by Anthology
“Hey!” protested the other. “What are you doing there? That’s my liquor.”
“Your liquor—” Hell’s bells! It was his liquor. No, it wasn’t; it was—their liquor. Oh, the devil! It was much too mixed up to try to explain. “Sorry. You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you?”
“I suppose not,” his double said grudgingly. “Pour me one while you’re about it.”
“O.K.,” Wilson assented, “then I’ll explain.” It was going to be much, much too difficult to explain until he had had a crink, he felt. As it was, he couldn’t explain it fully to himself.
“It had better be good—” the other warned him, and looked Wilson over carefully while he drank his drink.
Wilson watched his younger self scrutinizing him with confused and almost insupportable emotions. Couldn’t the stupid fool recognize his own face when he saw it in front of him? If he could not see what the situation was, how in the world was he ever going to make it clear to him?
It had slipped his mind that his face was barely recognizable in any case, being decidedly battered and unshaven. Even more important, he failed to take into account the fact that a person does not look at his own face, even in mirrors, in the same frame of mind with which he regards another’s face. No sane person ever expects to see his own face hanging on another.
Wilson could see that his companion was puzzled by his appearance, but it was equally clear that no recognition took place. “Who are you?” the other man asked suddenly.
“Me?” replied Wilson. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I’m not sure. Have I ever seen you before?”
“Well—not exactly,” Wilson stalled. How did you go about telling another guy that the two of you were a trifle closer than twins? “Skip it—you wouldn’t know about it.”
“What’s your name?”
“My name? Uh—” Oh, oh! This was going to be sticky! The whole situation was utterly ridiculous. He opened his mouth, tried to form the words “Bob Wilson,” then gave up with a feeling of utter futility. Like many a man before him, he found himself forced into a lie because the truth simply would not be believed. “Just call me Joe,” he finished lamely.
He felt suddenly startled at his own words. It was at this point that he realized that he was in fact, “Joe,” the Joe whom he had encountered once before. That he had landed back in his own room at the very time at which he had ceased working on his thesis he already realized, but he had not had time to think the matter through. Hearing himself refer to himself as Joe slapped him in the face with the realization that this was not simply a similar scene, but the same scene he had lived through once before—save that he was living through it from a different viewpoint.
At least he thought it was the same scene. Did it differ in any respect? He could not be sure, as he could not recall, word for word, what the conversation had been.
For a complete transcript of the scene that lay dormant in his memory he felt willing to pay twenty-five dollars cash, plus sales tax.
Wait a minute now—he was under no compulsion. He was sure of that. Everything he did and said was the result of his own free will.
Even if he couldn’t remember the script, there were some things he knew “Joe” hadn’t said. “Mary had a little lamb,” for example. He would recite a nursery rhyme and get off this damned repetitious treadmill. He opened his mouth—
“O.K., Joe Whatever-your-name-is,” his alter ego remarked, setting down a glass which had contained, until recently, a quarter pint of gin, “trot out that explanation and make it snappy.”
He opened his mouth again to answer the question, then closed it. “Steady, son, steady,” he told himself. “You’re a free agent. You want to recite a nursery rhyme—go ahead and do it. Don’t answer him; go ahead and recite it—and break this vicious circle.”
But under the unfriendly, suspicious eye of the man opposite him he found himself totally unable to recall any nursery rhyme. His mental processes stuck on dead center.
He capitulated. “I’ll do that. That dingus I came through—that’s a Time Gate.”
“A what?”
“A Time Gate. Time flows along side by side on each side—” As he talked he felt sweat breaking out on him; he felt reasonably sure that he was explaining in exactly the same words in which explanation had first been offered to him. “—into the future just by stepping through that circle.” He stopped and wiped his forehead.
“Go ahead,” said the other implacably. “I’m listening. It’s a nice story.”
Bob suddenly wondered if the other man could be himself. The stupid arrogant dogmatism of the man’s manner infuriated him. All right, all right! He’d show him. He strode suddenly over to the wardrobe, took out his hat and threw it through the Gate.
His opposite number watched the hat snuff out of existence with expressionless eyes, then stood up and went around in back of the Gate, walking with the careful steps of a man who is a little bit drunk, but determined not to show it. “A neat trick,” he applauded, after satisfying himself that the hat was gone, “now I’ll thank you to return to me my hat.”
Wilson shook his head. “You can get it for yourself when you pass through,” he answered absent-mindedly. He was pondering the problem of how many hats there were on the other side of the Gate. “Huh?”
“That’s right. Listen—” Wilson did his best to explain persuasively what it was he wanted his earlier persona to do. Or rather to cajole.
Explanations were out of the question, in any honest sense of the word. He would have preferred attempting to explain tensor calculus to an Australian aborigine, even though he did not understand that esoteric mathematics himself.
The other man was not helpful. He seemed more interested in nursing the gin than he did in following Wilson’s implausible protestations.
“Why?” he interrupted pugnaciously.
