stone bench in front of the vault door and I decree thatany person who wishes, may sit down on this bench and direct his or herthought at the door. If it is the correct one, the door will open andthe person causing this to happen shall then be the possessor of all myworldly wealth which lies inside._
"_Because of the number of persons who will no doubt wish to try theirluck, I decree further that each shall be given thirty seconds in whichto project their thought. A force of six men shall be hired to supervisethe operation and handle the crowds in the neighborhood of the vault. Atrust fund has been already set up to pay this group. The balance of mywealth lies awaiting the lucky thinker in the vault--all save thisestate itself, an item of trifling value in comparison to the rest,which I bequeath to the State with the stipulation that the other termsof the will are rigidly carried out._
"_And so, good luck to everyone in the world. May one of you succeed inopening my vault--although I doubt it. Samuel B. Chipfellow. P.S. Thethought-throwing shall begin one week after the reading of the will. Iadd this as a precaution to keep everyone from rushing to the vaultafter this will is read. You might kill each other in the stampede. S.B. C._"
There was a rush regardless. Reporters knocked each other down gettingto the battery of phones set up to carry the news around the world. AndSam Chipfellow's will pushed all else off the video screens and thefront pages.
* * * * *
During the following weeks, millions were made through the sale ofChipfellow's thought to the gullible. Great commercial activity began inthe area surrounding the estate as arrangements were made to accommodatethe hundreds of thousands who were heading in that direction.
A line began forming immediately at the gate to Chipfellow's Folly and abrisk market got under way in positions therein. The going figure of thefirst hundred positions was in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars.A man three thousand thoughts away was offered a thousand dollars twodays before the week was up, and on the last day, the woman at the headof the line sold her position for eighteen thousand dollars.
There were many learned roundtables and discussions as to the nature ofChipfellow's thought. The majority leaned to the belief that it would bescientific in nature because Chipfellow was the world's greatestscientist.
This appeared to give scientifically trained brains the edge and thosefortunate in this respect spent long hours learning what they could ofChipfellow's life, trying to divine his performance in the realm ofthought.
So intense was the interest created that scarcely anyone paid attentionto the activities of Chipfellow's closer relatives. They sued to breakthe will but met with defeat. The verdict was rendered speedily, afterwhich the judge who made the ruling declared a recess and bought theeleven thousandth position in line for five hundred dollars.
On the morning of the appointed day, the gates were opened and the linemoved toward the vault. The first man took his seat on the bench. Astopwatch clicked. A great silence settled over the watchers. Thislasted for thirty seconds after which the watch clicked again. The mangot up from the bench eighteen thousand dollars poorer.
The vault had not opened.
Nor did it open the next day, the next, nor the next. A week passed, amonth, six months. And at the end of that time it was estimated thatmore than twenty-five thousand people had tried their luck and failed.
Each failure was greeted with a public sigh of relief--relief from boththose who were waiting for a turn and those who were getting rich fromthe commercial enterprises abutting upon the Chipfellow estate.
There was a motel, a hotel, a few night clubs, a lot of restaurants, ahastily constructed bus terminal, an airport and several turned intoparking lots at a dollar a head.
The line was a permanent thing and it was soon necessary to build acement walk because the ever-present hopeful were standing in a ditch afoot deep.
There also continued to be an active business in positions, a group ofprofessional standers having sprung up, each with an assistant to bringfood and coffee and keep track of the ever fluctuating market inpositions.
And still no one opened Chipfellow's vault.
It was conceded that the big endowment funds had the inside trackbecause they had the money to hire the best brains in the world; men whowere almost as able scientifically as had been Chipfellow himself butunfortunately hadn't made as much money. The monied interests also hadaccess to the robot calculators that turned out far more plausiblethoughts than there were positions in the line.
A year passed. The vault remained locked.
* * * * *
By that time the number of those who had tried and failed, and werenaturally disgruntled, was large enough to be heard, so a rumor gotabout that the whole thing was a vast hoax--a mean joke perpetrated uponthe helpless public by a lousy old crook who hadn't any money in thefirst place.
Vituperative editorials were written--by editors who had stood in lineand thrown futile thoughts at the great door. These editorials werevigorously rebutted by editors and columnists who as yet had not had achance to try for the jackpot.
One senator, who had tried and missed, introduced a law making itillegal to sit on a stone bench and hurl a thought at a door.
There were enough congressional failures to pass the law. It went to theSupreme Court, but was tossed out because they said you couldn't pass alaw prohibiting a man from thinking.
And still the vault remained closed.
Until Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, farm people impoverished by reverses, spenttheir last ten dollars for two thoughts and waited out the hours and thedays in line. Their daughter Susan, aged nine, waited with them,passing the time by telling her doll fairy tales and wondering what theworld looked like to a bird flying high up over a tree top. Susan wasglad when her mother and father reached the bench because then they allcould go home and see how her pet rabbit was doing.
Mr. Wilson hurled his thought and moved on with drooping shoulders. Mrs.Wilson threw hers and was told to leave the bench. The guard looked atSusan. "Your turn," he said.
"But I haven't got any thought," Susan said. "I just want to go home."
This made no sense to the guard. The line was being held up. People weregrumbling. The guard said, "All right, but that was silly. You couldhave sold your position for good money. Run along with your mother andfather."
Susan started away. Then she looked at the vault which certainlyresembled a mausoleum and said, "Wait--I have too got a little thought,"and she popped onto the bench.
The guard frowned and snapped his stop watch.
Susan screwed her eyes tight shut. She tried to see an angel with bigwhite wings like she sometimes saw in her dreams and she also tried tovisualize a white-haired, jolly-faced little man as she considered Mr.Chipfellow to be. Her lips moved soundlessly as she said,
_Dear God and all the angels--please have pity on poor Mr. Chipfellowfor dying and please make him happy in heaven._
Then Susan got off the bench quickly to run after her mother and fatherwho had not waited.
There was the sound of metal grinding upon metal and the great door wasswinging open.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Imagination_ April 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.
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