by Anthology
Wilson thought about that for a moment. It sounded nice, but there was something slippery about it. “Just a second,” he said. “How about entropy? You can’t get around entropy.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” protested Diktor, “shut up, will you? You remind me of the mathematicians that proved that airplanes couldn’t fly.” He turned and started out the door. “Come on. There’s work to be done.”
Wilson hurried after him. “Dammit, you can’t do this to me. What happened to the other two?”
“The other two what?”
“The other two of me? Where are they? How am I ever going to get unsnarled?”
“You aren’t snarled up. You don’t feel like more than one person, do you?”
“No, but—”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“But I’ve got to worry about it. What happened to the guy that came through just ahead of me?”
“You remember, don’t you? However—” Diktor hurried on ahead, led him down a passageway, and dilated a door. “Take a look inside,” he directed.
Wilson did so. He found himself looking into a small windowless-unfurnished room, a room that he recognized. Sprawled on the floor, snoring steadily, was another edition of himself.
“When you first came through the Gate,” explained Diktor at his elbow, “I brought you in here, attended to your hurts, and gave you a drink. The drink contained a soporific which will cause you to sleep about thirty-six hours, sleep that you badly needed. When you wake up, I will give you breakfast and explain to you what needs to be done.”
Wilson’s head started to ache again. “Don’t do that,” he pleaded. “Don’t refer to that guy as if he were me. This is me, standing here.”
“Have it your own way,” said Diktor. “That is the man you were. You remember the things that are about to happen to him, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it makes me dizzy. Close the door, please.”
“O.K.,” said Diktor, and complied. “We’ve got to hurry, anyhow. Once a sequence like this is established there is no time to waste. Come on.” He led the way back to the Hall of the Gate.
“I want you to return to the twentieth century and obtain certain things for us, things that can’t be obtained on this side but which will be very useful to us in, ah, developing—yes, that is the word—developing this country.”
“What sort of things?”
“Quite a number of items. I’ve prepared a list for you—certain reference books, certain items of commerce. Excuse me, please. I must adjust the controls of the Gate.” He mounted the raised platform from the rear. Wilson followed him and found that the structure was boxlike, open at the top, and had a raised floor. The Cate could be seen by looking over the high sides.”
The controls were unique.
Four colored spheres the size of marbles hung on crystal rods arranged with respect to one another as the four major axes of a tetrahedron. The three spheres which bounded the base of the tetrahedron were red, yellow, and blue; the fourth at the apex was white. “Three spatial controls, one time control,” explained Diktor. “It’s very simple. Using here-and-now as zero reference, displacing any control away from the center moves the other end of the Gate farther from here-and-now. Forward or back, right or left, up or down, past or future—they are all controlled by moving the proper sphere in or out on its rod.”
Wilson studied the system. “Yes,” he said, “but how do you tell where the other end of the Gate is? Or when? I don’t see any graduations.”
“You don’t need them. You can see where you are. Look.” He touched a point under the control framework on the side toward the Gate. A panel rolled back and Wilson saw there was a small image of the Gate itself. Diktor made another adjustment and Wilson found that he could see through the image.
He was gazing into his own room, as if through the wrong end of a telescope. He could make out two figures, but the scale was too small for him to see clearly what they were doing, nor could he tell which editions of himself were there present—if they were in truth himself! He found it quite upsetting. “Shut it off,” he said.
Diktor did so and said, “I must not forget to give you your list.” He fumbled in his sleeve and produced a slip of paper which he handed to Wilson. “Here—take it.”
Wilson accepted it mechanically and stuffed it into his pocket. “See here,” he began, “everywhere I go I keep running into myself. I don’t like it at all. It’s disconcerting. I feel like a whole batch of guinea pigs. I don’t half understand what this is all about and now you want to rush me through the Gate again with a bunch of half-baked excuses. Come clean. Tell me what it’s all about.”
Diktor showed temper in his face for the first time. “You are a stupid and ignorant young fool. I’ve told you all that you are able to understand. This is a period in history entirely beyond your comprehension. It would take weeks before you would even begin to understand it. I am offering you half a world in return for a few hours’ co-operation and you stand there arguing about it. Stow it, I tell you. Now—where shall we set you down?” He reached for the controls.
“Get away from those controls!” Wilson rapped out. He was getting the glimmering of an idea. “Who are you, anyhow?”
“Me? I’m Diktor.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. How did you learn English?”
Diktor did not answer. His face became expressionless.
“Go on,” Wilson persisted. “You didn’t learn it here; that’s a cinch. You’re from the twentieth century, aren’t you?”
Diktor smiled sourly. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out.”
Wilson nodded. “Maybe I’m not bright, but I’m not as stupid as you think I am. Come on. Give me the rest of the story.”
Diktor shook his head. “It’s immaterial. Besides, we’re wasting time.”