“Dammit,” Wilson answered, “if you’d just step through once, explanations wouldn’t be necessary. However—” He continued with a synopsis of Diktor’s proposition. He realized with irritation that Diktor had been exceedingly sketchy with his explanations. He was forced to hit only the high spots in the logical parts of his argument, and bear down on the emotional appeal. He was on safe ground there—no one knew better than he did himself how fed up the earlier Bob Wilson had been with the petty drudgery and stuffy atmosphere of an academic career. “You don’t want to slave your life away teaching numskulls in some fresh-water college,” he concluded. “This is your chance. Grab it!”
Wilson watched his companion narrowly and thought he detected a favorable response. He definitely seemed interested. But the other set his glass down carefully, stared at the gin bottle, and at last replied:
“My dear fellow, I am not going to climb on your merry-go-round. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m drunk, that’s why. You’re not there at all. That ain’t there.” He gestured widely at the Gate, nearly fell, and recovered himself with effort. “There ain’t anybody here but me, and I’m drunk. Been working too hard,” he mumbled, “ ‘m goin’ to bed.”
“You’re not drunk,” Wilson protested unhopefully. “Damnation,” he thought, “a man who can’t hold his liquor shouldn’t drink.”
“I am drunk. Peter Piper pepped a pick of pippered peckles.” He lumbered over toward the bed.
Wilson grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that.”
“Let him alone!”
Wilson swung around, saw a third man standing in front of the Gate—recognized him with a sudden shock. His own recollection of the sequence of events was none too clear in his memory, since he had been somewhat intoxicated—damned near boiled, he admitted—the first time he had experienced this particular busy afternoon. He realized that he should have anticipated the arrival of a third party. But his memory had not prepared him for who the third party would turn out to be.
He recognized himself—another carbon copy.
He stood silent for a minute, trying to assimilate this new fact and force it into some reasonable integration. He closed his eyes helplessly. This was just a little too much. He felt that he wanted to have a few plain words with Diktor.
“Who the hell are you?” He opened his eyes to find that his other self, the drunk one, was addressing the latest edition. The newcomer turned away from his interrogator and looked sharply at Wilson.
“He knows me.”
Wilson took his time about replying. This thing was getting out of hand. “Yes,” he admitted, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?”
His facsimile cut him short. “No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do—you’ll concede that—and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn’t go through the Gate.”
The offhand arrogance of the other antagonized Wilson. “I don’t concede anything of the sort—” he began.
He was interrupted by the telephone bell. “Answer it!” snapped Number Three.
The tipsy Number One looked belligerent but picked up the handset. “Hello . . . Yes. Who is this? . . . Hello . . . Hello!” He tapped the bar of the instrument, then slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
“Who was that?” Wilson asked, somewhat annoyed that he had not had a chance to answer it himself.
“Nothing. Some nut with a misplaced sense of humor.” At that instant the telephone rang again. “There he is again!” Wilson tried to answer it, but his alcoholic counterpart beat him to it, brushed him aside. “Listen, you butterfly-brained ape! I’m a busy man and this is not a public telephone . . . Huh? Oh, it’s you, Genevieve. Look—I’m sorry. I apologize—. . You don’t understand, honey. A guy has been pestering me over the phone and I thought it was him. You know I wouldn’t talk to you that way, Babe. . Huh? This afternoon? Did you say this afternoon? . . . Sure, Fine. Look, Babe, I’m a little mixed up about this. Trouble I’ve had all day long and more trouble now. I’ll look you up tonight and straighten it out. But I know I didn’t leave your hat in my apartment—
Huh? Oh, sure! Anyhow, I’ll see you tonight.’By.”
It almost nauseated Wilson to hear his earlier self catering to the demands of that clinging female. Why didn’t he just hang up on her? The contrast with Arma—there was a dish!—was acute; it made him more determined than ever to go ahead with the plan, despite the warning of the latest arrival.
After hanging up the phone his earlier self faced him, pointedly ignoring the presence of the third copy. “Very well, Joe,” he announced. “I’m ready to go if you are.”
“Fine!” Wilson agreed with relief. “Just step through. That’s all there is to it.”
“No, you don’t!” Number Three barred the way.
Wilson started to argue, but his erratic comrade was ahead of him., “Listen, you! You come butting in here like you think I was a bum. If you don’t like it, go jump in the lake—and I’m just the kind of a guy who can do it! You and who else?”
They started trading punches almost at once. Wilson stepped in warily, looking for an opening that would enable him to put the slug on Number Three with one decisive blow.
He should have watched his drunken ally as well. A wild swing from that quarter glanced off his already damaged features and caused him excruciating pain. His upper lip, cut, puffy, and tender from his other encounter, took the blow and became an area of pure agony. He flinched and jumped back.
A sound cut through his fog of pain, a dull Smack! He forced his eyes to track and saw the feet of a man disappear through the Gate. Number Three was still standing by the Gate. “Now you’ve done it!” he said bitterly to Wilson, and nursed the knuckles of his left hand.
