Chapter Nine

Six months earlier . . .

Eugene opened the front door of Whit’s End, and the tinkling of a bell met his ears. Pleasant enough, he thought, but hardly efficient. He quickly surveyed the room —a rather quaint, old-fashioned ice-cream shop filled with youngsters, with a counter at the far end, where two older gentlemen stood, one balding with spectacles and wearing overalls, and the other wearing a herringbone jacket over a red sweater-shirt, with a mane of silver-white hair, round glasses, and a bushy, white mustache.

Eugene crossed the room and approached the men, putting on his cheeriest attitude. “Good day, gentlemen!”

“Hi,” said Mr. Mustache.

“Hello,” said Mr. Overalls.

“There’s a more efficient way to let you know a customer has come in than that small bell above the door.”

Mr. Overall’s eyebrows rose, and Mr. Mustache looked bemused. “Probably. Are you a salesman?”

“No, sir. My name is Eugene Meltsner, and I’m a science student and recognized genius at the Campbell County Community College. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Mr. Mustache said, “I’m John Whittaker, and this is Tom Riley.”

“Howdy,” Mr. Riley said cheerfully.

Eugene’s brain whirred. “Howdy. An abbreviated form of the phrase ‘How do you do?’ or in the older English, ‘How do you fare?’ In answer, I fare well, thank you.”

Mr. Riley’s eyes narrowed. He leaned over to Mr. Whittaker and muttered, “What’d he say?”

Mr. Whittaker muttered back, “I think he said he’s fine.”

“Did I ask?”

Mr. Whittaker chuckled. “I guess you did.” In a louder voice he asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Meltsdown?”

Eugene shook his head slightly. “Meltsner. Richard Pierce, my counseling professor at the college, suggested I speak to you. So I am.”

“I see. Speak to me about what?”

The man seemed slow on the uptake. “Studying under you. Professor Pierce said that you are somewhat remarkable as an inventor and scholar, and that I would find your approach to life very —shall we say —different, if not altogether fascinating, and certainly beneficial to my pursuant education.”

Mr. Riley again leaned toward Mr. Whittaker and muttered, “What’d he say?”

“I think he wants to work for me.”

Eugene interjected, “If that’s possible. Professor Pierce said I could receive class credits.”

Mr. Whittaker exchanged glances with Mr. Riley and said, “Your timing couldn’t be better, Hubert.”

“Eugene.”

“I happen to have an opening for part-time help. It’s temporary, maybe through the holidays only, but —”

Eugene placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “I would be proud and honored to offer my meager ministrations as your most obsequious journeyman for whatever course of time you deem necessary.”

Mr. Riley looked utterly baffled. “Eugene, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Are you one of those foreign-exchange students?”

Mr. Whittaker laughed. “Welcome to Whit’s End, Eugene.”

Eugene’s mind whirred again. “Whit’s End. Is that a pun?”

“Sort of.”

“I hate puns.”

“Oh.”

For the next hour or so, Mr. Whittaker let Eugene wander about the place on his own, soaking in the rooms and attractions. It was intriguing, to say the least —just the kind of place that could use his superior skills.

He made his way back to the soda counter. Mr. Riley was nowhere in sight.

Mr. Whittaker was finishing a telephone conversation. “Yes, Connie, I’ll be at the bus station at 6:30 a.m. sharp. You don’t think I’d let you slip out of town without saying good-bye, do you? Well, I’ll be there anyway. See you in the morning. ’Night.” He hung up the phone, sighed, and said softly, “Lord, help me relax about this. You love Connie even more than I do.”

Eugene was taken aback. Was the man actually praying —a man of science and technology? “Uh, Mr. Whittaker?”

“Oh! Hello, Eugene. Please, call me Whit.”

“I think nicknames are terribly disrespectful, Mr. Whittaker.”

“Oh. Did you get a good look around the place?”

“I certainly did! It’s a fascinating building you’ve assembled here. The Victorian architecture is a poor disguise for the marvels inside.”

Mr. Whittaker smiled. “Does that mean you like it?”

“Like isn’t a word I like to use. Let’s just say I find this shop of yours to be a curiosity worth studying.”

“Uh, thank you. I think.”

“The train set is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. But do you realize that with a very simple computer program, you could operate those trains with far more efficiency and less wear?”

Mr. Whittaker nodded. “I considered that once, but with a computer program, the children wouldn’t be able to run them.”

“Precisely! I’ll put the program together for you. It will take no time at all. Professor Pierce would be grateful for me to have the experience. I’d be grateful.”

“Uh, grateful . . . of course.”

“In fact, I’ve thought up all kinds of new ideas for your shop, to make it far more convenient and efficient for you and your customers, from ice-cream serving to the displays upstairs. After all, that’s what inventing is about, isn’t it, Mr. Whittaker?”

“In a way.”

“I’ll get started tonight, while the shop is closed. You’ll be amazed when you come back in the morning!”

He hurried off toward the stairs. As he did, he thought he heard Mr. Whittaker mutter, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Eugene worked like a whirlwind for the next week, and the results were remarkable, if he said so himself. The whole place had been automated, from the train set and the Bible Room to the pizza oven and milkshake machine. No human touch was necessary; computers ruled the roost. For Eugene, it was truly paradise.

Mr. Whittaker, however, had other ideas. At the end of the week, he approached Eugene in the Inventors’ Corner.

“Eugene.”

“Ah! Hello, Mr. Whittaker. I’ve been going over these plans, and I think I’ve determined a way to —”

“Eugene,” Whit cut in, “we need to talk.”

Eugene blinked. “We do?”

“Yes. It’s about the work you’ve been doing.”

Eugene knew what this was about —praise. He had faced this before and was uncomfortable dealing with such inanities. “Now, Mr. Whittaker, let’s not resort to something so sentimental as gratitude. We’re both men of science, and we use our talents to better the human race.”

To his surprise, Mr. Whittaker’s expression turned hard, his gaze piercing. “Time out. Everybody off the field.”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“Eugene, I do appreciate your efforts around the shop, but you’re missing something very important in what you’re doing.”

“I hate to contradict you, Mr. Whittaker, but I am known for thoroughness. What could I have possibly missed?”

“Your heart.”

Eugene blinked again, baffled. “I beg to differ. I couldn’t function at all if my heart weren’t —”

Mr. Whittaker shook his head. “Not your physical heart, Eugene. Your emotional heart. See, you’ve done a great job of automating everything around here. But Whit’s End isn’t about automation, machines, or inventions. It’s about people. The kids come here for the fun —to learn, to build, but more important, to have human contact, a human touch. You can make it more efficient with your inventions, but can you make it warmer, friendlier, more loving?”

Eugene was completely taken aback. This had never happened to him before. “Does this mean you’re firing me?”

Mr. Whittaker smiled and patted his shoulder. “No. It means that I want you to undo everything you’ve done. Then we’ll see what we need to do together. Okay?”

He wasn’t being fired —relief! “Certainly, Mr. Whittaker. I understand.”

At that moment, a loud, obnoxious buzz from downstairs made them both jump. Mr. Whittaker pointed. “And the first thing you can do is put that nice little bell back above the front door!”

Eugene smiled sheepishly. “Yes, sir. Right away.”