by Eric Frank Russell

HENRY CURRAN was big, busy and impatient of triflers. He had the build of a wrestler, the soul of a tiger, and his time was worth a thousand bucks an hour. He knew of nobody who rated more.

And crime did not pay? Bah!

Jungle tactics paid off. The entire opposition had been conditioned out of men by what is called civilization.

Entering his spacious office with the swift, heavy tread of a large man in fighting trim, Henry slung his hat onto a hook, glanced at the wall-clock, noted that it registered ten minutes to twelve.

Planting himself in the seat behind his desk, he kept his expectant gaze upon the door through which he had entered. His wait lasted about ten seconds. Scowling at the thought of it, Curran reached over and thumbed a red stud on his big desk.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snapped when Miss Reed came in. “You get worse every day. Old age creeping over you or something?”

She posed, tall, neat and precise, facing him cross the desk, her eyes wearing a touch of humility born of fear. Curran employed only those about whom he knew too much.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Curran, I was —”

“Never mind the alibi. Be faster — or else! Speed’s what I like. Speed –

See?”

“Yes, Mr. Curran.”

“Has Lolordo phoned in yet?”

“No, Mr. Curran.”

“He should be through by now if everything went all right.” He viewed the clock again, tapped irritably on his desk. “If he’s made a mess of it and the mouthpiece comes on, tell him to let Lolordo stew. He’s in no position to talk, anyway. A spell in jail will teach him not to be stupid.”

“Yes, Mr. Curran. There’s an old —”

“Shut up til! I’ve finished. If Michaelson calls up and says the Firefly got through, ring Voss and tell him without delay! That’s important!” He mused a moment, finished, “There’s that meeting downtown at twelve-twenty. God knows how long it will go on but if they want trouble they can have it aplenty. If anyone asks, you don’t know where I am and you don’t expect me back before four.”

“But, Mr. Curran —”

“You heard what I said. Nobody sees me before four.”

“There’s a man already here,” she got out with a sort of apologetic breathlessness. “He said you have an appointment with him at two minutes to twelve.”

“And you fell for a gag like that?” He studied her with open contempt. “I can only repeat what he said. He seemed quite sincere.” “That’s a change,” scoffed Curran. “Sincerity in the outer office. He’s got the wrong address. Go tell him to spread himself across the tracks.”

“I said you were out and didn’t know when you would return. He took a seat and said he’d wait because you would be back at ten to twelve.”

INVOLUNTARILY, BOTH stared at the clock. Curran bent an arm, eyed his wristwatch by way of checking the accuracy of the instrument on the wall.

“That’s what the scientific bigbrains would call precognition. I call it a lucky guess. One minute either way would have made him wrong. He ought to back horses.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Push him out — or do I have to get the boys to do it for you?”

“That wouldn’t be necessary. He is old and blind.”

“I don’t give a damn if he’s armless and legless — that’s his tough luck. Give him the rush.”

Obediently she left. A few moments later she was back with the martyred air of one compelled to face his wrath.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Curran, but he insists that he has a date with you for two minutes to twelve. He is to see you about a personal matter of major importance.”

Curran scowled at the wall. The clock said four minutes to twelve. He spoke with sardonic emphasis.

“I know no blind man and I don’t forget appointments. Throw him down the stairs.”

She hesitated, standing there wide-eyed. “I’m wondering whether—” “Out with it!”

“Whether he’s been sent to you by someone who’d rather he couldn’t identify you by sight.”

He thought it over, said “Could be. You use your brains once in a while. What’s his name?”

“He won’t say.”

“Nor state his business?”

“No.”

“H’m! I’ll give him two minutes. If he’s panhandling for some charity he’ll go out through the window. Tell him time is precious and show him

in.”

She went away, brought back the visitor, gave him a chair. The door closed quietly behind her. The clock said three minutes before the hour.

CURRAN LOUNGED back and surveyed his caller, finding him tall, gaunt and white-haired. The oldster’s clothes were uniformly black, a deep, somber, solemn black that accentuated the brilliance of the blue, unseeing eyes staring from his colorless face.

Those strange eyes were the other’s most noteworthy feature. They held a most curious quality of blank penetration as if somehow they could look into the thipgs they could not look at. And they were very sorry — sorry for what they saw.

For the first time in his life feeling a faint note of alarm, Curran said, “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” responded the other. “Nothing at all.”

His low, organlike voice was pitched at no more than a whisper and with its sounding a queer coldness came over the room. He sat there unmoving and staring at whatever a blind man can see. The coldness increased, became bitter. Curran shivered despite himself. He scowled and got a hold on himself.

“Don’t take up my time,” advised Curran. “State your business or get to hell out.”

“People don’t take up time. Time takes up people.”

“What the blazes do you mean? Who are you?”

“You know who I am. Every man is a shining sun unto himself until dimmed by his dark companion.”

“You’re not funny,” said Curran, freezing.

“I am never funny.”

The tiger light blazed in Curran’s eyes as he stood up, placed a thick, firm finger near his desk-stud.

“Enough of this tomfoolery! What d’you want?”

Suddenly extending a lengthless, dimensionless arm, Death whispered sadly, “You!”

And took him.

At exactly two minutes to twelve.