One mirror alone, and then a second mirror, followed by a pause, and then a third mirror, and a fourth and another after that and another after that and still another and another after that, in domino fashion, they formed swift spiderwebs over their fierce stares and then with faint tinkles and sharp cracks, fell.
One minute there was this incredible Jacob's ladder of glass, folding, refolding and folding away yet again images pressed in a book of light. The next, all shattered to meteor precipitation.
The Illustrated Man, halted, listening, felt his own eyes, crystal, almost spiderweb and splinter with the sounds.
It was as if Charles Halloway, once more a choirboy in a strange sub-sub-demon church had sung the most beautiful high note of amiable humor ever in his life which first shook moth-silver from the mirror backs, then shook images from glass faces, then shook glass itself to ruin. A dozen, a hundred, a thousand mirrors, and with them the ancient images of Charles Halloway, sank earthward in delicious moonfalls of snow and sleety water.
All because of the sound he had let come from his lungs through his throat out his mouth.
All because he accepted everything at last, accepted the carnival, the hills beyond, the people in the hills, Jim, Will, and above all himself and all of life, and, accepting, threw back his head for the second time tonight and showed his acceptance with sound.
And lo! like Jericho and the trump, with musical thunders the glass gave up its ghosts, Charles Halloway cried out, released. He took his hands from his face. Fresh starlight and dying carnival glow rushed in to set him free. The reflected dead men were gone, buried under the cymbaled slide, the splash and surfing of glass at his feet.
"Lights ... lights!"
A far voice cried away more warmth.
The Illustrated Man, unfrozen, vanished among the tents.
The crowd was now gone.
"Dad, what'd you do?"
But the match burned Will's fingers, he dropped it, but now there was dim light enough to see Dad shuffle the trash, stir the mess of mirrored glass, heading back through the empty places where the maze had been and was no more.
"Jim?"
A door stood open. Pale carnival illumination, fading, poured through to show them wax figures of murderers and murderees.
Jim did not sit among them.
"Jim!"
They stared at the open door through which Jim had run to be lost in the swarms of night between black canvases.
The last electric light bulb went out.
"We'll never find him now," said Will.
"Yes," said his father, standing in the dark. "We'll find him."
Where? Will thought, and stopped.
Far down the midway, the carousel steamed, the calliope tortured itself with musics.
There, thought Will. If Jim's anywhere, it's there, to the music, old funny Jim, the free-ride ticket hid in his pocket still, I bet! Oh, damn Jim, damn him, damn him! he cried, and then thought, no! don't you, he's damned already, or near it! So how do we find him in the dark, no matches, no lights, just the two of us, all of them, and us alone in their territory?
"How--" said Will, aloud.
But his father said "There," very softly. With gratitude.
And Will stepped to the door, which was lighter now.
The moon! Thank God.
It was rising from the hills.
"The police ...?"