by Anthology
Trembling he cranked into a vision of the future; the Stock Exchange Journal for April 17th, 1975.
Three-inch type screamed: securities crash in global crisis: banks close; clients storm brokerages!
Suddenly he was calm, knowing the future and safe from its blows. He rose from the reader and strode firmly into the marble halls. Everything was all right now. Twenty-six minutes was time enough to get back to the machine. He’d have a jump of several hours on the market; his own money would be safe as houses; he could get his personal clients off the hook.
He got a cab with miraculous ease and rolled straight to the loft building in the West 70’s without hindrance. At 11:50 by his watch he was closing the door of the phone booth in the dusty, musty-smelling lab. .
At 11:54 he noticed an abrupt change in the sunlight that filtered through the dirt-streaked windows and stepped calmly out. It was April 17th, 1975, again. Loring was sound asleep beside a gas hotplate on which coffee simmered. W.J. Born turned off the gas and went downstairs softly. Loring was a screwy, insolent, insecure young man, but by his genius he had enabled W.J. Born to harvest his fortune at the golden moment of perfection.
Back in his office he called his floor broker and said firmly: “Cronin, get this straight. I want you to sell every share of stock and every bond in my personal account immediately, at the market, and to require certified checks in payment.”
Cronin asked forthrightly: “Chief, have you gone crazy?”
“I have not. Don’t waste a moment, and report regularly to me. Get your boys to work. Drop everything else.”
Born had a light, bland lunch sent in and refused to see anybody or take any calls except from the floor broker. Cronin kept reporting that the dumping was going right along, that Mr. Born must be crazy, that the unheard-of demand for certified checks was causing alarm, and finally, at the close, that Mr. Born’s wishes were being carried out. Born told him to get the checks to him immediately.
They arrived in an hour, drawn on a dozen New York banks. W.J. Born called in a dozen senior messengers, and dealt out the checks, one bank to a messenger. He told them to withdraw the cash, rent safe-deposit boxes of the necessary sizes in those banks where he did not already have boxes, and deposit the cash.
He then phoned the banks to confirm the weird arrangement. He was on first-name terms with at least one vice president in each bank, which helped enormously.
W.J. Born leaned back, a happy man. Let the smash come. He turned on his flashboard for the first time that day. The New York closing was sharply off. Chicago was worse. San Francisco was shaky—as he watched, the flashing figures on the composite price index at San Francisco began to drop. In five minutes it was a screaming nosedive into the pit. The closing bell stopped it short of catastrophe.
W.J. Born went out to dinner after phoning his wife that he would not be home. He returned to the office and watched a board in one of the outer rooms that carried Tokyo Exchange through the night hours, and congratulated himself as the figures told a tale of panic and ruin. The dominoes were toppling, toppling, toppling.
He went to his club for the night and woke early, eating alone in an almost-deserted breakfast room. The ticker in the lobby sputtered a good-morning as he drew on his gloves against the chilly April dawn. He stopped to watch. The ticker began spewing a tale of disaster on the great bourses of Europe, and Mr. Born walked to his office. Brokers a-plenty were arriving early, muttering in little crowds in the lobby and elevators.
“What do you make of it, Born?” one of them asked.
“What goes up must come down,” he said. “I’m safely out.”
“So I hear,” the man told him, with a look that Born decided was envious.
Vienna, Milan, Paris and London were telling their sorry story on the boards in the customers’ rooms. There were a few clients silting up the place already, and the night staff had been busy taking orders by phone for the opening. They all were to sell at the market.
W.J. Born grinned at one of the night men and cracked a rare joke: “Want to buy a brokerage house, Willard?”
Willard glanced at the board and said: “No thanks, Mr. Born. But it was nice of you to keep me in mind.”
Most of the staff drifted in early; the sense of crisis was heavy in the air. Born instructed his staff to do what they could for his personal clients first, and holed up in his office.