The obviously unfair allegation reached Wilson at just the wrong moment. His face still felt like an experiment in sadism. “Me?” he said angrily. “You knocked him through. I never laid a finger on him.”
“Yes, but it’s your fault. If you hadn’t interfered, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”
“Me interfere? Why, you baldfaced hypocrite—you butted in and tried to queer the pitch. Which reminds me—you owe me some explanations and I damn well mean to have ’em. What’s the idea of—”
But his opposite number cut in on him. “Stow it,” he said gloomily. “It’s too late now. He’s gone through.”
“Too late for what?” Wilson wanted to know.
“Too late to put a stop to this chain of events.”
“Why should we?”
“Because,” Number Three said bitterly, “Diktor has played me—1 mean has played you . . . us—for a dope, for a couple of dopes. Look, he told you that he was going to set you up as a big shot over there“—he indicated the Gate—“didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Wilson admitted.
“Well, that’s a lot of malarkey. All he means to do is to get us so incredibly tangled up in this Time Gate thing that we’ll never get straightened out again.”
Wilson felt a sudden doubt nibbling at his mind. It could be true. Certainly there had not been much sense to what had happened so far. After all, why should Diktor want his help, want it bad enough to offer to split with him, even-Stephen, what was obviously a cushy spot? “How do you know?” he demanded.
“Why go into it?” the other answered wearily. “Why don’t you just take my word for it?”
“Why should I?”
His companion turned a look of complete exasperation on him. “If you can’t take my word, whose word can you take?”
The inescapable logic of the question simply annoyed Wilson. He resented this interloping duplicate of himself anyhow; to be asked to follow his lead blindly irked him. “I’m from Missouri,” he said. “I’ll see for myself.” He moved toward the Gate.
“Where are you going?”
“Through! I’m going to look up Diktor and have it out with him.”
“Don’t!” the other said. “Maybe we can break the chain even now.” Wilson felt and looked stubborn. The other sighed. “Go ahead,” he surrendered. “It’s your funeral. I wash my hands of you.” Wilson paused as he was about to step through the Gate. “It is, eh? Hm-m-m—how can it be my funeral unless it’s your funeral, too?” The other man looked blank, then an expression of apprehension raced over his face. That was the last Wilson saw of him as he stepped through.
The hall of the Gate was empty of other occupants when Bob Wilson came through on the other side. He looked for his hat, but did not find it, then stepped around back of the raised platform, seeking the exit he remembered. He nearly bumped into Diktor.
“Ah, there you are!” the older man greeted him. “Fine! Fine! Now there is just one more little thing to take care of, then we will be all squared away. I must say I am pleased with you, Bob, very pleased indeed.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” Bob faced him truculently. “Well, it’s too bad I can’t say the same about you! I’m not a damn bit pleased. What was the idea of shoving me into that . . . that daisy chain without warning me? What’s the meaning of all this nonsense? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Easy, easy,” said the older man, “don’t get excited. Tell the truth now—if I had told you that you were going back to meet yourself face to face, would you have believed me? Come now, ‘fess up.” Wilson admitted that he would not have believed it.
“Well, then,” Diktor continued with a shrug, “there was no point in my telling you, was there? If I had told you, you would not have believed me, which is another way of saying that you would have believed false data. Is it not better to be in ignorance than to believe falsely?”
“I suppose so, but—”
“Wait! I did not intentionally deceive you. I did not deceive you at all. But had I told you the full truth, you would have been deceived because you would have rejected the truth. It was better for you to learn the truth with your own eyes. Otherwise—”
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Wilson cut in. “You’re getting
me all tangled up. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you’ll come clean with me. Why did you send me back at all?”
“ ‘Let bygones be bygones.’ ” Diktor repeated. “Ah, if we only could! But we can’t. That’s why I sent you back—in order that you might come through the Gate in the first place.”
“Huh? Wait a minute—I already had come through the Gate.” Diktor shook his head. “Had you, now? Think a moment. When you got back into your own time and your own place you found your earlier self there, didn’t you?”
“Mmmm—yes.”
“He—your earlier self—had not yet been through the Gate, had he?”
“No. I—”
“How could you have been through the Gate, unless you persuaded him to go through the Gate?”
Bob Wilson’s head was beginning to whirl. He was beginning to wonder who did what to whom and who got paid. “But that’s impossible! You are telling me that I did something because I was going to do something.”
“Well, didn’t you? You were there.”
“No I didn’t—no well, maybe I did, but it didn’t feel like it.”
“Why should you expect it to? It was something totally new to your experience.”
“But . . . but—” Wilson took a deep breath and got control of himself. Then he reached back into his academic philosophical concepts and produced the notion he had been struggling to express. “It denies all reasonable theories of causation. You would have me believe that causation can be completely circular. I went through because I came back from going through to persuade myself to go through. That’s silly.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
Wilson did not have an answer ready for that one. Diktor continued with, “Don’t worry about it. The causation you have been accustomed to is valid enough in its own field but is simply a special case under the general case. Causation in a plenum need not be and is not limited by a man’s perception of duration.”
