If I Were You (7 page)

Maybe—though the hope was faint—maybe he could get away with this. His body had carried him to the right door. It might carry him through the right motions. And these cats were used to Gordon, and now—now wasn’t he Gordon?

He had asked for this. He would take it.

The steel bars were cold upon his palm, and he pulled open the second door.

Before him the milling beasts leaped away. A lion sprang to his pedestal, a tiger to his. And then, like an avalanche in reverse, the instant he mechanically cracked his whip and fired his gun, all but one soared upward to their perches. The one backed and clawed at the lash, and spat at the flame and powder smoke. He was a heavy, furious lion, whose mane bristled out to frame his rageful face.

The air was oppressive with the animal smell. The stands were a heaving blur somewhere out beyond the lights. Five thousand faces were less than one.

He, Little Tom Little, was all alone in a wild beast arena, and despite this body which he had usurped, he was still a midget. For, though his hand and arm mechanically cracked that whip and fired the gun, he had forgotten, in his horror, that he was “Jerry Gordon.” He might see the size of his arm, he might feel the largeness of his body, but he could not believe these mere manifestations of sense. He was himself, his soul, and that was the soul of Little Tom Little, midget and coward!

With whip and flame, Tommy fought the lion. Sawdust churned beneath his boots. And when the brute reared up and pawed the air, the chair came naturally to his hand. Despite himself, he found that he advanced. To his amazement, the lion pedestaled himself. Tommy could not believe that he had won in this—that the act would run on its usual routine.

But there was a big tiger angrily leaping down to prepare for its hoop act, to be followed by the others in rotation. The tiger went through the hoop, and the whole brutish mass glistened and rippled as beast after beast leaped through the ring.

Little Tom Little began to take heart. For all their snarling and fighting, these animals had been beautifully trained. And they were held in check by the sight and smell of Jerry Gordon, even though Jerry Gordon was not there. . . .

The roll-over tiger came next. So often had that arm given the cue that now it came without Tommy understanding it. Over went the tiger once, but not twice. Here she knew there was a break, a break in which she roared her defiance and advanced, prepared to leap. Gordon, at this point, would advance upon her, chair held against his breast, bending low and glaring hypnotically into her eyes to force her back, to outstare and outface her and, by sheer will, make her lie down and roll once more. And the other beasts knew that they must roar and swap pedestals and glare at their trainer, to make a fighting act.

Up came the chair to Tommy’s chest. Forward came the tiger, spitting curses, raking out with lustful claws.

And the routine would have held together, for now Tommy was perceiving that this
was
routine with them all, done so often that neither beasts nor man had to think what came next. They were automatons in a cage, and if he let his body follow through, he would be all right.

But Tommy himself did not know that the roll-over tiger’s ferocity was supposed to reach such a hideous pass. For a moment, once more he was fully Little Tom Little. He knew how far behind him he could go—but in his anxiety, he estimated the distance for Little Tom Little, not six-foot-three Jerry Gordon—and took three steps, when he should have taken one.

Just at the point where he was sure he could get through, when he had lost respect for these brutes and the act, his heel caught in an abandoned hoop!

Backwards he went, falling heavily, for it was further down than he had thought. He strove to brace himself up the instant he struck. He wanted to slash with the whip and fire the gun, and then take an instant’s rest in the entranceway.

But this act was no fake, nor was it wholly routine. For these were jungle cats, from Malaysia and Africa, and to see their trainer down—

The roll-over tiger sprang. Tommy fired the gun into her open mouth. She screamed and sprang back. But the others had not felt her pain. The others saw only their trainer now—and how many years they had waited for that! How many years had they sat on these pedestals glaring hungrily at this man, biding their time, doing his bidding, waiting for the time when they could smother him with their weight, rake him with their claws, feel his warm flesh between their mighty jaws!

And down they came!

Immediate death was not scheduled by fate in that instant, for a great lion jostled a tiger as they both leaped in the
van
. Blood enemies, personal enemies, they whirled and met with a thud which shook the bars like straws.

Tommy, in an agony of fear, pitched himself backwards, still striving to gain his feet. He faced about to shout imploringly at the menagerie men. Already spikes were being snatched up and
fagots
thrust into the cage. But it was slow, slow work, and death was only split instants away.

The warring brutes had touched off the bomb. Released from the constraint of whip and flame, others smashed into each other with all the strength of pent-up hate. Still others remembered the fallen trainer and strove to get at him through the press. The two brutes who had started it, intent upon each other, shifted their warring ground toward Tommy. In a moment they were fighting on top of him, paying him no heed, but blanketing him and trampling him and clawing him just the same.

The tent had gone crazy. Five thousand voices had emitted a single sound, and now again there was silence. The menagerie men poked unavailingly through the bars. Three fought together all at once trying to open the door and drag the trainer out.

“You fools!” screamed a shrill voice. “You fools, get away from that door!”

Tommy, through the haze of battle, saw a sight which came into his consciousness more acutely than even the shock of immediate death.

Somehow Jerry Gordon—the real Jerry Gordon, in the image of Little Tom Little—had fought away from his captors. And now, seeing his beasts tear themselves to bits, seeing his own desired body threatened in war upon the sawdust, about to be slaughtered, he too had forgotten his momentary identity. He belonged in that cage, and he was fighting his way to it.