Wilson laughed. “You’ve tried to hurry me with that excuse once too often. How can we waste time when we have that?” He pointed to the controls and to the Gate beyond it. “Unless you lied to me, we can use any slice of time we want to, any time. No, I think I know why you tried to rush me. Either you want to get me out of the picture here, or there is something devilishly dangerous about the job you want me to do. And I know how to settle it—you’re going with me!”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Diktor answered slowly. “That’s impossible. I’ve got to stay here and manage the controls.”
“That’s just what you aren’t going to do. You could send me through and lose me. I prefer to keep you in sight.”
“Out of the question,” answered Diktor. “You’ll have to trust me.” He bent over the controls again.
“Get away from there!” shouted Wilson. “Back out of there before I bop you one.” Under Wilson’s menacing fist Diktor withdrew from the control pulpit entirely. “There. That’s better,” he added when both of them were once more on the floor of the hall.
The idea which had been forming in his mind took full shape. The controls, he knew, were still set on his room in the boardinghouse where he lived—or had lived—back in the twentieth century. From what he had seen through the speculum of the controls, the time control was set to take him right back to the day in 1942 from which he had started. “Stand there,” he commanded Diktor, “I want to see something.”
He walked over to the Gate as if to inspect it. Instead of stopping when he reached it, he stepped on through.
He was better prepared for what he found on the other side than he had been on the two earlier occasions of time translation—“earlier” in the sense of sequence in his memory track. Nevertheless it is never too easy on the nerves to catch up with one’s self.
For he had done it again. He was back in his own room, but there were two of himself there before him. They were very much preoccupied with each other; he had a few seconds in which to get them straightened out in his mind. One of them had a beautiful black eye and a badly battered mout
h. Beside that he was very much in need of a shave. That tagged him. He had been through the Gate at least once. The other, though somewhat in need of shaving himself, showed no marks of a fist fight.
He had them sorted out now, and knew where and when he was. It was all still most damnably confusing, but after former—no, not former, he amended—other experiences with time translation he knew better what to expect. He was back at the beginning again; this time he would put a stop to the crazy nonsense once and for all.
The other two were arguing. One of them swayed drunkenly toward the bed. The other grabbed him by the arm. “You can’t do that,” he said.
“Let him alone!” snapped Wilson.
The other two swung around and looked him over. Wilson watched the more sober of the pair size him up, saw his expression of amazement change to startled recognition. The other, the earliest Wilson, seemed to have trouble in focusing on him at all. “This is going to be a job,” thought Wilson. “The man is positively stinking.” He wondered why anyone would be foolish enough to drink on an empty stomach. It was not only stupid, it was a waste of good liquor.
He wondered if they had left a drink for him.
“Who are you?” demanded his drunken double.
Wilson turned to “Joe.”
“He knows me,” he said significantly.
“Joe,” studied him. “Yes,” he conceded, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?”
Wilson interrupted him. “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.”
“I don’t concede anything of the sort—”
The ringing of the telephone checked the argument. Wilson greeted the interruption with relief, for he realized that he had started out on the wrong tack. Was it possible that he was really as dense himself as this lug appeared to be? Did he look that way to other people? But the time was too short for self-doubts and soul-searching. “Answer it!” he commanded Bob (Boiled) Wilson.
The drunk looked belligerent, but acceded when he saw that Bob (Joe) Wilson was about to beat him to it.
“Hello . . . Yes. Who is this? . . . Hello. Hello!”
“Who was that?” asked “Joe.”
“Nothing. Some nut with a misplaced sense of humor.” The telephone rang again. “There he is again.” The drunk grabbed the phone before the others could reach it. “Listen, you butterfly-brained ape! I’m a busy man and this is not a public telephone . . . Huh? Oh, it’s you, Genevieve—” Wilson paid little attention to the telephone conversation—he had heard it too many times before, and he had too much on his mind. His earliest persona was much too drunk to be reasonable, he realized; he must concentrate on some argument that would appeal to “Joe”—otherwise he was outnumbered. “—Huh? Oh, sure!” the call concluded. “Anyhow, I’ll see you tonight.’By.”
Now was the time, thought Wilson, before this dumb yap can open his mouth. What would he say? What would sound convincing?
But the boiled edition spoke first. “Very well, Joe,” he stated, “I’m ready to go if you are.”
“Fine!” said “Joe.”
“Just step through. That’s all there is to it.”
This was getting out of hand, not the way he had planned it at all. “No, you don’t!” he barked and jumped in front of the Gate. He would have to make them realize, and quickly.
But he got no chance to do so. The drunk cussed him out, then swung on him; his temper snapped. He knew with sudden fierce exultation that he had been wanting to take a punch at someone for some time. Who did they think they were to be taking chances with his future?
The drunk was clumsy; Wilson stepped under his guard and hit him hard in the face. It was a solid enough punch to have convinced a sober man, but his opponent shook his head and came back for more. “Joe” closed in. Wilson decided that he would have to put his original opponent away in a hurry, and give his attention to “Joe”—by far the more dangerous of the two.
A slight mix-up between the two allies gave him his chance. He stepped back, aimed carefully, and landed a long jab with his left, one of the hardest blows he had ever struck in his life. It lifted his target right off his feet.
