“Don’t you read the papers, mister?” the man in the brown suit said. “That guy is Richard Burns. I’m from the county sheriff’s office.”
Jallin blinked. He remembered reading something in the evening paper about a man named Burns who was wanted by the police. It was something about a bank robbery and a couple of murders. He started to swing his shotgun around, when the man by the window spoke sharply:
“Don’t be a fool! Don’t you recognize that man’s face? You should. It’s plastered over every newspaper in the country. He’s Richard Burns.”
Jallin hesitated. He stared anxiously, first at the one, then the other. Neither man was looking at him. Their bodies were tense, their gun hands rigid. One would open fire if the other blinked.
“Now hold everything,” Jallin said nervously, looking back and forth at the two men. Which was Burns? He had seen the newspaper, had even been vaguely aware of a picture on the front page. But to save his life he couldn’t remember what the picture looked like. And there was only one cartridge in his shotgun.
Suddenly, Jallin knew he was the reason they were waiting! They knew he would shoot the man who shot first. He looked the men over again.
Both were tall. The man by the door was almost handsome; his hair was blond and slightly curly. His brown suit looked new. The man by the window, wearing a blue suit, had wide shoulders. His features were strong and rugged. He had dark brown hair, parted on one side. Neither man looked especially like a cop, or like a killer.
“I’ve warned you,” the man in the blue suit said through tight lips. “That man is a cold-blooded killer. You’d better—”
“Better what, Burns?” the man in brown answered.
“Just a minute,” Jallin said hoarsely. He had never felt so helpless. He knew that the end of the deadlock depended on him—and if he guessed wrong he’d never have a chance to guess again.
“Listen,” the rough-featured man in the blue suit said. “If you want proof, I’ve got my badge pinned inside my coat. Take a look.”
Jallin started to walk forward, but the other man barked. “Stop!” Jallin stopped. “Are you an idiot? When you get in front of him, he’ll be able to shoot us both. The only thing he’s got pinned inside has coat is a shoulder holster.”
There wasn’t much time left. The tension was so great they wouldn’t hold their fire much longer.
“How’d you get here?” Jallin asked, sparring for time.
“We drove up,” the man in the blue suit said. “All routes out of the city were covered, and—”
“And,” the man in brown continued, “I was covering the one he took. I chased him. He saw I was overtaking him and he turned—”
“—into the road that leads to your farm,” the man in blue said. “It was a dead end. I followed him inside, into this room.”
“He should have gotten me when I came in after him,” the man in brown by the door said. “But he was looking for something to hide behind.”
Jallin tried to watch both of them. It couldn’t go on like this. Someone had to make a move—and he still didn’t know which one to shoot at.
“You should have waited a minute more,” the man in brown said to Jallin. “No problem then; someone would have already gotten it.”
“That’s right,” the man by the window said.
At that moment Jallin felt a change in the attitudes of the two men. Time had run out. They were going to shoot. Which man should he—
Without any change of expression, almost without a motion, Jallin fired. At the same time, two revolver shots cracked.
Shivering uncontrollably, Jallin opened his eyes and realized that he hadn’t been hit. The man in blue had been slammed over backward by the force of the shotgun’s charge. He lay completely still.
THE man in the brown suit put his revolver in his pocket and started to unbutton his coat with his left hand. There was a smear of blood high on his right shoulder. Inside the coat Jallin could see the gleam of a badge.
“Nice guesswork,” the detective said.
“No guesswork.” Jallin muttered, laying the shotgun carefully on the floor. “I figured it out.”
“How?” the detective asked.
“I figured,” Jallin began slowly, “he must have been Burns. He was at the far end of the room, so he must have come in first.”
“Nice work,” the detective said in an odd voice. “But just for the record I want to tell you that your reasoning was wrong.”
Jallin stared at him.
“Strange as it may sound, we city boys don’t expect to find front doors unlocked. Burns went in through the window. I came in after him. He could have got me then, if he hadn’t been looking for something to duck behind. Anyhow, we circled the room. I didn’t want to fire first—if I missed, the flash would have given me away. Burns figured it the same way. When you turned on the lights, we had made a half circuit, looking for something to hide behind.” The detective smiled wearily.
