That Hell Bound Train
road Man. He never rode the high iron, but he walked
the tracks for the CB&Q, and he was proud of his job.
And when he got drunk (which was every night) he
sang this old song about That Hell-Bound Train.
Martin didn’t quite remember any of the words, but
he couldn’t forget the way his Daddy sang them out.
And when Daddy made the mistake of getting drunk in
the afternoon and got squeezed between a Pennsy tank-
car and an AT&SF gondola, Martin sort of wondered
why the Brotherhood didn’t sing the song at his funeral.
After that, things didn’t go so good for Martin, but
somehow he always recalled Daddy’s song. When Mom
up and ran off with a traveling salesman from Keokuk
(Daddy must have turned over in his grave, knowing
she’d done such a thing, and with a passenger, too!)
Martin hummed the tune to himself every night in the
Orphan Home. And after Martin himself ran away, he
used to whistle the song at night in the jungles, after the
other bindle stiffs were asleep.
Martin was on the road for four-five years before he
realized he wasn’t getting anyplace. Of course he’d tried
his hand at a lot of things—picking fruit in Oregon,
washing dishes in a Montana hash-house— but he just
wasn’t cut out for seasonal labor or pearl-diving, either.
Then he graduated to stealing hub-caps in Denver, and
for a while he did pretty well with tires in Oklahoma
City, but by the time he’d put in six months on the
chain-gang down in Alabama he knew he had no future
drifting around this way on his own.
So he tried to get on the railroad like his Daddy had,
but they told him times were bad; and between the
truckers and the airlines and those fancy new fintails
General Motors was making, it looked as if the days of
the highballers were just about over.
But Martin couldn’t keep away from the railroads.
Wherever he traveled, he rode the rods; he’d rather hop
a freight heading north in sub-zero weather than lift his
thumb to hitch a ride with a Cadillac headed for Flor
ida. Because Martin was loyal to the memory of his
Daddy, and he wanted to be as much like him as possi
ble, come what may. Of course, he couldn’t get drunk
every night, but whenever he did manage to get hold of
a can of Stemo, he’d sit there under a nice warm culvert
and think about the old days.
Often as not, he’d hum the song about That Hell-
Bound. Train. That was the train the drunks and sinners
rode; the gambling men and the grifters, the big-time
spenders, the skirt chasers, and all the jolly crew. It
would be fun to take a trip in such good company, but
Martin didn’t like to think of what happened when that
train finally pulled into the Depot Way Down Yonder.
He didn’t figure on spending eternity stoking boilers in
Hell, without even a company union to protect him.
Still, it would be a lovely ride. If there was such a thing
as a Hell-Bound Train. Which, of course, there wasn’t
At least Martin didn’t think there was, until that eve
ning when he found himself walking the tracks heading
south, just outside of Appleton Junction. The night was
cold and dark, the way November nights are in the Fox
River Valley, and he knew he’d have to work his way
down to New Orleans for the winter, or maybe even
Texas. Somehow he didn’t much feel like going, even
though he’d heard tell that a lot of those Texans’
automobiles had solid gold hub-caps.
No sir, he just wasn’t cut out for petty larceny. It was
worse than a sin— it was unprofitable, too. Bad enough
to do the Devil’s work, but then to get such miserable
pay on top of it! Maybe he’d better let the Salvation
Army convert him.
Martin trudged along, humming Daddy’s song, wait
ing for a rattler to pull out of the Junction behind him.
He’d have to catch it— there was nothing else for him to
do.
Too bad there wasn’t a chance to make a better deal
for himself, somewhere. Might as well be a rich sinner
as a poor sinner. Besides, he had a notion that he could
strike a pretty shrewd bargain. He’d thought about it a
lot, these past few years, particularly when the Stemo
was working. Then his ideas would come on strong, and
he could figure a way to rig the setup. But that was all
nonsense, of course. He might as well join the gospel-
shouters and turn into a working-stiff like all the rest of
the world. No use dreaming dreams; a song was only a
song and there was no Hell-Bound Train.