The opening bell was the signal for hell to break loose. The tickers never had the ghost of a chance of keeping up with the crash, unquestionably the biggest and steepest in the history of finance. Born got some pleasure out of the fact that his boys’ promptness had cut the losses of his personal clients a little. A very important banker called in midmorning to ask Born into a billion-dollar pool that would shore up the market by a show of confidence. Born said no, knowing that no show of confidence would keep Moon Mining and Smelting from opening at 27 on September 11th, 1977. The banker hung up abruptly.
Miss Illig asked: “Do you want to see Mr. Loring? He’s here.”
“Send him in.”
Loring was deathly pale, with a copy of the Journal rolled up in his fist. “I need some money,” he said.
W.J. Born shook his head. “You see what’s going on,” he said. “Money’s tight. I’ve enjoyed our association, Loring, but I think it’s time to end it. You’ve had a quarter of a million dollars clear; I make no claims on your process—”
“It’s gone,” Loring said hoarsely. “I haven’t paid for the damn equipment—not ten cents on the dollar yet. I’ve been playing the market. I lost a hundred and fifty thousand on soy futures this morning. They’ll dismantle my stuff and haul it away. I’ve got to have some money.”
“No!” W.J. Born barked. “Absolutely not!”
“They’ll come with a truck for the generators this afternoon. I stalled them. My stocks kept going up. And now—all I wanted was enough in reserve to keep working. “I’ve got to have money.”
“No,” said Born. “After all, it’s not my fault.”
Loring’s ugly face was close to his. “Isn’t it?” he snarled. And he spread out the paper on the desk.
Born read the headline—again—of the Stock Exchange Journal for April 17th, 1975: securities crash in global crisis: banks close; clients storm brokerages! But this time he was not too rushed to read on: “A world-wide slump in securities has wiped out billions of paper dollars since it started shortly before closing yesterday at the New York Stock Exchange. No end to the catastrophic flood of sell orders is yet in sight. Veteran New York observers agreed that dumping of securities on the New York market late yesterday by W.J. Born of W.J. Born Associates pulled the plug out of the big boom which must now be consigned to memory. Banks have been hard-hit by the—”
“Isn’t it?” Loring snarled. “Isn’t it?” His eyes were crazy as he reached for Born’s thin neck.
Dominoes, W.J. Born thought vaguely through the pain, and managed to hit a button on his desk. Miss Illig came in and screamed and went out again and came back with a couple of husky customers’ men, but it was too late.
DOUBLE INDEMNITY
Robert Sheckley
Everett Barthold didn’t take out a life insurance policy casually. First he read up on the subject, with special attention to Breach of Contract, Willful Deceit, Temporal Fraud, and Payment. He checked to find how closely insurance companies investigated before paying a claim. And he acquired a considerable degree of knowledge on Double Indemnity, a subject which interested him acutely.
When this preliminary work was done, he looked for an insurance company which would suit his needs. He decided, finally, upon the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation, with its main office in Hartford, Present Time. Inter-Temporal had branch offices in the New York of 1959; Rome, 1530; and Constantinople, 1126. Thus they offered full temporal coverage. This was important to Barthold’s plans.
Before applying for his policy, Barthold discussed the plan with his wife. Mavis Barthold was a thin, h
andsome, restless woman, with a cautious, contrary feline nature.
“It’ll never work,” she said at once.
“It’s foolproof,” Barthold told her firmly.
“They’ll lock you up and throw away the key.”
“Not a chance,” Barthold assured her. “It can’t miss—if you cooperate.”
“That would make me an accessory,” said his wife. “No, darling.”
“My dear, I seem to remember you expressing a desire for a coat of genuine Martian scart. I believe there are very few in existence.”
Mrs. Barthold’s eyes glittered. Her husband, with canny accuracy, had hit her weak spot.