“The light stopped us, of course. But what I’m saying is, if you’d turned on that light a few seconds earlier—or later—I would have been back by the window, where I was at first.”
Jallin sucked in his breath. “Well,” he said. “I sure had to shoot someone.”
THE IMPACTED MAN
A contractor on a big job is apt to have many headaches. Little things can go wrong—minor flaws that mar the whole work.
TO: CENTER Office 41
ATTN: Controller Miglese
FROM: Contractor Carienomen
SUBJ: ATTALA Metagalaxy
Dear Controller Miglese:
This is to inform you that I have completed contract 13371A. In the region of space coded ATTALA I have constructed one metagalaxy, incorporating 549 billion galaxies, with the normal distribution of star clusters, variables, novae, et cetera. See attached data sheet.
The outer limits of ATTALA metagalaxy are defined in the accompanying map.
Speaking for myself, as chief designer, and for my company, I am confident that we have done a sound construction job, as well as a work of great artistic merit.
We welcome your inspection.
Having fulfilled the terms of our contract, the agreed-upon fee is payable at any time.
Respectfully,
Carienomen
Enclosed:
1 data sheet, installations
1 map of metagalaxy ATTALA
TO: Construction Headquarters 334132, Extension 12
ATTN: Chief Designer, Carienomen
FROM: Asst. Controller Miglese
SUBJ: ATTALA Metagalaxy
Dear Carienomen:
We have inspected your construction, and have held up your fee accordingly. Artistic! I suppose it’s artistic. But haven’t you forgotten our prime concern in construction work?
Consistency, just to remind you.
Our inspectors discovered large amounts of unexplained data occurring even around the metagalactic center, a region one would think you would build with care. That can’t go on. Luckily, the region is unpopulated.
And that’s not all. Would you care to explain your spatial phenomena? What in chaos is this red shift you’ve built in? I’ve read your explanation of it, and it doesn’t make any sense to me. How will planetary observers take it?
Artistry is no excuse.
Furthermore, what kinds of atoms are you using? Carienomen, are you trying to save money with shoddy materials? A good percentage of those atoms were unstable. They break down at the touch of a finger, or even without the touch of a finger. Couldn’t you figure out any other way of lighting your suns?
Enclosed is a data sheet, outlining the findings of our inspectors. No payment until they’re cleared up.
And there is another serious matter, just brought to my attention. Evidently you weren’t watching too closely for stresses and strains in your spatial fabric. We have detected a time-flaw near the periphery of one of your galaxies. It is small, at present, but it could grow. I suggest that you ta
ke care of it at once, before you have to rebuild a galaxy or two.
One of the inhabitants of a planet impinging on the flaw is impacted already; wedged into the flaw, due entirely to your carelessness. I suggest that you correct this before he moves out of his normal time-sequence, creating paradoxes right and left.
Get in touch with him, if need be.
Also, I have word of unexplained phenomena on some of your planets; items such as flying pigs, moving mountains, ghosts, and others, all enumerated in the complaint sheet.
We won’t have this sort of thing, Carienomen. A paradox is strictly forbidden in the created galaxies a paradox is the inevitable forerunner of chaos.
Take care of that impaction at once. I don’t know whether the impacted individual realizes it yet.
Miglese
Enclosed:
1 complaint sheet
Kay Masrin folded the last blouse into the suitcase, and, with her husband’s assistance, closed it.
“That’s that,” Jack Masrin said, hefting the bulging case. “Say good-by to the old homestead.” They looked around at the furnished room where they had spent their last year.
“Good-by, homestead,” Kay said. “Let’s not miss the train.”
“Plenty of time.” Masrin started to the door. “Shall we say good-by to Happy Boy?” They had given Mr. Harf, their landlord, that nickname because he smiled, once a month, when they handed him the rent. Of course, he immediately reshaped his mouth to its usual prim line.
“Let’s not,” Kay said, smoothing out her tailored suit. “He just might wish us luck, and what would happen then?”
“You’re perfectly right,” Masrin said. “No use starting a new life with Happy Boy’s blessings. I’d rather have the Witch of Endor curse me.”
With Kay following him, Masrin walked to the head of the stairs. He looked down at the first floor landing, started to take the first step, and stopped abruptly.
