The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun by Paul Gallico Page B

“If I’d said . . .”
    Julian moved over to them. “Is it all right for me to come?” He looked so anxious and uncomfortable Marge went to him and put her arm about him. “Of course.”
    Pop said, “Number twenty-five’s the nearest one. Right next to the office here. I’ll show you how to work the bed.”
    In a photographic dark-room somewhere in a south-western city in the early evening three men were examining developed negatives and wet prints. They were smoking nervously and conversing in Russian.
    The technician held up a print. He said, “Excellent. You have done well, Comrade Allon.”
    The courier, clad in black leather for a night motor-cycle ride, his helmet dangling over one arm, inquired, “What is it? Is it important?”
    Nikolas Allon replied, “Secret weapon. You know where to find the plane, Boris. It will be waiting. You will, of course, not fail.”
    The technician studied the picture again and asked, “What is this about soapy water and air bag?”
    Allon replied, “Don’t be stupid. Code. The KGB will break it in a few hours.”
    The technician carefully packed the finished work in plastic into a flat package and then wrapped it in waterproof linen. The courier stowed it away inside his leather jacket and sealed the pocket with tape. He asked, “Will there be pursuit?”
    “Naturally,” replied Allon.
    The courier said, “What about this?” and indicated the small laboratory.
    Allon remarked, “We won’t be needing it again. It doesn’t matter. When they find it, it will be too late.”
    All three went out of the dark-room. The technician locked the door and put the key in his pocket and they hurried down three flights of stairs to emerge from a shabby looking loft building in the industrial part of town. There were pedestrians and mild traffic in the street but no one paid any attention to the three.
    The courier straddled the latest model giant Honda and kicked it into life. They shook hands and Allon said, “Good luck, comrade.”
    The technician and Allon turned away and merged with the passersby. The courier gunned his machine and shot off. When he reached the outskirts of the city he turned off his lights and became one with the darkness.
    With the foldaway cot let down beside the big double bed, and with a giant colour television set, the bureau and an overstuffed chair, there was hardly space to move in room twenty-five or get to the bathroom. As a matter of fact there was no path at all leading to the foldaway except directly across the double bed, which it joined so closely that the mattresses touched.
    Supper had been a success. Mom and Pop had been generous with their food and there were Mexican tidbits. Afterwards Julian, on his best behaviour, had prepared himself for the night, brushing his teeth vigorously and loudly and then appearing in his pyjamas. Bill slouched unhappily in the overstuffed chair, Marge sat on the arm.
    Julian gazed longingly at the big colour set. He said, “C-c-can we look at TV?”
    Marge began doubtfully, “Well . . .” She felt that she had let Bill down, had been perhaps too quick to take the kid in with them. What could the proprietor have done if they had refused?
    Bill cut in curtly, “No, we can’t,” and then rather more placatingly, “Look here, Julian, it’s been a long day. We’re all tired. You better get into bed.”
    Julian hadn’t expected that he would be allowed to watch the box. That had gone down the drain along with the dream of the room to himself. And so he said amiably, “Okay.”
    He studied the layout for a moment. There was no route to reach the foldaway except cross-country. He leaped up on to the big double bed which turned out to be well sprung and enticingly bouncy. In effect, and in Julian’s mind, a kind of trampoline. He took three bounces, each one higher than the last to land with a chortle of delight on his bed where he cried, “Say, that’s great,” and settled himself between the