There was only M s train, rumbling out of the night,
roaring towards him along the track from the south.
Martin peered ahead, but his eyes couldn’t match his
ears, and so far all he could recognize was the sound. It
was a train, though; he felt the steel shudder and sing
beneath his feet.
And yet, how could it be? The next station south was
Neenab-Menasha, and there was nothing due out of
there for hours.
The clouds were thick overhead, and the field-mists
roll like a cold fog in a November midnight Even so,
Martin should have been able to see the headlights as
the train rushed on. But there were no lights.
There was only the whistle, screaming out of the
black throat of the night. Martin could recognize the
equipment of just about any locomotive ever built, but
he’d never heard a whistle that sounded like this one. It
wasn’t signalling; it was screaming like a lost souL
He stepped to one side, for the train was almost on
top of him now, and suddenly there it was, looming
along the tracks and grinding to a stop in less time than
he’d ever believed possible. The wheels hadn’t been
oiled, because they screamed too, screamed like the
damned. But the train slid to a halt and the screams
died away into a series of low, groaning sounds, and
Martin looked up and saw that this was a passenger
train. It was big and black, without a single light shining
in the engine cab or any of the long string of cars, and
Martin couldn’t read any lettering on the sides, but he
was pretty sure this train didn’t belong oh the North
western Road.
He was even more sure when he saw the man clam
ber down out of the forward car. There was something
wrong about the way he walked, as though one of his
feet dragged. And there was something even more dis
turbing about the lantern he carried, and what he did
with i t The lantern was dark, and when the man
alighted, he held it up to his mouth and blew. Instantly
the lantern glowed redly. You don’t have to be a mem
ber of the Railway Brotherhood to know that this is a
mighty peculiar way of lighting a lantern.
As die figure approached, Martin recognized the
conductor’s cap perched on his head, and this made him
feel a little better for a moment—until he noticed that it
was worn a bit too high, as though there might be some
thing sticking up on the forehead underneath i t
Still, Martin knew his manners, and when the man
smiled at him, he said, “Good evening, Mr. Conductor.”
‘’Good evening, Martin.”
“How did you know my name?”
The man shrugged. “How did you know I was the
conductor?”
“You are, aren’t you?
“To you, yes. Although other people, in other walks
of life, may recognize me in different roles. For in
stance, you ought to see what I look like to the folks out
in Hollywood.” The man grinned. “I travel a great
deal,” he explained.
“What brings you here?” Martin asked.
“Why, you ought to know the answer to that, Martin.
I came because you needed me.”
“I did?”
“Don’t play the innocent. Ordinarily, I seldom bother
with single individuals anymore. The way the world is
going, I can expect to carry a full load of passengers
without soliciting business. Your name has been down
on the list for several years already— I reserved a seat
for you as a matter of course. But then, tonight, I sud
denly realized you were backsliding. Thinking of joining
the Salvation Army, weren’t you?”
“Well— ” Martin hesitated.
“Don’t be ashamed. To err is human, as somebody-
or-other once said. Reader's Digest, wasn’t it? Never
mind. The point is, I felt you needed me. So I switched
over and came your way.”
“What for?”
“Why, to offer you a ride, of course. Isn’t it better to
travel comfortably by train than to march along the
cold streets behind a Salvation Army band? Hard on
the feet, they tell me, and even harder on the ear
drums.”
“I’m not sure I’d care to ride your train, sir,” Martin
said. “Considering where I’m likely to end up.”
“Ah, yes. The old argument.” The conductor sighed.
“I suppose you’d prefer some sort of bargain, is that
it?”
“Exactly,” Martin answered.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m all through with that sort of
thing. As I mentioned before, times have changed.
There’s no shortage of prospective passengers anymore.
Why should I offer you any special inducements?”
“You must want me, or else you wouldn’t have both
ered to go out of your way to find me.”
