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Spaceways, v. 3, issue 4, May 1941
Page 9
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SPACEWAYS 9 THE END OF PENNYWEISTLE from earliest young manhood. Through no fault of his own, he had lost his position in an establishment in Ipswitch, and had come to the metropolis only yesterday, seeking work. And yet, deep down inside, I sensed somehow that in him were slumbering potentialities, potentialities that would one day lead him to become something more than a floorwalker; perhaps even an assistant manager; who could tell? Perhaps it was this that drew me to him, or perhaps it was the fact that he was a stranger in the great city; suffice it to say that in the following days our friendship ripened, until we were bosom companions. Then, one day, the first hint of what was to come was made manifest. At the end of a hard day, I was hanging up my clothes, as usual. Pennywhistle had not yet arrived. As I smoothed away the last wrinkle and prepared to don my street clothes, the Personnel Manager and page boy carrying a pair of ratchet handles and a broom passed through the locker room and paused opposite Mortimer's locker. At this moment Pennywhistle entered, and hurriedly made for his locker, in order to be able to leave the building with me. Nodding to me, and respectfully greeting the Manager, he at once opened the locker and bent over it, preparatory to depositing his apparel therein. At once, the attention of the Manager and the page was directed to the articles in the latter's hand. As Mortimer bent over the locker, thus bringing the sartorially correct seat of his trousers close to the articles in question, a startling transformation took place. Before the bulging eyes of the Manager, the boy, and myself, both the ratchet handles and every straw in the broom slowly wilted and disintegrated into a fine, powdery dust, which filtered through the boy's trembling fingers and trickled down onto the floor. The Personnel Manager, as befitted his important post, was an unusually acute man. When he recovered from his astonishment, he croaked to the page boy, "Go get more brooms, and ratchet handles!" Then, as the demoralized boy hurried off, leaving Pennywhistle and me (for by this time Mortimer had become aware that something unusual was taking place) in a state of acute puzzlement, he called after him, as an afterthought, "And a dust-pan!" Soon the boy staggered back, loaded down with ratchet handles and brooms. Leading the bewildered Mortimer aside, the Manager prevailed upon him to assume his former position, while he brought several of the brooms and ratchet handles into juxtaposition with Pennywhistle's trousers seat. In each case, the result was the same. As soon as the articles came within two or three feet of Mortimer, they incontinently crumbled into the same powdery dust. The Manager looked grave. "This may," he said, "or may not be a very serious matter. In any case--ah--" "Pennywhistle," said Mortimer. "In any case, Pennywhistle," continued the Manager, "you had better report to our Research Division, to undergo observation for a few days." "Yes, sir," said Mortimer, bewilderedly. "I will televise them to expect you," said the Manager, not unkindly, "and you had better take the tram over there at once." With a sigh, Mortimer turned back to changing his clothes. I waited for him, in silence. When he was finished, I took the tram with him and escorted him as far as the Research Division. He said nothing, but as I left he pressed my hand. The next day, when I came to work, I heard vague rumors about Pennywhistle's condition having become in some way worse, and all through the day I was so agitated that twice I directed elderly ladies to the men's restrooms on the 63rd floor. As soon as I was through, without waiting to change clothes, I rushed over to the Research Department. After some hesitation, I was allowed to see my friend. I found him in a large, bare room with a trestle-like affair in the middle, over which Mortimer was bent in what looked like a rather uncomfortable position. The floor was littered with bare broomsticks, and little heaps of the fine dust. Mortimer greeted me warmly, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes. As I
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SPACEWAYS 9 THE END OF PENNYWEISTLE from earliest young manhood. Through no fault of his own, he had lost his position in an establishment in Ipswitch, and had come to the metropolis only yesterday, seeking work. And yet, deep down inside, I sensed somehow that in him were slumbering potentialities, potentialities that would one day lead him to become something more than a floorwalker; perhaps even an assistant manager; who could tell? Perhaps it was this that drew me to him, or perhaps it was the fact that he was a stranger in the great city; suffice it to say that in the following days our friendship ripened, until we were bosom companions. Then, one day, the first hint of what was to come was made manifest. At the end of a hard day, I was hanging up my clothes, as usual. Pennywhistle had not yet arrived. As I smoothed away the last wrinkle and prepared to don my street clothes, the Personnel Manager and page boy carrying a pair of ratchet handles and a broom passed through the locker room and paused opposite Mortimer's locker. At this moment Pennywhistle entered, and hurriedly made for his locker, in order to be able to leave the building with me. Nodding to me, and respectfully greeting the Manager, he at once opened the locker and bent over it, preparatory to depositing his apparel therein. At once, the attention of the Manager and the page was directed to the articles in the latter's hand. As Mortimer bent over the locker, thus bringing the sartorially correct seat of his trousers close to the articles in question, a startling transformation took place. Before the bulging eyes of the Manager, the boy, and myself, both the ratchet handles and every straw in the broom slowly wilted and disintegrated into a fine, powdery dust, which filtered through the boy's trembling fingers and trickled down onto the floor. The Personnel Manager, as befitted his important post, was an unusually acute man. When he recovered from his astonishment, he croaked to the page boy, "Go get more brooms, and ratchet handles!" Then, as the demoralized boy hurried off, leaving Pennywhistle and me (for by this time Mortimer had become aware that something unusual was taking place) in a state of acute puzzlement, he called after him, as an afterthought, "And a dust-pan!" Soon the boy staggered back, loaded down with ratchet handles and brooms. Leading the bewildered Mortimer aside, the Manager prevailed upon him to assume his former position, while he brought several of the brooms and ratchet handles into juxtaposition with Pennywhistle's trousers seat. In each case, the result was the same. As soon as the articles came within two or three feet of Mortimer, they incontinently crumbled into the same powdery dust. The Manager looked grave. "This may," he said, "or may not be a very serious matter. In any case--ah--" "Pennywhistle," said Mortimer. "In any case, Pennywhistle," continued the Manager, "you had better report to our Research Division, to undergo observation for a few days." "Yes, sir," said Mortimer, bewilderedly. "I will televise them to expect you," said the Manager, not unkindly, "and you had better take the tram over there at once." With a sigh, Mortimer turned back to changing his clothes. I waited for him, in silence. When he was finished, I took the tram with him and escorted him as far as the Research Division. He said nothing, but as I left he pressed my hand. The next day, when I came to work, I heard vague rumors about Pennywhistle's condition having become in some way worse, and all through the day I was so agitated that twice I directed elderly ladies to the men's restrooms on the 63rd floor. As soon as I was through, without waiting to change clothes, I rushed over to the Research Department. After some hesitation, I was allowed to see my friend. I found him in a large, bare room with a trestle-like affair in the middle, over which Mortimer was bent in what looked like a rather uncomfortable position. The floor was littered with bare broomsticks, and little heaps of the fine dust. Mortimer greeted me warmly, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes. As I
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