“Use your gun!” screamed the real Gordon.

And in that instant the thing was again effected. Tommy could not have helped it had he tried. He had been called, the words were hot in his brain, and a moment later all the strain was done. For there he stood, safe outside the cage, staring in at Jerry Gordon, all buried underneath the savage cats!

Here he was safe. He had turned the tables again. There was Gordon in his rightful self. Here was he, Tommy—

Jerry Gordon, beneath the howling hell, blazed away hysterically with his revolver, straight up into the bodies of the brutes. But the bite of powder had only one effect. They had forgotten Gordon. They had been intent upon killing one another. But the sting in the bellies of the lion and the tiger made them leap back away from one another and see their original goal.

Jerry Gordon, beneath the howling hell, blazed away hysterically with his revolver, straight up into the bodies of the brutes.

Gordon tried to get up, but even he understood that he would never make it. His whip had vanished. His chair was a mound of splintered wreckage. And now, as he yanked on his trigger, his shots only infuriated the animals more, only drew their attention to him, only started their charge—the last charge Jerry Gordon would ever see.

The petrified menagerie men had brought up the tear gas, but so seldom had it been used that the one who threw the bombs did not pull the catch. Harmlessly they rolled around on the sawdust, trampled presently out of sight.

The pikes were not long enough, and the wielders showed no taste for going into that cage through the main door.

Safe outside, Little Tom Little watched. There was something all wrong about this, something horrible. He was the cause of Jerry Gordon’s coming death. He had done this to the man—and then he had slipped out of there, to remain safe and sound outside those bars. Coward! This was certain proof of it. Craven coward, that’s what he was, to cause another man’s death and then let him die!

But a midget thirty inches tall was only a mouthful for any one of these brutes. He would last no longer than Gordon. But he had caused it. He had done this thing to an innocent man.

It was too much to bear. Safety was nothing compared to these thoughts. With a sharp cry to Gordon, Little Tom Little snatched a torch from an attendant’s paralyzed hand and slid through the bars!

He was shaking so in his terror that he could scarcely keep the grip upon the weapon. But he made himself lunge forward like a fencer, straight into the face of the tiger which sprang upon Gordon.

The brute got the torch halfway down its throat. It halted and spun about, and leaped away with a yowl of pain. And the lion on the right transferred his attention to the midget. The lion sprang, got the torch in his chest, and went yelping for the chutes.

Another tiger sprang and another tiger stopped, bowling Tommy over and over, but running out instantly just the same. Battered, Tommy got up. Berserk with rage, he completely forgot his size for the first time in his life. Like a small javelin tipped with flame, he sizzled into the press of fighting cats around Gordon.

They raked at the torch. They screamed. They reared back and fell over themselves to get out of the way. And then they saw their fellows heading for the dark safety of the chute, and, nose to tail, the remainder of the forty plunged out of sight.

The arena was empty of cats. The dust hung in the clash of spotlights. The smoke of the torch wreathed upward to blacken Tommy’s face.

Gordon, lying on his side, groaned and turned a little. Then he was still. The bars came down, blocking off the chute.

There was no danger now.

Tommy let the torch fall and stared down at his small hands. He wondered if he were going to be so very ill. It was almost certain that he would be.

There was a clanging and a clatter and the door came open. But it was not an attendant. It was Betty, and her tinsel crown was all in disarray and her fingers were bleeding from tearing so long at the jammed safety lock. She flung herself down beside Jerry, feeling for his heart, trying to cushion his bleeding head.

Men began to swarm into the place. The din out of five thousand throats came like the sound of diving planes.

“Jerry, Jerry!” cried the girl. “Jerry, don’t die! You can’t die!”

His eyes came open and he stared dazedly at her.

“Jerry!” she whispered brokenly.

He tried to struggle up and got into a sitting position, shaking his head to get the fog out of it.

“Jerry, you were right about Schmidt. I did it . . . only God knows why! You were right, and you’ll hate me. But I’ll make it up, Jerry. Honest I’ll make it up!”

He looked at her for a little while and then took her hand. A doc came, opening his bag, but Jerry Gordon stood up and pushed him back.

“You think these cuts are anything, Doc? Hell, man, I’ve been sick for weeks and weeks, but this is all I needed!” And, limping, he let Betty help him from the arena.

Mrs. Johnson was struggling to get through the people who surrounded Tommy. He could not hear what men were saying, anyhow. He didn’t need what they were saying.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say!” said Mrs. Johnson.

“Why say anything?” said Tommy impudently. He fished in his pockets for a handkerchief, but all he could find were letters and small books. Incuriously he hauled them out, and not until they fell from his hand and he had to pick them up did he know what they were.

Suddenly a great light sizzled through him. He flicked open the first bankbook, on which was written “Hermann Schmidt.” He stared at the list of deposits, at the tens of thousands of dollars Schmidt had saved in three months out of a salary of a thousand dollars a month. And he stared at a love letter which began “My darling Hermann,” and ended “Your Betty.”

“But I hardly know—” Mrs. Johnson was saying. “After all, it is a criminal offense to steal—and our profits have been missing. . . .” She dabbed at her eyes. “What . . . what am I going to do?”

“Do?” said Tommy.