Store of Infinity

by Robert Sheckley

  “We are best suited for the job,” Edwin James said. “We know the factors involved. And politics gives one a certain skill in improvising—which will be sorely needed in this job. Each team will be absolutely on its own. There is no way for them to check on each other’s progress across the time lines.”

  “Each team then,” Dr. Sveg summed up, “will have to assume that the other teams fail.”

  “Probably with good reason,” James said wryly. “Let’s organize the teams and select our methods.”

  I

  On the morning of April 12, 1959, Ned Brynne awakened and washed and dressed. At 1:30 that afternoon, he had an appointment with Ben Baxter, president of Baxter Industries. Brynne’s entire future hinged upon the outcome of that meeting. If he could get the backing of the gigantic Baxter enterprises, and do so on favorable terms…

  Brynne was a tall, darkly handsome man of thirty-six. There was a hint of fanatic pride in his carefully bland eyes, a suggestion of unreasoning stubbornness in his tightly held mouth. His movements had the controlled strength of a man who is constantly watching and judging himself.

  He was almost ready to leave. He tucked a swagger stick under his arm and slipped a copy of Somerset’s American Peerage into his jacket pocket. He was never without that infallible guide.

  Finally he fixed to his lapel the golden sunburst decoration of his station. Brynne was a Chamberlain, second class, and properly proud of the fact. Some people thought him too young for so exalted a position. But they had to agree that Brynne carried the prerogatives and requirements of his office with a dignity quite beyond his years.

  He locked his apartment and walked to the elevator. There was a small crowd waiting, mostly commoners, but two Equerries as well. All made way for him when the elevator came.

  “Pleasant day, Chamberlain Brynne,” the operator said as the car started down.

  Brynne inclined his head an inch in the usual response to a commoner. He was deep in thought about Ben Baxter. But at the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the occupants of the car, a tall, strongly built fellow with golden-brown Polynesian features and tilted dark eyes. Brynne wondered what a man like that was doing in his apartment building. He knew the other tenants by sight, although their lower status naturally made them unworthy of his recognition.

  The elevator reached the lobby and Brynne forgot about the Polynesian fellow. He had a lot on his mind today. There were some problems connected with Ben Baxter, problems he hoped to resolve before the meeting. He strode outside, into a dismal gray April morning, and decided to go to the Prince Charles Coffee Shop for a late breakfast.

  It was 10:25 am.

  “What do you think?” Aaui asked.

  “Looks like a tough customer,” said Roger Beatty. He inhaled deeply, savoring the rich air. It was a delightful luxury, breathing all the oxygen he wanted. In his time even the very wealthy turned down the oxygen tanks at night.

  They were following half a block behind Brynne. There was no losing Brynne’s tall, swaggering figure, even in New York’s morning rush.

  “He looked at you in the elevator,” Beatty said.

  “I know.” Aaui grinned. “Give him something to worry about.”

  “He doesn’t look like a worrying type,” Beatty said. “I wish we had more time.”

  Aaui shrugged. “This was the closest we could come to the event. Our next choice would have been eleven years ago. And we would still have to wait until now before taking direct action.”

  “At least we’d know something about Brynne. He doesn’t look as though he’ll frighten easily.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Aaui admitted. “But that’s the course of action we selected.”

  They continued to follow, noticing how the crowds parted to make way for Brynne, who marched straight ahead, not looking to right or left. Then it happened.

  Brynne, his attention turned inward, collided with a portly, florid-faced man, who wore in his lapel the dazzling purple and silver medallion of a First Order Crusader.

  “Can’t you watch where you’re going, imbecile?” the Crusader barked.

  Brynne noticed the man’s rank, swallowed and muttered, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  The Crusader wasn’t so easily placated. “Do you make a habit of bumping into your betters, sirrah?”

  “I do not,” Brynne said, his face growing red, fighting hard to restrain his rage. A crowd of commoners had gathered to watch. They ringed the brilliantly dressed men, grinning and nudging each other.

