Free The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun by Paul Gallico Page A

that he kept trying to remember that tugged at his mind.
    Julian began, “The colonel said, . . .” but Marshall swiftly put his hand on Julian’s arm in a gesture that meant keep quiet and half rose out of his seat to see what Allon was up to. He was getting ready to leave the bus fast and Marshall remembered Allon had bought a ticket to Washington.
    Then there was the bus driver’s voice, “Tucson, Tucson, ten minutes, keep your seats please.” The bus drew up to a stop at the bus station. The doors hissed open and several new passengers boarded.
    At this moment the subliminal, that same which so often had saved that other Marshall and helped him during certain dangerous days to avoid the trip wires hidden underfoot, grenades hung from trees, pressure mines that tore one’s legs and genitals to bloody shreds, the poisoned punji sticks buried in the ground and all the other booby traps, came startlingly to life and brought what had happened into focus. And even as Allon nipped out of the seat, out of the bus and was off running, with Colonel Sisson standing and looking at him in confusion, Marshall was down the aisle saying to Sisson, “Sir, excuse me, I may be wrong but I think that little guy that just got off took a picture.”
    Sisson said, “What? Picture of what?” He couldn’t remember Allon’s movements.
    Marshall was saying, “Over your shoulder. When the bus was swaying. He almost fell over you. I thought I saw something in his hand.”
    Cold fear settled in the colonel’s stomach. He glanced at his briefcase, then gripped Marshall’s arm, “Christ! When? Did you notice when he got the picture?”
    Marshall said, “When you were talking to the kid.”
    The colonel yelled “Son of a bitch!” so loudly that it startled everyone in the vicinity but particularly the man named Wilks occupying the front seat. Beyond the offence of his appearance, his behaviour had been subdued ever since he had got on the bus; he hardly moved at all as though concerned with not attracting attention and did not get out during stopovers. He sat hunched by the window, hat pulled down over his eyes, moodily observing the scenery as it flashed by. Occasionally he pulled a road map from a pocket and studied it. The seat next to him was unoccupied. Two passengers had tried it, a man and a woman, and been driven away by his unwashed fetor. These defections did not seem to upset or worry the man.
    But now as the colonel rushed past him and out through the still-open door while reaching inside his jacket for his shoulder holster, Wilks immediately arose, his hand moving in an exact duplicate of that of the colonel.
    Marshall bumped Wilks as he dashed after the colonel and momentarily distracted him from completing his draw. Wilks remembered Marshall from the episode in the bus station and the irritation gave him pause just long enough to see that the sudden furor had nothing to do with him. He removed his hand from his clothing, shoved his hat on to the back of his head and mopped his brow. He sank back into his seat and watched through the window.
    Colonel Sisson and Marshall were just in time to see Allon at a little distance giving a taxi-driver instructions. The colonel produced his gun, a black army .45. The bulk of the passengers in the bus were unaware of the curious drama being played out at the entrance to the bus station since Sisson had his back to them and they could not see the automatic.
    There was a moment of frozen tableau like the stopping of a motion picture film on one frame as Allon, for one terror-stricken instant, his face a mask of fright, glanced over at the colonel, the gun and Marshall. Then he nipped into the cab, slammed the door and was gone.
    Marshall was unable to keep a slight tinge of contempt from his voice as he said, “You could have had him, sir.”
    For the first time Sisson took in Marshall wholly and recognizing an ex-soldier, the colonel reholstered his gun and said, “Thanks, but maybe