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e been thirty or better； and the expression he'd worn before he passed out would have looked more at home on a man eighty years old and tired of living。 His eyes were set in close against a hooking nose； and his cheeks were broad enough to make his mouth seem a shade too small。 His lips were the kind of full that isn't especially sensual； and his frame had just a bit more meat than it needed。 His clothes seemed to have been pulled on in the dark in a hell of a hurry； fly unzipped； shirt only partially tucked in and buttons mismatched with holes。 Furthermore he was dressed for June … and it was a particularly rainy March out。 He was soaked clear through； hair that looked usually brushed back lying limply across half his face。
It looked like he'd gotten to Callahan's just about in time。
His upper cheeks and temples were livid with purple bruises； and his knuckles were swollen。 Doc Webster searched his hair and found more contusions beneath。 〃Looks like somebody gave this poor bastard an awful beating；〃 the Doc announced。
The kid's eyes opened。 〃That was me；〃 he said feebly； swallowing something foul。
Someone fed the Doc a glass of straight rye； and he tipped a little of it into the kid's mouth。 It seemed to help。 Color came back to his pasty face； and he tried to get up。 The Doc told him to lie quiet； but the kid shook him off and made it as far as the first table； where he fell into a chair and looked around groggily。 He didn't seem to notice us； but whatever he was expecting to see scared him silly。
It wasn't there； he relaxed some。 Callahan was already piling corned beef sandwiches in front of him； and the table happened to have a pitcher of somebody's beer already on it。 Throwing us all a grateful glance； seeing us this time； he fell on the food like the wolves upon the centerfold； and got outside of three sandwiches in short order； washing them down with great draughts of beer。
When he was done he looked Callahan squarely in the eye。 〃I don't have any money to pay you；〃 he said。
〃I didn't figure you did；〃 Callahan agreed。 〃Go on； eat up。 They were getting stale … these bums here don't eat； far as I can tell。 You can owe me。〃 He produced more food。
〃Thanks。 I'm O。K。 now。 I think。 For a while。〃
The Doc wanted to get something straight。 〃You put them bruises on your own head； young feller？〃
〃Jim MacDonald； Doctor。 Yes； I put most of those there。
〃I'll bet it felt good when you stopped；〃 Long…Drink said； and immediately regretted it。 I wouldn't want Doc Webster's mass balanced on my toe either。
〃If it did； I might stop more often；〃 MacDonald said with a ghost of a grin； wincing at the sudden pain in his temples。 〃Lately it's the most fun I have。〃
〃Want to talk about it？〃 Callahan suggested delicately。
〃Sure； why not？ You'll never believe me anyhow。 No one would。〃 MacDonald's grin was gone now。
Callahan drew himself up and registered wounded dignity。 〃Son； this here is Tall…Tale Night at my place； and I am prepared to believe anything you can say with a straight face。 Hell； I sometimes believe the Doc over there； and his face ain't never been straight。 e on； spit it out。 Maybe you won't owe me for the sandwiches and beer after all。〃 The big Irishman put a fresh light on his everpresent El Ropo and gave the kid a fresh beer to lube his mouth with。
I looked around； the boys were reverting to their favorite listening postures as naturally and gracefully as Paladin used to go into that gunfighter's crouch of his。 The hell with the budget； I decided； and slapped another single on the bar； helping myself to a shot of Irish uisgebagh from the bottle labeled； 〃Give Every Man His Dew。〃
〃It started with my brother Paul；〃 MacDonald began； and I groaned inside。 The perfect shaggy…relative story； shot to hell。 〃He was ten years older than me； and he was really only my half…brother。 Dad divorced and remarried when Paul was only three； and that's why I had some hope for a while。
〃You see； Paul was a mutant。
〃Not in any gross physical sense … his body was not malformed in any detectable way。 But he was an Instantaneous Echo。
〃You've probably heard of them； maybe seen one on TV or read about 'em in places like Charles Fort。 From the age of twelve Paul could mimic anything you said … at the instant that you said it。 The voice and inflection were different； but he never stumbled； even when he didn't prehend the words he was parroting。 No noticeable time…lag … he simply said what you were saying； as you said it。 Sometimes he actually seemed to jump the gun by a hair； and that was really strange。
Around the time that I was five； a couple of fellows from Duke came around with a truck…full of equipment and put Paul through a series of tests。 At first they were quite excited； but as the testing continued their excitement wore off； and eventually they told my father that Paul was just like all the other Instant Echoes they'd studied； simply a man who'd learned how to hook his mouth in parallel with his ears。 According to their newest findings； he could not in fact 〃jump the gun〃 as he sometimes seemed to； and while the actual lag was small； they claimed to be able to measure it。 They were unhappy。 They'd hoped to prove that Paul was a telepath。
〃Me； I think he got cagey。
〃Paul had always been an introspective kid and about that time he became moodier than ever。 He seldom left the house； and when he did he was quite likely to return in tears； claiming a migraine as the cause。 My father got our doctor to prescribe some strong stuff for the migraines； but it didn't seem to help for too long。 Paul； having finished high school at fifteen with excellent grades； showed no interest whatever in college； a job or girls。 He seemed to be the typical loner； with a bit of hypochondria thrown in。
〃It was about then that the trouble started between my father and mother （Paul's stepmother； you understand）。 She felt that Paul had to earn a living regardless of his headaches； and insisted that he should do so at sideshows and on nightclub stages； doing his instant echo routine。 Dad was having none of it； he'd made a good deal of money with a good deal of hard work； running a used…car chain； but he was perfectly willing to indulge a temperamentally infirm son； rather than set him on a stage to be gawked at by yokels。 Mother was。。。 not a very nice person； I'm afraid； and I suspect she thought of the child she had inherited as an untapped gold mine scant years from his majority。 I think she wanted Paul to make a bundle while she could still get at it； she'd always had some of the Backstage Mother plex。 How I managed to remain neutral I don't know。 But then； nobody asked my opinion。
〃When Paul was twenty and I was nine and a half； I got my first big scare。
It was all an accident； for by this time Paul had bee uncannily adept at avoiding people； leaving the house only after dark and never straying far。 The only spot he showed any affection for was the abandoned gravel pit a few miles from home； a place so gloomy at night that even the area's love…struck teenagers avoided it。 I went there with him two or three times … Paul seemed to accept my pany mo