by Bob Shaw
The idea, though, was an intriguing one. And it answered certain questions. The lighters he coveted, partly for their perfection and partly because they could earn him a fortune, were technically far in advance of anything on the world’s markets, yet it was within the realm of possibility that a furtive genius was producing them in a back room somewhere. But that impossibly good television set could not have been manufactured without the R D facilities of a powerful electronics concern. The notion that they were being made in the future and shipped back in time was only slightly less ridiculous than the idea of a secret industry catering exclusively for the superrich…
Connor picked up the cigar and lit it, childishly pleased at having a reason to put the ruby egg to work. His first draw on the cool smoke gave him the feeling that he had been searching for something all his life and suddenly had found it. Cautiously at first and then with intense pleasure he filled his lungs with the unexpected fragrance.
He luxuriated. This was smoking as portrayed by tobacco company commercials—not the shallow, disappointing experience commonly known to smokers everywhere. He had often wondered why the leaf which smelled so beguiling before it was lit, or when someone nearby was smoking, promising sensual delights and heart’s ease, never yielded anything more than virtually tasteless smoke.
They promise you “a long cool smoke to soothe a troubled world,” Connor thought, and this is it. He took the cigar from his mouth and examined the band. It was of unembellished gold and bore a single ornate P.
“I might have known,” he announced to the empty room. He looked around through a filigree of smoke, wondering if everything in the room was different from the norm, superior, better than the best. Perhaps the ultra-rich scorned to use anything that was available to the man in the street or advertised on television or…
“Philip!” Angela stood in the doorway, pale of face, shocked and angry. “What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying the best cigar I’ve ever had.” Connor got to his feet, smiling. “I presume you keep them for the benefit of guests—I mean, a cigar is hardly your style.”
“Where’s Gilbert?” she snapped. “You’re leaving right now.”
“Not a chance.”
“That’s what you think.” Angela turned with an angry flail of blonde hair and cerise skirts.
Connor realized he had to find inspiration and get in fast. “It’s too late, Angela. I’ve smoked your cigar; I lit it with your lighter; I have checked the time with your clock; and I’ve watched your television.”
He had been hoping for a noticeable reaction and was not disappointed—Angela burst into tears. “You bastard! You had no right!”
She ran to the table, picked up the lighter, and tried to make it work. Nothing happened. She went to the clock, which had stopped; and to the television set, which remained lifeless when she switched it on. Connor followed her circuit of the room, feeling guilty and baffled. Angela dropped into a chair and sat with her face in her hands, huddled and trembling like a sick bird. The sight of her distress produced a painful churning in his chest. He knelt in front of Angela.
“Listen, Angie,” he said. “Don’t cry like that. I only wanted to see you again—I haven’t done anything.”
“You touched my stuff and made it change. They told me it would change if anybody but a client used it… and it has.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Who said what would change?”
“The suppliers.” She looked at him with tear-brimmed eyes, and all at once he became aware of a perfume so exquisite that he wanted to fall toward its source like a suffocating man striving toward air.
“What did you…? I don’t…”
“They said it would all be spoiled.”
Connor tried to fight off the effects of the witch-magic he had breathed. “Nothing has been spoiled, Angie. There’s been a power failure… or something…” His words trailed away uncertainly. The clock and the television set were cordless. He took a nervous drag on the half-smoked cigar and almost gagged on the flat, acrid taste of it. The sharp sense of loss he experienced while stubbing it out seemed to obliterate all traces of his scepticism.
He returned to Angela’s chair and knelt again. “They said this stuff would stop working if anybody but you touched it?”
“Yes.”
“But how could that be arranged?”
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “How would I know? When Mr. Smith came over from Trenton, he said something about all his goods having an… essence field, and he said I had a molecular thumbprint. Does that make sense?”
“It almost does,” Connor whispered. “A perfect security system. Even if you lost your lighter at the theatre, when somebody else picked it up it would cease to be what it was.”
“Or when somebody breaks into your home.”
“Believe me, it was only because I had to see you again, Angie. You know that I love you.”
“Do you, Philip?”
“Yes, darling.” He was thrilled to hear the special softness return to her voice. “Look, you have to let me pay for a new lighter and television and…”
Angela was shaking her head. “You couldn’t do it, Philip.”
“Why not?” He took her hand and was further encouraged when she allowed it to remain in his.
She gave him a tremulous smile. “You just couldn’t. The installments are too high.”
“Installments? For God’s sake, Angie, you don’t buy stuff on time.”
“You can’t buy these things—you pay for a service. I pay in installments of eight hundred and sixty-four thousand dollars.”
“A year?”
“Once every forty-three days. I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but…”
Connor gave an incredulous laugh. “That comes to about six million a year—nobody would pay that much!”
“Some people would. If you even have to think about the cost Mr. Smith doesn’t do business with you.”
“But…” Connor incautiously leaned within range of Angela’s perfume and it took his mind. “You realize,” he said in a weak voice, “that all your new toys come from the future? There’s something fantastically wrong about the whole set-up.”
“I’ve missed you, Philip.”