The conductor sighed again. “There you have a
point. Pride was always my besetting weakness, I admit.
And somehow I’d hate to lose you to the competition,
after thinking of you as my own all these years.” He
hesitated. “Yes, I’m prepared to deal with you on your
own terms, if you insist.”
“The terms?” Martin asked.
“Standard proposition. Anything you want.”
“Ah,” said Martin.
“But I warn you in advance, there’ll be no tricks. I'll
grant you any wish you can name— but in return, you
must promise to ride the train when the time comes.”
“Suppose it never comes?”
“It will.”
“Suppose I've got the kind of a wish that will keep
me off forever?”
“There is no such wish.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
“Let me worry about that,” the conductor told him.
“No matter what you have in mind, I warn you that I’ll
collect in the end. And there’ll be none of this last-
minute hocus-pocus, either. No last-hour repentances,
no blond frauleins or fancy lawyers showing up to get
you off. I offer a clean deal. That is to say, you’ll get
what you want, and I ’ll get what I want.”
“I’ve heard you trick people. They say you’re worse
than a used-car salesman.”
“Now wait a minute— ”
“I apologize,” Martin said, hastily. “But it is supposed to be a fact that you can’t be trusted.”
“I admit it. On the other hand, you seem to think you
have found a way out.”
“A sure-fire proposition.”
“Sure-fire? Very funny!” The man began to chuckle,
then halted. “But we waste valuable time, Martin. Let’s
get down to cases. What do you want from me?”
“A single wish.”
“Name it and I shall grant it.”
“Anything, you said?”
“Anything at all.”
“Very well, then.” Martin took a deep breath. “I
want to be able to stop Time.*’
“Right now?”
“No. Not yet. And not for everybody. I realize that
would be impossible, of course. But I want to be able to
stop Time for myself. Just once, in the future. When
ever I get to a point where I know I’m happy and con
tented, that’s where I’d like to stop. So I can just keep
on being happy forever.”
“That’s quite a proposition,” the conductor mused.
“I’ve got to admit I’ve never heard anything just like it
before— and believe me, I’ve listened to some lulus in my
day.” He grinned at Martin. “You’ve really been think
ing about this, haven’t you?”
“For years,” Martin admitted. Then he coughed.
“Well, what do you say?”
“It’s not impossible in terms of your own subjective
time-sense,” the conductor murmured. “Yes, I think it
could be arranged.”
“But I mean really to stop. Not for me just to imagine it.”
“I understand. And it can be done.”
“Then you’ll agree?”
“Why not? I promised you, didn’t I? Give me your
hand.”
Martin hesitated. “Will it hurt very much? I mean, I
don’t like the sight of blood, and— ”
“Nonsense! You’ve been listening to a lot of poppy
cock. We already have made our bargain, my boy. No
need for a lot of childish rigamarole. I merely intend to
put something into your hand. The ways and means of
fulfilling your wish. After all, there’s no telling at just
what moment you may decide to exercise the agreement, and I can’t drop everything and come running. So it’s better to regulate matters for yourself.”
“You’re going to give me a time-stopper?”
“That’s the general idea. As soon as I can decide
what would be practical.” The conductor hesitated.
“Ah, the very thing! Here, take my watch.”
He pulled it out of his vest-pocket; a railroad watch
in a silver case. He opened the back and made a deli
cate adjustment; Martin tried to see just exactly what he
was doing, but the fingers moved in a blinding blur.
“There we are,” the conductor smiled. “It’s all set,
now. When you finally decide where you’d like to call a
halt, merely turn the stem in reverse and unwind the
watch until it stops. When it stops, Time stops, for you.
Simple enough?”
“Sure thing.”
“Then, here, take it.” And the conductor dropped the
watch into Martin’s hand.
The young man closed his fingers tightly around the
case. “That’s all there is to it, eh?”
