REPEAT PERFORMANCE
By Rog Phillips
The little man knew Ben had been murdered;
the trouble was, Ben was still alive! Could the
future be wrong—or merely a dress rehearsal?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
January 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The pounding at the door woke me up. I groped for the light. It floodedthe room, erasing the glow of the afternoon sun through the drapes. Theclock said three-thirty.
"Come on, Benny! Open up!" a gruff voice ordered.
I groaned as I recognized the voice. As I went to the door I hastilyreviewed last night's activities. Two wallets on the subway that hadnetted seventeen bucks, one in an elevator at the Morrison that hadadded forty-five bucks. An all night crap game near the Wilson El thathad nearly cleaned me....
"Come in, Calahan," I said cheerfully to the cop. "A social visit—Ihope?"
Calahan grinned mirthlessly at my little joke. I got dressed. An hourlater I was shoved into line with a dozen others. We knew what to do.We walked single file onto the stage, then faced a screen. We couldn'tsee beyond it because it was dark there, and floodlights from the floorand the ceiling blinded us.
"That's the man!" a woman's voice said excitedly.
My stomach did a flip flop. Who did she mean? Me? I looked at theothers in the line-up. Joey North was looking sick. The others justlooked uneasy, like I felt. Poor Joey....
On the sidewalk outside the station I lit a cigarette with shakingfingers. I hated the whole system. They take you down in a car. Youwalk home. If you get out. Suddenly I was sick of Chicago, and when Iget sick of Chicago I go somewhere.
Night found me at the counter in a drugstore in Evanston. I wasbeginning to feel better. I had a newspaper and a cup of coffee infront of me.
I'd read everything else, so I started reading the society stuff. A lotof it was Evanston. A bosom-type matron smirked at me from one of thepictures. Under the picture it said she was Mrs. Sarah Fish, Evanstonsociety leader. I started to read more. Then this little guy came intothe drugstore.
"A package of Camels," he said to the cashier.
He sensed my stare. I looked quickly down at my paper and casually tooka sip of coffee. But I wasn't interested in the news now. Out of thecorner of my eye I studied the little man. He wasn't more than fivefeet tall, very slim, and very erect. I got the strange impression oflooking at a small giant. Then I realized what caused that impression.It was his head. It was more the right size for a man six feet tall.
"That will be twenty cents," the baldish cashier said.
The little man handed him a bill he had been holding in his hand. "Bythe way," he said as the cashier rang up the twenty cents, "Could youtell me the way to the Sarah Fish residence?" I pricked up my ears atthat.
"Why yes," the cashier said. "You go down to the stop sign and turnright two blocks. It's the big white place set back from the street,with a wide driveway that goes back to a four car garage. Let's seenow. That was twenty cents. Twenty-five, fifty, one. Two, three. Thereyou are. Don't forget, the big white house."
"Thank you," the little man said.
I watched him go to the door. It wasn't until he was out of sight thatI did a double take.
"Hey!" I said to the cashier. "What kind of a bill did that little guygive you?"
"Why, a—a—Oh g