  “Then suppose you watch yourself!” the portly Crusader roared. “Stop cluttering the streets like a sleepwalker, before you are taught a lesson in manners!”

  Brynne said, with deadly quiet, “Sir, if you feel the necessity of giving me such a lesson, I should be pleased to meet you at a place of your choosing, with such weapons as you elect—”

  “Me? Meet you?” the Crusader asked incredulously.

  “My rank permits it, sir.”

  “Your rank? You’re a good five degrees beneath me, you simple idiot! Enough of this or I’ll send my servants—who outrank you—to teach you a lesson in manners. I’ll remember your face, young man. Now get out of my way!”

  And with that, the Crusader pushed past him and stalked away.

  “Coward!” said Brynne, his face a mottled red. But he said it softly, and the commoners noticed. Brynne turned to them, his hands tightening on his swagger stick. Grinning cheerfully, the crowd broke up.

  Beatty said, “Dueling is permitted here?”

  Aaui nodded. “The legal precedent came in 1804, when Alexander Hamilton killed Aaron Burr in a duel.”

  “I guess we’d better get to work,” Beatty said. “But I wish we had more equipment.”

  “We took all we could carry. Let’s get on with it.”

  Inside the Prince Charles Coffee Shop, Brynne sat at a table far in the rear. His hands were trembling; with an effort, he controlled them. Damn that First Order Crusader! Lousy, overbearing blow-hard! But would he accept a duel? No, of course not. Had to hide behind the privileges of his station.

  Rage was rising in Brynne, black and ominous. He should have killed the man and the blazes with the consequences! The blazes with everything! No man could step on him that way…

  Stop it, he told himself. There was nothing he could do about it. He had to think about Ben Baxter and the all-important meeting. Looking at his watch, he saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. In two and a half hours, he would be in Baxter’s office and—

  “Your order, sir?” a waiter asked him.

  “Hot chocolate, toast and a poached egg.”

  “French fries?”

  “If I wanted French fries, I’d have told you!” Brynne shouted.

  The waiter went pale, gulped, said, “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” and hurried off.

  Now, Brynne thought, I’m reduced to yelling at commoners. Control—I must get myself under control.

  “Ned Brynne!”

  Brynne started and looked around. He had distinctly heard someone whisper his name. But there was no one within twenty feet of him.

  “Brynne!”

  “What is this?” Brynne muttered in unwilling reply. “Who’s speaking?”

  “You’re nervous, Brynne, losing control of yourself. You need a rest, a vacation, a change.”

  Brynne went dead white under his tan and looked around the cafe. It was almost empty. There were three old ladies near the front. Beyond them he could see two men, talking together earnestly.

  “Go home, Brynne, and get some rest. Take some time off while you can.”

  “I have an important business appointment,” Brynne said, his voice shaky.

  “Business before sanity, “the voice pointed out mockingly.

  “Who’s talking to me?”

  “What makes you think someone is talking to you?” the voice asked silkily.

  “You mean I’m talking to myself?”

  “You should know.”

  “
Your egg, sir,” the waiter said.

  “What?” Brynne roared.

  The waiter stepped hastily back, slopping hot chocolate into the saucer. “Sir?” he quavered.

  “Don’t creep around that way, idiot.”

  The waiter looked at Brynne incredulously, deposited the food and fled. Brynne stared after him suspiciously.

  “You are in no condition to see anyone,” the voice told him. “Go home, get into bed, take a pill, sleep, heal!”

  “But what’s the matter? Why?”

  “Because your sanity is at stake! This external voice is your mind’s last frantic attempt at stability. You can’t afford to ignore this warning, Brynne!”

  “It can’t be true!” protested Brynne. “I’m sane. I’m—”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said a voice at his elbow.

  Brynne whirled, prepared to chastise this further intrusion on his privacy. He saw the blue uniform of a policeman looming over him. The man was wearing the white shoulder epaulets of a Noble Lieutenant.

  Brynne swallowed hard and said, “Anything wrong, Officer?”

  “Sir, the waiter and manager tell me you are talking to yourself and threatening violence.”

