..."

"By all means," Peter said. "The ice cream here is good." He added, with a glance at the fat man's waistline, "And very rich."

"Like the rest of the country," the fat man said, unperturbed. "Very rich indeed."

They entered a drug store featuring a large soda fountain, and sat at the chrome-trimmed counter. A young waitress came toward them. She was blonde and quick. Peter stared at the waitress while the fat man gave their order. A single drop of sweat glistened from her upper lip. For some reason the drop fascinated Peter, and he stared at it so that the waitress blushed nervously as she turned away.

"Do you like them that thin?"

Peter ignored the question. He glanced down at the black suitcase resting against his leg. "You are quite right," he said to the fat man.

"About what?"

"During the war," Peter continued, "we were on strafing assignment. The roads were full, so that from the air the roads themselves seemed to be alive. They were moving. Our job was to kill the roads, to stop the movement. It was like shooting at a black snake, and there was nothing to think about."

"Exactly," the fat man said, drumming his fingers on the counter. He could almost taste the coolness of the ice cream, and waited impatiently.

"Did you know Novak?" Peter asked suddenly.

The fat man thought for a moment. "No. Who was he?"

"A mathematician. Killed in 1944. He put it into a formula."

The waitress returned with the ice cream, and the fat man began eating quickly, smacking his lips. Peter looked at him.

"I said he put it into a formula."

The fat man stopped eating. "All right," he said. "What was it?"

"He said this: 'The pity of death decreases in direct ratio to the progression of its mass.' "

"Very impressive, but I have been telling you the same thing, and without the big words." The fat man wiped his forehead again. "Eat your ice cream."

When they left the drug store the fat man stopped, his features warped into sudden panic. "What is it?" Peter demanded, enjoying the tension. This job had been too easy. There was no danger, nothing to act against. Even when he had been strafing the roads there had been the exhilaration of flying recklessly. Now he was simply a messenger, an errand boy. He welcomed the fat man's fear.

"The lockers! I am unfamiliar with their location! We must call Headquarters . . ."

"Idiot!" Peter said sharply. "We will do nothing of the sort." He looked around for a guard or policeman. "Come with me and keep your mouth shut."

They approached a tall, middle-aged policeman who was standing next to a newsstand. "Pardon me," Peter said. "Can you direct us to the nearest locker? We wish to check our bags there for a while."

"Certainly," the policeman said, and gave them instructions. "Going away for a trip?" he added, eyeing the tennis racquets strapped to the cases.

"Yes," Peter said. "The city is so uncomfortable this time of year . . ."

"Don't I know it! New York is hot enough to scorch asbestos. I was raised in a small town myself." The policeman grinned ruefully at them:

Peter began to tremble. He knew that (concluded overleaf) he was talking to a dead man, and as he looked at the policeman's eyes he saw them turning into steam, bubbling out of their sockets. "Thank you," he said quickly.

When they were safely away, the fat man looked at Peter with approval. "Congratulations," he said. "You did that very neatly."

"Yes," Peter said. "Neatly."

They arrived at the lockers, and the fat man fumbled in his pocket. He finally produced two dimes, and inserted them into the two slots. Peter opened the doors, and placed the black suitcases in the lockers. He stepped back and looked at them, while the fat man breathed heavily beside him.

"Look at the clocks," the fat man said, motioning to a display in the window of a jewelry shop across the arcade. The clocks gave the time at Moscow, Paris, London, Chicago, Los Angeles and other cities. "Look at them," the fat man repeated. "Each hour they show is different, yet each is the same. Agent One in Moscow, Two in Paris, Three in London." He touched the locker gently, while his words marched in parade. "The soldiers have quietly begun the battle..."

"What battle?" Peter looked at the fat man with distaste. "What soldiers?" He stared at the fat man's double-breasted business suit, and looked down at his own conservative suit, his black shoes and respectable tie. "The time for soldiers has passed. There are no more soldiers."

The fat man shrugged and closed the doors. They walked rapidly away from the lockers. As they went to the exit, a small girl eating a large candy looked at Peter. She held her mother's dress while the woman spoke to a porter. The little girl looked solemnly at Peter, as though she had seen him somewhere before. Peter felt himself drowning in the little girl's eyes.

The fat man tugged at Peter impatiently. "Let's go," he said. "There is still a long drive." Peter turned away from the little girl, and they went to the exit. "I've never seen a 'jackpot' before," the fat man said lightly. "It should be something to remember -- providing," he added, winking at Peter, "we drive carefully."

They hailed a taxi, and gave the address of the parking lot where they had left their car. In the station a loudspeaker announced the schedule to waiting travelers. At a newsstand, an old man argued about his change. And in the street, exhaust piled up from crosstown traffic.

"Look at the clocks," the fat man said.