“Absolutely. But remember—you can stop the watch
only once. So you’d better make sure that you’re satis
fied with the moment you choose to prolong. I caution
you in all fairness; make very certain of your choice.”
“I will.” Martin grinned. “And since you’ve been so
fair about it, I’ll be fair, too. There’s one thing you
seem to have forgotten. It doesn’t really matter what
moment I choose. Because once I stop Time for myself,
that means I stay where I am forever. I’ll never, have to
get any older. And if I don’t get any older, I’ll never
die. And if I never die, then I’ll never have to take a
ride on your train.”
The conductor turned away. His shoulders shook
convulsively, and he may have been crying. “And you
said I was worse than a used-car salesman,” he gasped,
in a strangled voice.
Then he wandered off into the fog, and the train-
whistle gave an impatient shriek, and all at once it was
moving swiftly down the track, rumbling out of sight in
the darkness. Martin stood there, blinking down at the
silver watch in his hand. If it wasn’t that he could ac
tually see it and feel it there, and if he couldn’t smell
that peculiar odor, he might have thought he’d imagined
the whole thing from start to finish— train, conductor,
bargain, and all.
But he had the watch, and he could recognize the
scent left by the train as it departed, even though there
aren’t many locomotives around that use sulphur and
brimstone as fuel.
And he had no doubts about his bargain. Better still,
he had no doubts as to the advantages of the pact he’d
made. That’s what came of thinking things through to a
logical conclusion. Some fools would have settled for
wealth, or power, or Kim Novak. Daddy might have
sold out for a fifth of whiskey.
Martin knew that he’d made a better deal. Better? It
was foolproof. All he needed to do now was choose his
moment. And when the right time came, it was his—
forever.
He put the watch in his pocket and started back
down die railroad track. He hadn’t really had a destina
tion in mind before, but he did now. He was going to
find a moment of happiness . . .
Now young Martin wasn’t altogether a ninny. He real
ized perfectly well that happiness is a relative thing;
there are conditions and degrees of contentment, and
they vary with one’s lot in life. As a hobo, he was often
satisfied with a warm handout, a double-length bench in
the park, or a can of Stemo made in 1957 (a vintage
year). Many a time he had reached a state of momentary bliss through such simple agencies, but he was aware that there were better things. Martin determined to seek them out.
Within two days he was in the great city of Chicago.
Quite naturally, he drifted over to West Madison Street, and there he took steps to elevate his role in life.
He became a city bum, a panhandler, a moocher. Within a
week he had risen to the point where happiness was a
meal in a regular one-arm luncheon joint, a two-bit flop
on a real army cot in a real flophouse, and a full fifth of
muscatel.
There was a night, after enjoying all three of these
luxuries to the full, when Martin was tempted to un
wind his watch at the pinnacle of intoxication. Then he
remembered the faces of the honest johns he’d braced
for a handout today. Sure, they were squares, but they
were prosperous. They wore good clothes, held good
jobs, drove nice cars. And for them, happiness was even
more ecstatic; they ate dinner in fine hotels, they slept
on innerspring mattresses, they drank blended whiskey.
Squares or no, they had something there. Martin fin
gered his watch, put aside the temptation to hock it for
another bottle of muscatel, and went to sleep determin
ing to get himself a job and improve his happiness-
quotient.
When he awoke he had a hangover, but the determi
nation was still with him. It stayed long after the hang
over disappeared, and before the month was out Mar
tin found himself working for a general contractor over
on the South Side, at one of the big rehabilitation pro
jects. He hated the grind, but the pay was good, and
pretty soon he got himself a one-room apartment out on
Blue Island Avenue. He was accustomed to eating in
decent restaurants now, and he bought himselff a com
fortable bed, and every Saturday night he went down to
the comer tavern. It was all very pleasant, but—
The foreman liked his work and promised him a raise
in a month. If he waited around, the raise would mean
that he could afford a second-hand car. With a car, he
could even start picking up a girl for a date now and
then. Lots of the other fellows on the job did, and they
seemed pretty happy.