“That perfume you’re wearing—did it come from Mr. Smith, too?”
“I tried not to miss you, but I did.” Angela pressed her face against his, and he felt the coolness of tears on her cheek. He kissed her hungrily as she moved down from the chair to kneel against him. Connor spun towards the center of a whirlpool of ecstasy.
“Life’s going to be so good when we’re married,” he heard himself saying after a time. “Better than we could ever have dreamed. There’s so much for us to share and…”
Angela’s body stiffened, and she thrust herself away from him. “You’d better go now, Philip.”
“What is it? What did I say?”
“You gave yourself away, that’s all.”
Connor thought back. “Was it what I said about sharing? I didn’t mean your money—I was talking about life… the years… the experiences.”
“Did you?”
“I loved you before you even knew you would inherit a cent.”
“You never mentioned marriage before.”
“I thought that was understood,” he said desperately. “I thought you…” He stopped speaking as he saw the look in Angela’s eyes. Cool, suspicious, disdainful. The look that the very rich had always given to outsiders who tried to get into their club without the vital qualification of wealth.
She touched a bellpush and continued standing with her back to him until he was shown out of the room.
The ensuing days were bad ones for Connor. He drank a lot, realized that alcohol was no answer, and went on drinking. For a while he tried getting in touch with Angela and once even drove down to Avalon. The brickwork had been repaired at the point where he had made his entry, and a close inspection revealed that the entire wall was now cov
ered with a fine mesh. He had no doubt that tampering with it in any way would trigger off an alarm system.
When he awoke during the night, he was kept awake by hammering questions. What was it all about? Why did Angela have to make such odd payments, and at such odd intervals? What would men from the future want with Twentieth Century currency?
On several occasions the thought occurred that, instead of concentrating on Angela, he would do better to find the mysterious Mr. Smith of Trenton. The flicker of optimism the idea produced was quenched almost immediately by the realization that he simply did not have enough information to provide a lead. It was a certainty that the man was not even known as Smith to anybody but his clients. If only Angela had revealed something more—like Smith’s business address…
Connor returned each time to brooding and drinking, aware but uncaring that his behavior was becoming completely obsessive. Then he awoke one morning to the discovery that he already knew Smith’s business address, had known it for a long time, almost from childhood.
Undecided as to whether his intake of white rum had hastened or delayed the revelation, he breakfasted on strong coffee and was too busy with his thoughts to fret about the black liquid being more tasteless than ever. He formulated a plan of action during the next hour, twice lighting his pipe—out of sheer habit—before remembering he was finished with ordinary tobacco forever. As a first step in the plan, he went out, bought a five-inch cube of ruby-colored plastic, and paid the owner of a jobbing shop an exorbitant sum to have the block machined down to a polished ovoid. It was late in the afternoon before the work was finished, but the end product sufficiently resembled a P-brand table lighter to fool anyone who was not looking too closely at it.
Pleased with his progress thus far, Connor went back to his apartment and dug out the .38 pistol he had bought a few years earlier following an attempted burglary. Common sense told him it was rather late to leave for Trenton and that he would be better waiting until morning, but he was in a warmly reckless mood. With the plastic egg bumping on one hip and the gun on the other, he drove westward out of town.
Connor reached the center of Trenton just as the stores were showing signs of closing for the day. His sudden fear of being too late and of having to wait another day after all was strengthened by the discovery that he was no longer so certain about locating Mr. Smith.
In the freshness of the morning, with an alcoholic incense lingering in his head, it had all seemed simple and straightforward. For much of his life he had been peripherally aware that in almost every big city there are stores which have no right to be in existence. They were always small and discreet, positioned some way off the main shopping thoroughfares, and their signs usually bore legends—like “Johnston Bros.” or “H&L”—which seemed designed to convey a minimum of information. If they had a window display at all it tended to be nothing more than an undistinguished and slightly out-of-style sport jacket priced three times above what it had any chance of fetching. Connor knew the stores were not viable propositions in the ordinary way because, not surprisingly, nobody ever went into them. Yet in his mind they were in some indefinable way associated with money.
Setting out for Trenton he had been quite sure of the city block he wanted—now at least three locations and images of three unremarkable store fronts were merging and blurring in his memory. That’s how they avoid attention, he thought, refusing to be disheartened, and began cruising the general area he had selected. The rush of home-going traffic hampered every movement, and finally he decided he would do better on foot. He parked in a sidestreet and began hurrying from corner to corner, each time convincing himself he was about to look along a remembered block and see the place he so desperately wanted to find, each time being disappointed. Virtually all the stores were closed by now, the crowds had thinned away, and the reddish evening sunlight made the quiet, dusty facades look unreal. Connor ran out of steam, physical and mental.
He swore dejectedly, shrugged, and started limping back to his car, choosing—as a token act of defiance—a route which took him a block further south than he had originally intended going. His feet were hot and so painful that he was unable to think of anything but his own discomfort. Consequently he did a genuine doubletake when he reached an intersection, glanced sideways and saw a half-familiar, half-forgotten vista of commonplace stores, wholesalers’ depots, and anonymous doorways. His heart began a slow pounding as he picked out, midway on the block, a plain storefront whose complete lack of character would have rendered it invisible to eyes other than his own.