  “Preposterous,” snapped Brynne.

  “It’s true! It’s true! You ‘re going crazy! “ the voice screamed in his head.

  Brynne stared at the great square bulk of the policeman. Surely he heard the voice! But apparently the Noble Lieutenant didn’t, for he continued to look somberly down at him.

  “It’s not true,” Brynne said, feeling secure in staking his word against a commoner’s.

  “I heard you myself,” the Noble Lieutenant said.

  “Well, sir, it’s this way,” Brynne began, choosing his words with care. “I was—”

  The voice shrieked in his head, “Tell him to go to hell, Brynne! Who’s he to question you? Who’s anyone to question you? Hit him! Blast him! Kill him! Destroy him!”

  Brynne said, through the barrage of noise in his head, “I was talking to myself, perfectly true, Officer. I frequently think out loud. It helps me to organize my thoughts.”

  The Noble Lieutenant gave a half nod. “But you offered violence, sir, at no provocation.”

  “No provocation! I ask you, sir, are cold eggs no provocation? Are limp toast and spilled chocolate no provocation?”

  The waiter, called over, insisted, “Those eggs were hot—”

  “They were not and that is all. I do not expect to sit here and argue a point of fact with a commoner.”

  “Quite right,” the Noble Lieutenant said, nodding emphatically now. “But might I ask you, sir, to curb your anger somewhat, even though it may be perfectly justified? Not too much can be expected of commoners, after all.”

  “I know,” Brynne agreed. “By the way, sir—the purple edging on your epaulets—are you related to O’Donnel of Moose Lodge, by any chance?”

  “My third cousin on my mother’s side,” said the Noble Lieutenant, looking intently now at Brynne’s sunburst medallion. “My son has entered the Chamberlain Halls as a probationary. A tall boy named Callahan.”

  “I will remember the name,” Brynne promised.

  “The eggs were hot!” said the waiter.

  “Don’t dispute the word of a gentleman,” ordered the officer. “It could get you into serious trouble. Pleasant day to you, sir.” The Noble Lieutenant saluted and left.

  “Resourceful fellow,” Aaui said bitterly, putting the tiny microphone back in his pocket. “For a moment, I thought we had him.”

  “We would have, if he’d had any latent doubts about his sanity. Well, now for something more direct. Got the equipment5”

  Aaui took two pairs of brass knuckles out of his pocket and handed one to Beatty.

  “Try not to lose it,” he said. “We’re supposed to return it to the Primitive Museum.”

  “Right. It fits over the fist, doesn’t it? Oh, yes, I see.”

  They paid and hurried out.

  Brynne decided to take a stroll along the waterfront to quiet his nerves. The sight of the great ships lying calm and steadfast in their berths never failed to soothe him. He walked steadily along, trying to reason out what had happened to him.

  Those voices in his head…

  Was he really losing his grip? An uncle on his mother’s side had spent his last years in an institution. Involutional melancholia. Was there some explosive hidden factor at work in him?

  He stopped and looked at the bow of a great ship. The Theseus.

  Where was it going? Italy, perhaps. He thought of blue skies, brilliant sunshine, wine and relaxation. Those things would never be his. Work, frantic effort, that was the life he had set for himself. Even if it meant losing his mind, he would continue to labor under the iron-gray skies of New York.

  But why, he asked himself. He was moderately well off. His business could take care of itself. What was to stop him from boarding that ship, dropping everything, spending a year in the sun?

  Excitement stirred in him as he realized that nothing was stopping him. He was his own man, a determined, strong man. If he had the guts to succeed in business, he also had the guts to leave it, to drop everything and go away.

  “To hell with Baxter!” he said to himself.

  His sanity was more important than anything. He would board that ship, right now, wire his associates from sea, tell them—

  Two men were walking toward him down the deserted street He recognized one by his golden-brown Polynesian features.

  “Mr. Brynne?” inquired the other, a rangy fellow with a shock of brown hair.

  “Yes?” said Brynne.

  Without warning, the Polynesian threw both arms around him, pinning him, and the shock-haired man swung at him with a fist that glinted golden!