So Martin kept on working, and the raise came
through and the car came through and pretty soon a
couple of girls came through.
The first time it happened, he wanted to unwind his
watch immediately. Until he got to thinking about
what some of the older men always said. There was a
guy named Charlie, for example, who worked alongside
him on the hoist. “When you’re young and don’t know
the score, maybe you get a kick out of running around
with those pigs. But after a while, you want something
better. A nice girl of your own. That’s the ticket.”
Well, he might have something there. At least, Mar
tin owed it to himself to find o u t If he didn’t like it
better, he could always go back to what he had.
It was worth a try. Of course, nice girls don’t grow on
trees ( if they did, a lot more men would become forest
rangers) and almost six months went by before Martin
met Lillian Gillis. By that time he’d had another promo
tion and was working inside, in the office. They made
him go to night school to leam how to do simple book
keeping, but it meant another fifteen bucks extra a
week, and it was nicer working indoors.
And Lillian was a lot of fun. When she told him
she’d marry him, Martin was almost sure that the time
was now. Except that she was sort of—well, she was a
nice girl, and she said they’d <have to wait until they
were married. Of course, Martin couldn’t expect to
marry her until he had a little money saved up, and an
other raise would help, too.
That took a year. Martin was patient, because he
knew it was going to be worth it. Every time he had any
doubts, he took out his watch and looked at it. But he
never showed it to Lillian, or anybody else. Most of the
other men wore expensive wristwatches and the old sil
ver railroad watch looked just a little cheap.
Martin smiled as he gazed at the stem. Just a few
twists and he’d have something none of these other poor
working slobs would ever have. Permanent satisfaction,
with his blushing bride—
Only getting married turned out to be just the beginning. Sure, it was wonderful, but Lillian told him how much better things would be if they could move into a
new place and fix it up. Martin wanted decent furniture, a TV set, a nice car.
So he started taking night courses and got a promotion to the front office. With the baby coming, he wanted to stick around and see his son arrive. And
when it came, he realized he’d have to wait until it got a
little older, started to walk and talk and develop a personality of its own.
About this time the company sent him out on the
road as a troubleshooter on some of those other jobs,
and now he was eating at those good hotels, living high
on the hog and the expense-account. More than once he
was tempted to unwind his watch. This was the good
life. And he realized it could be even better if he just
didn’t have to work. Sooner or later, if he could cut in
on one of the company deals, he could make a pile and
retire. Then everything would be ideal.
It happened, but it took time. Martin’s son was going
to high school before he really got up there into the
chips. Martin got the feeling that it was now or never,
because he wasn’t exactly a kid anymore.
But right about then he met Sherry Westcott, and she
didn’t seem to think he was middle-aged at all, in spite
of the way he was losing hair and adding stomach. She
taught him that a toupee could cover the bald spot and
a cummerbund could cover the potgut. In fact, she
taught him quite a number of things, and he so enjoyed
learning that he actually took out his watch and pre pared to unwind it.
Unfortunately, he chose the very moment that the
private detectives broke down the door of the hotel
room, and then there was a long stretch of time when
Martin was so busy fighting the divorce action that he
couldn’t honestly say he was enjoying any given
amount.
When he made the final settlement with Lil he was
broke again, and Sherry didn’t seem to think he was so
young, after all. So he squared his shoulders and went
back to work.
He made his pile, eventually, but it took longer this
time, and there wasn’t much chance to have fun along
the way. The fancy dames in the fancy cocktail lounges
didn’t seem to interest him anymore, and neither did the
liquor. Besides, the Doc had warned him about that
But there were other pleasures for a rich man to investigate. Travel, for instance— and not riding the rods from one hick burg to another, either. Martin went
around the world via plane and luxury liner. For a
while it seemed as though he would find his moment
after all. Visiting the Taj Mahal by moonlight, the
moon’s radiance was reflected from the back of the bat
tered old watch-case, and Martin got ready to unwind
it. Nobody else was there to watch him—
And that’s why he hesitated. Sure, this was an enjoy
able moment, but he was alone. Lil and the kid were
gone, Sherry was gone, and somehow he’d never had
time to make any friends. Maybe if he found a few con
genial people, he’d have the ultimate happiness. That
must be the answer— it wasn’t just money or power or
sex or seeing beautiful things. The real satisfaction lay
in friendship.