As the blow landed Wilson realized his orientation with respect to the Gate, knew with bitter certainty that he had again played through the scene to its inescapable climax.
He was alone with “Joe”; their companion had disappeared through the Gate.
His first impulse was the illogical but quite human and very common feeling of look-what-you-made-me-do. “Now you’ve done it!” he said angrily.
“Me?”
“Joe” protested. “You knocked him through. I never laid a finger on him.”
“Yes,” Wilson was forced to admit. “But it’s your fault,” he added, “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 them. What’s the idea of—”
“Stow it,” Wilson headed him off. He hated to be wrong and he hated still more to have to admit that he was wrong. It had been hopeless from the start, he now realized. He felt bowed down by the utter futility of it. “It’s too late now. He’s gone through.”
“Too late for what?”
“Too late to put a stop to this chain of events.” He was aware now that it always had been too late, regardless of what time it was, what year it was, or how many times he came back and tried to stop it. He remembered having gone through the first time, he had seen himself asleep on the other side. Events would have to work out their weary way.
“Why should we?”
It was not worth while to explain, but he felt the need for self-justification. “Because,” he said, “Diktor has played me—I 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, didn’t he?”
“Yes—”
“Well, that’s a lot of malarkey. All he means to do is to get us so incredibly tangled up in this Gate thing that we’ll never get straightened out again.”
“Joe” looked at him sharply. “How do you know?”
Since it was largely hunch, he felt pressed for reasonable explanation. “Why go into it?” he evaded. “Why don’t you just take my word for it?”
“Why should I?”
Why should you? Why, you lunk, can’t you see? I’m yourself, older and more experienced—you have to believe me. Aloud he answered, “If you can’t take my word, whose word can you take?”
“Joe” grunted. “I’m from Missouri,” he said. “I’ll see for myself.”
Wilson was suddenly aware that “Joe” was about to step through the Gate. “Where are you going?”
“Through! I’m going to look up Diktor and have it out with him.”
“Don’t!” Wilson pleaded. “Maybe we can break the chain even now.” But the stubborn sulky look on the other’s face made him realize how futile it was. He was still enmeshed in inevitability; it had to happen. “Go ahead,” he shrugged. “It’s your funeral. I wash my hands of you.”
“Joe” paused at the Gate. “It is, eh? Hm-m-m—how can it be my funeral unless it’s your funeral, too?”
Wilson stared speechlessly while “Joe” stepped through the Gate. Whose funeral? He had not thought of it in quite that way. He felt a sudden impulse to rush through the Gate, catch up with his alter ego, and watch over him. The stupid fool might do anything. Suppose he got himself killed? Where would that leave Bob Wilson? Dead, of course.
Or would it? Could the death of a man thousands of years in the future kill him in the year 1942? He saw the absurdity of the situation suddenly, and felt very much relieved. “Joe’s” actions could not endanger him; he remembered everything that “Joe�
� had done—was going to do. “Joe” would get into an argument with Diktor and, in due course of events, would come back through the Time Gate. No, had come back through the Time Gate. He was “Joe.” It was hard to remember that.
Yes, he was “Joe.” As well as the first guy. They would thread their courses, in and out and roundabout, and end up here, with him. Had to.
Wait a minute—in that case the whole crazy business was straightened out. He had gotten away from Diktor, had all of his various personalities sorted out, and was back where he started from, no worse for the wear except for a crop of whiskers and, possibly, a scar on his lip. Well, he knew when to let well enough alone. Shave, and get back to work, kid.
As he shaved he stared at his face and wondered why he had failed to recognize it the first time. He had to admit that he had never looked at it objectively before. He had always taken it for granted.
He acquired a crick in his neck from trying to look at his own profile through the corner of one eye.
On leaving the bathroom the Gate caught his eye forcibly. For some reason he had assumed that it would be gone. It was not. He inspected it, walked around it, carefully refrained from touching it. Wasn’t the damned thing ever going to go away? It had served its purpose; why didn’t Diktor shut it off?
He stood in front of it, felt a sudden surge of the compulsion that leads men to jump from high places. What would happen if he went through? What would he find? He thought of Arma. And the other one—what was her name? Perhaps Diktor had not told him. The other maidservant, anyhow, the second one.
But he restrained himself and forced himself to sit back down at the desk. If he was going to stay here—and of course he was, he was resolved on that point—he must finish the thesis. He had to eat; he needed the degree to get a decent job. Now where was he?
Twenty minutes later he had come to the conclusion that the thesis would have to be rewritten from one end to the other. His prime theme, the application of the empirical method of the problems of speculative metaphysics and its expression in rigorous formulae, was still valid, he decided, but he had acquired a mass of new and not yet digested data to incorporate in it. In re-reading his manuscript he was amazed to find how dogmatic he had been. Time after time he had fallen into the pathetic fallacy of DesCartes, mistaking clear reasoning for correct reasoning.
