“I won’t change my mind,” Skinner said.
But that night, he called Hart and did.
On Saturday morning, Skinner woke at six, put on a sweatshirt, khaki pants, and a pair of track shoes. He took a bus to Green Park at the edge of town. It was still early enough for the park to be deserted; only the birds and squirrels saw him pace off a hundred yards on the empty ballfield, and then race the distance with all the speed he could muster. He was puffing hard by. the time he reached the imaginary finish line, but he was satisfied with the way his legs had behaved.
On Sunday morning, he went out on another field trial, and his speed was even better. He was pleased with himself; he had dreams all week, about the State track event back in High School; only this time, he breasted the tape ahead of Arnow.
On Wednesday morning, they tested half of the scheme. Skinner took Hart’s identification badge, put on a pair of grimy coveralls, and reported to the Triton Tool Company. The guard at the main gate didn’t blink an eye. Skinner wandered around the buildings for a while, and then strolled casually about the front yard. It was just as Peace had described it; he could see the window of the payroll office, and the old guy at the front desk. He measured the distance between the office and the sidegate with his eye; it wasn’t more than a hundred and fifty yards. It wasn’t going to be hard.
On Thursday night, the trio met in Hart’s hotel room and went over the plan again, carefully, step by step. Skinner had heard it so often by then that he was sick of it; but he was even sicker when Peace handed him the small revolver that was part of the action.
“It ain’t loaded,” Peace said. “Don’t be scared of it, Speedy, we’re not taking any risks.”
“I’m not scared,” Skinner gulped, pocketing the gun. “You sure about that door, Hart?”
“Positive. One good push does it. Just act fast; shove that gun at Wexler and grab for the bag. But make sure you get there at ten-fifteen, on the nose.”
“How’s the wind?” Peace grinned.
Skinner’s wind wasn’t so good when the alarm woke him on Friday morning. He knew it was only a quirk of his nervous system; he had felt the same shortness of breath on the day of every race.
When he reported at the main gate of the Triton Company, his heart was thumping violently under the big metal badge that identified him as a member of the maintenance department. This time, the guard at the gate even nodded familiarly to him. He moved along with the tide of employees entering the main factory building, but detached himself before he reached the time clocks. There was a men’s room at the end of a long corridor; he went inside and locked himself in a booth until five minutes of ten. Then he came out, and went to the front yard.
There were two men in mufti strolling about, both gray-haired and paunchy; they looked like company executives on a tour of inspection. Skinner started to sweat inside the unfamiliar coveralls; then he got the idea of picking up a loose two-by-four and parading through the yard with it. The prop made him feel more authentic; he even whistled as he passed the executives, who didn’t give him a passing glance.
At five minutes past ten, the gray-haired types went into the administration building. Skinner, alone in the empty yard, began to feel conspicuous. He leaned the two-by-four against the brick wall, and stooped down to tie his shoelace. Then he began walking across the yard, slowly, giving Wexler, the paymaster, plenty of time. He put his hand in his pocket, and felt the cold muzzle of the small revolver.
It wasn’t quite ten-fifteen when he neared the payroll office, but luck was with him. Wexler had started early; he was bending over and twirling the knob of the chunky office safe.
Skinner kept on coming; his timing was perfect. At the very moment when he was within fingertip distance of the doorknob, Wexler was lifting the heavy black bag out of the safe.
He put his hand on the door knob, and pushed. It resisted for a moment, and Skinner almost panicked. Then he pushed again, and it gave inward.
The old paymaster looked up with an expression that was more indignant than surprised or frightened. Skinner fumbled in his right hand pocket and produced the gun. The woman in the office gave a short, sharp scream, and Skinner snapped:
“Everybody shut up! You hear me? Hand over that bag, you!”
“I can’t!” the old man gasped. “It’s our payroll!”
“That’s what I want,” Skinner growled. “Hand it over!”
“Mr. Wexler!” the woman whimpered.
“Give it to me!”
The old man handed it over reluctantly; Skinner grabbed it and was startled at its weight. It was a good twelve pounds; it would be a handicap, but he could manage it.
“Don’t make a sound,” he said, backing towards the door. “If anybody chases me, I’ll shoot!”
Then he was out of the doorway. He slammed the door shut, and started to run.
Speedy! Speedy! Yay, yay, yay!
It was like seven years ago. He could almost hear the ocean roar of the crowd. He could feel his legs pumping beautifully. He could feel the sun on his face, hear the wind whistling by his ears. Behind him, he was conscious of other feet pounding after him on the concrete pavement of the factory yard, but they were leaden feet and his were winged. He say the side gate ahead of him, more desirable than any tape he ever wanted to reach, and he knew he was running the race of his life. Faster and faster, wishing he could be timed, wishing his feat could be recorded in the annals of the sport forever...
Speedy! Speedy. Yay, yay, y—
He was tackled from behind!
He saw the concrete rise up, and managed to twist his body to meet it with his shoulder. The impact knocked the last bit of wind out of his lungs. He tried to get up and run again, but his legs were pinned. He cried out in disbelief; he had never run so well before. How could this happen?
He twisted his head around. The young man who was holding his ankles looked at him, and grimaced.
“Sorry, buster,” he panted. “I couldn’t let you get away with our dough. That’s my salary in there—”
Skinner stared at him, and recognition came slowly. The man’s hair was darker, and there was less of it. The chin was dominant, and still determined. He hadn’t gained any weight since school days, and that made it easier to remember Lester Arnow, the track champion.
“Arnow,” he groaned. “Lester Arnow! What are you doing here?”
“I work here,” Arnow said stiffly. “I’m a department manager. What’s wrong with that?”
Then there, were others surrounding him, picking up the money first and Skinner second; vaguely, he heard them talking about the two men who had been apprehended by company guards outside the gate. But he didn’t care about the fate of Peace and Hart — or about his own. He didn’t even care about the payroll. All he cared about was the fact that he had come in second again.