He walked towards it, suddenly nervous, until he could read the sign which said GENERAL AGENCIES in tarnished gold lettering. The window contained three pieces of glazed earthernware sewer pipe, beyond which were screens to prevent anyone seeing the store’s interior. Connor expected to find the door locked, but it opened at his touch and he was inside without even having had time to prepare himself. He blinked at a tall gaunt man who was standing motionless behind a counter. The man had a down-curving mouth, ice-smooth gray hair, and something about him gave Connor the impression that he had been standing there, unmoving, for hours. He was dressed in funeral director black, with a silver tie, and the collar of his white shirt was perfect as the petals of a newly opened flower.
The man leaned forward slightly and said, “Was there something, sir?”
Connor was taken aback by the quaintness of the greeting, but he strode to the counter, brought the ruby egg from his pocket and banged it down.
“Tell Mr. Smith I’m not satisfied with this thing,” he said in an angry voice. “And tell him I demand a repayment.”
The tall man’s composure seemed to shatter. He picked up the egg, half-turned toward an inner door, then paused and examined the egg more closely.
“Just a minute,” he said. “This isn’t…”
“Isn’t what?”
The man looked accusingly at Connor. “I’ve no idea what this object is, and we haven’t got a Mr. Smith.”
“Know what this object is?” Connor produced his revolver. He had seen and heard enough.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“No?” Connor aimed the revolver at the other man’s face and, aware that the safety catch was on, gave the trigger an obvious squeeze. The tall man shrank against the wall. Connor muttered furiously, clicked the safety off, and raised the gun again.
“Don’t!” The man shook his head. “I beseech you.”
Connor had never been beseeched in his life, but he did not allow the curious turn of speech to distract him. He said, “I want to see Mr. Smith.”
“I’ll take you to him. If you will follow me…”
They went through to the rear of the premises and down a flight of stairs which had inconveniently high risers and narrow treads. Noting that his guide was descending with ease, Connor glanced down and saw that the tall man had abnormally small feet. There was another peculiarity about his gait, but it was not until they had reached the basement floor and were moving along a corridor that Connor realized what it was. Within the chalk-stripe trousers, the tall man’s knees appeared to be a good two-thirds of the way down his legs. Cool fingers of unease touched Connor’s brow.
“Here we are, sir.” The black-clad figure before him pushed open a door.
Beyond it was a large, brightly lit room, and at one side was another tall, cadaverous man dressed like a funeral director. He too had ice-smooth gray hair, and he was carefully putting an antique oil painting into the dark rectangular opening of a wall safe.
Without turning his head, he said, “What is it, Toynbee?”
Connor slammed the door shut behind himself. “I want to talk to you, Smith.”
Smith gave a violent start but continued gently sliding the gold-framed painting into the wall. When it had disappeared, he turned to face Connor. He had a down-curved mouth and—even more disturbingly—his knees, also, seemed to be in the wrong place. If these people come from the future, Connor thought, why are they
made differently from us? His mind shied away from the new thought and plunged into irrelevant speculations about the kind of chairs Smith and Toynbee must use… if any. He realized he had seen no seats or stools about the place. With a growing coldness in his veins, Connor recalled his earlier impression that Toynbee had been standing behind the counter for hours, without moving.
“… welcome to what money we have,” Smith was saying, “but there’s nothing else here worth taking.”
“I don’t think he’s a thief.” Toynbee went and stood beside him.
“Not a thief! Then what does he want? What is…?”
“Just for starters,” Connor put in, “I want an explanation.”
“Of what?”
“Of your entire operation here.”
Smith looked mildly exasperated. He gestured at the wooden crates which filled much of the room. “It’s a perfectly normal agency set-up handling various industrial products on a…”
“I mean the operation whereby you supply rich people with cigarette lighters that nobody on this Earth could manufacture.”
“Cigarette lighters—”
“The red, egg-shaped ones which have no works but light when they’re wet and stand upright without support.”
Smith shook his head. “I wish I could get into something like that.”
“And the television sets which are too good. And the clocks and cigars and all the other things which are so perfect that people who can afford it are willing to pay eight hundred sixty-four thousand dollars every forty-three days for them—even though the goodies are charged with an essence field which fades out and converts them to junk if they fall into the hands of anybody who isn’t in the club.”
“I don’t understand a word of this.”
“It’s no use, Mr. Smith,” Toynbee said. “Somebody has talked.”
Smith gave him a venomous stare. “You just did, you fool!” In his anger, Smith moved closer to Toynbee, so that his body was no longer shielding the wall safe. Connor noticed for the first time that it was exceptionally large, and it occurred to him that a basement storeroom was an odd place for that particular type of safe. He looked at it more closely. The darkness of the interior revealed no trace of the oil painting he had just seen loaded into it. And, far into the tunnel-like blackness, a bright green star was throwing off expanding rings of light, rings which faded as they grew.