“And I thought,” Barthold said carelessly, “that you might derive some pleasure from a new Daimler hyper-jet, a Letti Det wardrobe, a string of matched ruumstones, a villa on the Venusian Riviera, a—”
“Enough, darling!” Mrs. Barthold gazed fondly upon her enterprising husband. She had long suspected that within his unprepossessing body beat a stout heart. Barthold was short, beginning to bald, his features ordinary, and his eyes were mild behind horn-rimmed glasses. But his spirit would have been perfectly at home in a pirate’s great-muscled frame.
“Then you’re sure it will work?” she asked him.
“Quite sure, if you do what I tell you and restrain your fine talent for overacting.”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Barthold, her mind fixed upon the glitter of ruumstones and the sensuous caress of scart fur.
Barthold made his final preparations. He went to a little shop where some things were advertised and other things sold. He left, several thousand dollars poorer, with a small brown suitcase tucked tightly under his arm. The money was untraceable. He had been saving it, in small bills, for several years. And the contents of the brown suitcase were equally untraceable.
He deposited the suitcase in a public storage box, drew a deep breath, and presented himself at the offices of the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation.
For half a day, the doctors poked and probed at him. He filled out the forms and was brought, at last, to the office of Mr. Gryns, the regional manager.
Gryns was a large, affable man. He read quickly through Barthold’s application, nodding to himself.
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Everything seems to be in order. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” Barthold asked, his heart suddenly pounding.
“The question of additional coverage. Would you be interested in fire and theft? Liability? Accident and health? We insure against everything from a musket ball to such trivial but annoying afflictions as the very definitely common cold.”
“Oh,” said Barthold, his pulse rate subsiding to normal. “No, thank you. At present, I am concerned only with a life insurance policy. My business requires me to travel through time. I wish adequate protection for my wife.”
“Of course, sir, absolutely,” Gryns said. “Then I believe everything is in order. Do you understand the various conditions that apply to this policy?”
“I think I do,” replied Barthold, who had spent months studying the Inter-Temporal standard form.
“The policy runs for the life of the assured,” said Mr. Gryns. “And the duration of that life is measured only in subjective physiological time. The policy protects you over a distance of one thousand years on either side of the Present. But no further. The risks are too great.”
“I wouldn’t dream of going any further,” Barthold said.
“And the policy contains the usual double indemnity clause. Do you understand its function and conditions?”
“I believe so,” answered Barthold, who knew it word for word.
“All is in order, then. Sign right here. And here. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Barthold. And he really meant it.
Barthold returned to his office. He was sales manager for the Alpro Manufacturing Company (Toys for All the Ages). He announced his intention to leave at once on a sales tour of the Past.
“Our sales in time are simply not what they should be,” he said. “I’m going back there myself and take a personal hand in the selling.”
“Marvelous!” cried Mr. Carlisle, the president of Alpro. “I’ve been hoping for this for a long time, Everett.”
“I know you have, Mr. Carlisle. Well, sir, I came to the decision just recently. Go back there yourself, I decided, and find out what’s going on. Went out and made my preparations, and now I’m ready to leave.”
Mr. Carlisle patted him on the shoulder. “You’re the best salesman Alpro ever had, Everett. I’m very glad you decided to go.”
“I am, too, Mr. Carlisle.”
“Give ’em hell! And by the way—” Mr. Carlisle grinned slyly—”I’ve got an address in Kansas City, 1895, that you might be interested in. They just don’t build ’em that way any more. And in San Francisco, 1840, I know a—”
“No, thank you, sir,” Barthold said.
“Strictly business, eh, Everett?”
“Yes, sir,” Barthold said, with a virtuous smile. “Strictly business.”
Everything was in order now. Barthold went home and packed and gave his wife her last instructions.
“Remember,” he told her, “when the time comes, act surprised, but don’t simulate a nervous breakdown. Be confused, not psychotic.”
“I know,” she said. “Do you think I’m stupid or something?”
“No, dear. It’s just that you do have a tendency to wring every bit of emotion out of situations. Too little would be wrong. So would too much.”
“Honey,” said Mrs. Barthold in a very small voice.
“Yes?”