  Brynne’s keyed-up nerves reacted with shattering speed. He had been a Knight Rampant during the Second World Crusade. Now, years later, all the reaction patterns were still there. He ducked the shock-haired man’s blow and drove his elbow into the Polynesian’s stomach. The man grunted and his grip relaxed for a second. Brynne broke free.

  He chopped at the Polynesian with the back of his hand, hitting the nerve trunk in the throat. The man went down, gasping for breath. At the same time, the shock-haired man was on him, raining brass-knuckled blows.

  Brynne lashed out, missed, caught a solid punch in the solar plexus. He fought for air. Blackness began edging into the periphery of his vision. He was hit again and went down, fighting for consciousness. Then his opponent made a mistake.

  The shock-haired man tried to finish him with a kick, but he didn’t know how to kick. Brynne caught his foot and jerked. Off balance, the man crashed to the pavement, striking his head.

  Brynne staggered to his feet, breathing hard. The Polynesian was sprawled in the road, his face purple, making feeble swimming movements with his arms and legs. The other man lay motionless, blood seeping slowly through his hair.

  He should report this incident to the police, Brynne thought. But suppose he had killed the shock-haired man? He would be held on a manslaughter charge, at least. And the Noble Lieutenant would report his earlier irrational behavior.

  He looked around. No one had witnessed the incident. It was best to simply walk away. Let his assailants report it, if they wanted to.

  Things were falling into place now. These men must have been hired by one of his many business competitors, men who were also trying for an affiliation with Ben Baxter. Even the voice in his head might have been a clever trick.

  Well, let them try to stop him! Still breathing heavily, he began walking toward Ben Baxter’s office.

  All thoughts of a cruise to Italy were gone now.

  “Are you all right?” a voice asked from somewhere up above.

  Beatty returned slowly to consciousness. For a short, alarmed while, he thought he had a fractured skull. But, touching it gently, he decided it was still in one piece.

  “What did he hit me with?” he asked.


  “The pavement, I think,” Aaui said. “Sorry I couldn’t help. He put me out of action pretty early.”

  Beatty sat up, clutching his aching head. “What a fighter!”

  “We underestimated him,” said Aaui. “He must have had some kind of training. Do you think you can walk?”

  “I think so,” Beatty said, letting Aaui help him to his feet. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly one o’clock. His appointment’s at one-thirty. Maybe we can stop him at Baxter’s office.”

  In five minutes, they caught a taxi and sped to Baxter’s building.

  The receptionist was young and pretty, and she stared at them open-mouthed. They had managed to clean up some of the damage in the taxi, but what remained looked pretty bad. Beatty had an improvised bandage over his head and Aaui’s complexion bordered on green.

  “What do you want?” the receptionist asked.

  “I believe Mr. Baxter has a one-thirty appointment with Mr. Brynne,” said Aaui in his most businesslike tone.

  “Yes—”

  The wall clock read one-seventeen. Aaui said, “We must see Mr. Brynne before he goes in. It’s very urgent. So if you don’t mind, we’ll wait here for him.”

  “You can wait,” the girl said. “But Mr. Brynne has already gone in.”

  “But it isn’t one-thirty yet!”

  “Mr. Brynne was early. Mr. Baxter decided to see him at once.”

  “I must speak to him,” Aaui said.

  “I have orders not to disturb them.” The girl looked frightened and her finger hovered over a button on her desk.

  Aaui knew that the button would probably summon help. A man like Baxter would have protection near at all times. The meeting was taking place now, and he didn’t dare interfere. Perhaps his actions had changed the course of events. It seemed likely. The Brynne in that office was a different man, a man altered by his adventures of the morning.

  “It’s all right,” Aaui said to the receptionist. “We’ll just sit here and wait.”

  Ben Baxter was short, solid, bull-chested. He was totally bald and his eyes, behind gold pince-nez, were expressionless. His business suit was severe, and affixed to the lapel was the small ruby-and-pearls emblem of the Wall Street House of Lords.