The Howling Man by Charles Beaumont Read Free Book Online Page A

mile-long ribbon of paper lay gathered on the desk, strangely festive. He glanced at it, then at the manifest sheet. The figure 18037448 was circled in red. He pulled breath into his lungs, locked it there; then he closed his eyes and pressed the TOTAL bar.
    There was a smooth low metallic grinding, followed by absolute silence.
    Mr. Minchell opened one eye, dragged it from the ceiling on down to the adding machine.
    He groaned, slightly.
    The total read: 18037447.
    "God." He stared at the figure and thought of the fifty-three pages of manifest, the three thousand separate rows of figures that would have to be checked again. "God."
    The day was lost, now. Irretrievably. It was too late to do anything. Madge would have supper waiting, and F.J. didn't approve of overtime; also . . .
    He looked at the total again. At the last two digits.
    He sighed. Forty-seven. And thought, startled: Today, for the Lord's sake, is my birthday! Today I am forty--what?--forty-seven. And that explains the mistake, I suppose. Subconscious kind of thing.
    Slowly he got up and looked around the deserted office.
    Then he went to the dressing room and got his hat and his coat and put them on, carefully.
    " Pushing fifty now . . ."
    The outside hail was dark. Mr. Minchell walked softly to the elevator and punched the Down button. "Forty-seven," he said, aloud; then, almost immediately, the light turned red and the thick door slid back noisily. The elevator operator, a birdthin, tan-fleshed girl, swiveled her head, looking up and down the hall. "Going down," she said.
    "Yes," Mr. Minchell said, stepping forward.
    "Going down." The girl clicked her tongue and muttered, "Damn kids." She gave the lattice gate a tired push and moved the smooth wooden-handled lever in its slot.
    Odd, Mr. Minchell decided, was the word for this particular girl. He wished now that he had taken the stairs. Being alone with only one other person in an elevator had always made him nervous: now it made him very nervous. He felt the tension growing. When it became unbearable, he cleared his throat and said, "Long day."
    The girl said nothing. She had a surly look, and she seemed to be humming something deep in her throat.
    Mr. Minchell closed his eyes. In less than a minute--during which time he dreamed of the cables snarling, of the car being caught between floors, of himself trying to make small talk with the odd girl for six straight hours--he opened his eyes again and walked into the lobby, briskly.
    The gate slammed.
    He turned and started for the doorway. Then he paused, feeling a sharp increase in his heartbeat. A large, red-faced, magnificently groomed man of middle years stood directly beyond the glass, talking with another man.
    Mr. Minchell pushed through the door, with effort. He's seen me now, he thought. If he asks any questions, though, or anything, I'll just say I didn't put it on the time card; that ought to make it all right .
    He nodded and smiled at the large man. "Good night, Mr. Diemel."
    The man looked up briefly, blinked, and returned to his conversation.
    Mr. Mincheli felt a burning come into his face. He hurried on down the street. Now the notion--though it was not even that yet, strictly: it was more a vague feeling--swam up from the bottom of his brain. He remembered that he had not spoken directly to F.J. Diemel for over ten years, beyond a "Good morning" . . .
    Ice-cold shadows fell off the tall buildings, staining the streets, now. Crowds of shoppers moved along the pavement like juggernauts, exhaustedly, but with great determination. Mr. Minchell looked at them. They all had furtive appearances, it seemed to him suddenly, even the children, as if each was fleeing from some hideous crime. They hurried along, staring.
    But not, Mr. Minchell noticed, at him. Through him, yes. Past him. As the elevator operator had done, and now F.J. And had anyone said good night?
    He pulled up his coat collar and walked toward the drugstore, thinking. He was forty-seven