“Do you suppose I could buy one little ruumstone now? Just one to sort of keep me company until—”
“No! Do you want to give the whole thing away? Damn it all, Mavis—”
“All right. I was only asking. Good luck, darling.”
“Thank you, darling.”
They kissed.
And Barthold left.
He reclaimed his brown suitcase from the public storage box. Then he took a heli to the main showroom of Temporal Motors. After due consideration, he bought a Class A Unlimited Flipper and paid for it in cash.
“You’ll never regret this, sir,” said the salesman, removing the price tag from the glittering machine. “Plenty of power in this baby! Double impeller. Full control in all years. No chance of being caught in stasis in a Fipper.”
“Fine,” Barthold said. “I’ll just get in and—”
“Let me help you with those suitcases, sir. You understand that there is a federal tax based upon your temporal mileage?”
“I know,” Barthold said, carefully stowing his brown suitcase in the back of the Flipper. “Thanks a lot. I’ll just get in and—”
“Right, sir. The time clock is set at zero and will record your jumps. Here is a list of time zones proscribed by the government. Another list is pasted to the dashboard. They include all major war and disaster areas, as well as Paradox Points. There is a federal penalty for entering a proscribed area. Any such entry will show on the time clock.”
“I know all this.” Barthold suddenly was very nervous. The salesman couldn’t suspect, of course. But why was he going on gabbling so about breaches of the law?
“I am required to tell you the regulations,” the salesman said cheerfully. “Now, sir, in addition, there is a thousand-year limit on time jumps. No one is allowed beyond that, except with written permission from the State Department.”
“A very proper precaution,” Barthold said, “and one which my insurance company has already advised me of.”
“Then that takes care of everything. Pleasant journey, sir! You’ll find your Flipper the perfect vehicle for business or pleasure. Whether your destination is the rocky roads of Mexico, 1932, or the damp tropics of Canada, 2308, your Flipper will see you through.”
Barthold smiled woodenly, shook the salesman’s hand, and entered the Flipper. He closed the door, adj
usted his safety belt, started the motor. Leaning forward, teeth set, he calibrated his jump.
Then he punched the send-off switch.
A gray nothingness surrounded him. Barthold had a moment of absolute panic. He fought it down and experienced a thrill of fierce elation.
At last, he was on his way to fortune!
Impenetrable grayness surrounded the Flipper like a faint and endless fog. Barthold thought of the years slipping by, formless and without end, gray world, gray universe . . .
But there was no time for philosophical thoughts. Barthold unlocked the small brown suitcase and removed a sheaf of typed papers. The papers, gathered for him by a temporal investigation agency, contained a complete history of the Barthold family, down to its earliest origins.
He had spent a long time studying that history. His plans required a Barthold. But not just any Barthold. He needed a male Barthold, thirty-eight years old, unmarried, out of touch with his family, with no close friends and no important job. If possible, with no job at all.
He needed a Barthold, who, if he suddenly vanished, would never be missed, never searched for.
With those specifications, Barthold had been able to cut thousands of Bartholds out of his list. Most male Bartholds were married by the age of thirty-eight. Some hadn’t lived that long. Others, single and unattached at thirty-eight, had good friends and strong family ties. Some, out of contact with family and friends, were men whose disappearance would be investigated.
After a good deal of culling, Barthold was left with a mere handful. These he would check, in the hope of finding one who suited all his requirements . . .
If such a man existed, he thought, and quickly banished the thought from his mind.
After a while, the grayness dissolved. He looked out and saw that he was on a cobblestone street. An odd, high-sided automobile chugged past him, driven by a man in a straw hat.
He was in New York, 1912.
The first man on his list was Jack Barthold, known to his friends as Bully Jack, a journeyman printer with a wandering eye and a restless foot. Jack had deserted his wife and three children in Cheyenne in 1902, with no intention of returning. For Barthold’s purposes, this made him as good as single. Bully Jack had served a hitch with General Pershing, then returned to his trade. He drifted from print shop to print shop, never staying long. Now, at the age of thirty-eight, he was working somewhere in New York.