So on the boat trip home, Martin tried to strike up a
few acquaintances at the ship’s bar. But all these people
were so much younger, and Martin had nothing in com
mon with them. Also they wanted to dance and drink,
and Martin wasn’t in condition to appreciate such pas
times. Nevertheless, he tried.
Perhaps that’s why he had the little accident the day
before they docked in San Francisco. “Little accident”
was the ship’s doctor’s way of describing it, but Martin
noticed he looked very grave when he told him to stay
in bed, and he’d called an ambulance to meet the liner
at the dock and take the patient right to the hospital.
At the hospital, all the expensive treatment and expensive smiles and the expensive words didn’t fool Martin any. He was an old man with a bad heart, and they thought he was going to die.
But he could fool them. He still had the watch. He
found it in his coat when he put on his clothes and
sneaked out of the hospital before dawn.
He didn’t have to die. He could cheat death with a
single gesture— and he intended to do it as a free man,
out there under a free sky.
That was the real secret of happiness. He understood
it now. Not even friendship meant as much as freedom.
This was the best thing of all— to be free of friends or
family or the furies of the flesh.
Martin walked slowly beside the embankment under
the night sky. Come to think of it, he was just about
back where he’d started, so many years ago. But the
moment was good, good enough to prolong forever.
Once a bum, always a bum.
He smiled as he thought about it, and then the smile
twisted sharply and suddenly, like the pain twisting
sharply and suddenly in his chest, The world began to
spin and he fell down on the side of the embankment.
He couldn’t see very well, but he was still conscious,
and he knew what had happened. Another stroke, and a
bad one. Maybe this was it. Except that he wouldn’t be
a fool any longer. He wouldn’t wait to see what was still
around the comer.
Right now was his chance to use his power and save
his life. And he was going to do it. He could still move,
nothing could stop him.
He groped in his pocket and pulled out the old silver
watch, fumbling with the stem. A few twists and he’d
cheat death, he’d never have to ride that Hell-Bound
Train. He could go on forever.
Forever.
Martin had never really considered the word before.
To go on forever— but how? Did he want to go on for
ever, like this; a sick old man, lying helplessly here in
the grass?
No. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. And suddenly he wanted very much to cry, because he knew that somewhere along the line he’d outsmarted himself.
And now it was too late. His eyes dimmed, there was
this roaring in his ears . . .
He recognized the roaring, *of course, and he wasn’t
at all surprised to see the train come rushing out of the
fog up there on the embankment. He wasn’t surprised
when it stopped, either, or when the conductor climbed
off and walked slowly towards him.
The conductor hadn’t changed a bit. Even his grin
was still the same.
“Hello, Martin,” he said. “All aboard.”
“I know,” Martin whispered. “But you’ll have to
carry me. I can’t walk. I’m not even really talking any
more, am I?”
“Yes you are,” the conductor said. “I can hear you
fine. And you can walk, too.” He leaned down and
placed his hand on Martin’s chest. There was a moment
of icy numbness, and then, sure enough, Martin could
walk after all.
He got up and followed the conductor along the
slope, moving to the side of the train.
“In here?” he asked.
“No, the next car,” the conductor murmured. “I
guess you’re entitled to ride Pullman. After all, you’re
quite a successful man. You’ve tasted the joys of wealth
and position and prestige. You’ve known the pleasures of
marriage and fatherhood. You’ve sampled the delights
of dining and drinking and debauchery, too, and you
traveled high, wide, and handsome. So let’s not have
any last-minute recriminations.”
“All right,” Martin sighed. “I guess I can’t blame you
for my mistakes. On the other hand, you can’t take credit for what happened, either. I worked for everything I got. I did it all on my own. I didn’t even need
your watch.”
“So you didn’t,” the conductor said, smiling. “But would you mind giving it back to me now?”
“Need it for the next sucker, eh?” Martin muttered.
“Perhaps.”
Something about the way he said it made Martin
look up. He tried to see the conductor’s eyes, but the
brim of his cap cast a shadow. So Martin looked down
at the watch instead, as if seeking an answer there.
“Tell me something,” he said, softly. “If I give you
the watch, what will you do with it?”
“Why, throw it into the ditch,” the conductor told
him. “That’s all I’ll do with it.” And he held out his
hand.
“What if somebody comes along and finds it? And
twists the stem backwards, and stops Time?”
“Nobody would do that,” the conductor murmured.
“Even if they knew.”
“You mean, it was all a trick? This is only an ordinary, cheap watch?”
“I didn’t say that,” whispered the conductor. “I only
said that no one has ever twisted the stem backwards.
They’ve all been like you, Martin—looking ahead to
find that perfect happiness. Waiting for the moment
that never comes.”
The conductor held out his hand again.
Martin sighed and shook his head. “You cheated me
after all.”
“You cheated yourself, Martin. And now you’re
going to ride that Hell-Bound Train.”
He pushed Martin up the steps and into the car
ahead. As he entered, the train began to move and the
whistle screamed. And Martin stood there in the swaying Pullman, gazing down the aisle at the other passengers. He could see them sitting there, and somehow it
didn’t seem strange at all.
Here they were; the drunks and the sinners, the gambling men and the grifters, the big-time spenders, theskirt-chasers, and all the jolly crew. They knew where
they were going, of course, but they didn’t seem to be
particularly concerned at the moment. The blinds were
drawn on the windows, yet it was light inside, and they
were all sitting around and singing and passing the bottle and laughing it up, telling their jokes and braggingtheir brags, just the way Daddy used to sing about them
in the old song.
“Mighty nice traveling companions,” Martin said.
“Why, I’ve never seen such a pleasant bunch of people.
I mean, they seem to be really enjoying themselves!”
“Sorry,” the conductor told him. “I’m afraid things
may not be quite so enjoyable, once we pull into that
Depot Way Down Yonder.”
For the third time, he held out his hand. “Now, be
fore you sit down, if you’ll just give me that watch. I
mean, a bargain’s a bargain— ”
Martin smiled. “A bargain’s a bargain,” he echoed.
“I agreed to ride your train if I could stop Time when I
found the right moment of happiness. So, if you don’t
mind, I think I’ll just make certain adjustments.”
Very slowly, Martin twisted the silver watch-stem.
“No!” gasped the conductor. “No!”
But the watch-stem turned.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” the conductor
panted. “Now we’ll never reach the Depot. We’ll just go
on riding, all of us, forever and ever!”
Martin grinned. “I know,” he said. “But the fun is in
the trip, not the destination. You taught me that. And
I’m looking forward to a wonderful trip.”
The conductor groaned. “All right,” he sighed, at
last. “You got the best of me, after all. But when I think
of spending eternity trapped here riding this train— ”
“Cheer up!” Martin told him. “It won’t be that bad.
Looks like we have plenty to eat and drink. And after
all, these are your kind of folks.”2 8 8 THE BEST OF ROBERT BIOCH
“But Fm the conductor! Think of the endless work
this means for me!”
“Don’t let it worry you,” Martin said. “Look, maybe
I can even help. If you were to find me another one of
those caps, now, and let me keep this watch— ”
And that’s the way it finally worked out. Wearing his
cap and silver watch, there’s no happier person in or out
of this world— now and forever—than Martin. Martin,
the new brakeman on That Hell-Bound Train.
Robert Bloch, That Hell Bound Train. September 1958.
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