“What’s wrong?” Kay asked.
“Have we forgotten anything?” Masrin asked, frowning.
“I checked all the drawers and under the bed. Come on, we’ll be late.
Masrin looked down the stairs again. Something was bothering him. He searched quickly for the source of the trouble. Of course, they had practically no money. But that had never worried him in the past. He did have a teaching job, finally, even if it was in Iowa. That was the important thing, after a year of working in a bookstore. Everything was going right. Why should he be worried?
He took a step down, and stopped again. The feeling was stronger. There was something he shouldn’t do. He glanced back at Kay.
“Do you hate leaving that much?” Kay asked. “Let’s go, or Happy Boy’ll charge us another month’s rent. Which, for some strange reason, we haven’t got.”
Still Masrin hesitated. Kay pushed past him and trotted downstairs.
“See?” she said from the first floor landing. “It’s easy. Come on. Walk to Mummy.”
Masrin mumbled a few subdued curses and started down the stairs. The feeling became stronger.
He reached the eighth step, and—
He was standing on a grassy plain. The transition was as sudden as that.
He gasped and blinked. The suitcase was still in his hand. But where was the brownstone? Where was Kay? Where, for that matter, was New York?
In the distance was a small blue mountain. There was a clump of trees nearby. In front of the clump was a dozen or so men.
Masrin was in a dreamlike state of shock. He observed, almost idly, that the men were short, swarthy, thickly muscled. They wore loin cloths, and carried beautifully carved and polished clubs.
They were watching him, and Masrin decided it was a tossup, who was the most surprised.
Then one of them grunted something, and they started moving toward him.
A club bounced off his suitcase.
The shock dissolved. Masrin turned, dropped the suitcase and ran like a greyhound. A club whacked his spine, nearly knocking him over. He was facing a little hill, and he bounded up it, arrows showering around him.
A few feet up, he realized that he was back in New York.
He was at the top of the stairs, still in full stride, and before he could stop himself he had run into the wall. Kay was on the first floor landing, looking up. She gasped when she saw him, but didn’t say anything.
Masrin looked at the familiar murky mauve walls of the brownstone, and at his wife.
No savages.
“What happened?” Kay whispered, white-faced, coming up the stairs.
“What did you see?” Masrin asked. He didn’t have a chance to feel the full impact of what had happened. Ideas were pouring into his head, theories, conclusions.
Kay hesitated, gnawing at her lower lip. “You walked down a couple of steps and then you were gone. I couldn’t see you any more. I just stood there and looked and looked. And then I heard a noise, and you were back on the stairs. Running.”
They walked back to their room and opened the door. Kay sat down at once on the bed. Masrin walked around, catching his breath. Ideas were still pouring in, and he was having trouble sifting them.
“You won’t believe me,” he said.
“Oh won’t I? Try me!”
He told her about the savages.
“You could tell me you were on Mars,” Kay said. “I’d believe you. I saw you disappear!”
“My suitcase!” Masrin said suddenly, remembering that he had dropped it.
“Forget the suitcase,” Kay said.
“I have to go back for it,” Masrin said.
“No!”
“I must, Look, dear, it’s pretty obvious what happened. I walked through some sort of a time-flaw, which sent me back to the past. I must have landed in prehistoric times, to judge by the welcoming committee I met. I have to go back for that suitcase.”
“Why?” Kay-asked.
“Because I can’t allow a paradox to occur.” Masrin didn’t even wonder how he knew this. His normal egotism saved him from wondering how the idea had originated in his mind.
“Look,” he said, “my suitcase lands in the past. In it I’ve got an electric shaver, some pants with zippers, a plastic hairbrush, a nylon shirt, and a dozen or so books—some of them published as late as 1951. I’ve even got Ettison’s ‘Western Ways’ in there, a text on Western civilization from 1490 to the present day.
“The contents of that case could give these savages the impetus to change their own history. And suppose some of that stuff got into the hands of Europeans, after they discovered America? How would that affect the present?”
“I don’t know,” Kay said. “And you don’t either.”
“Of course I know,” Masrin said. It was all crystal-clear. He was amazed that she wasn’t able to follow it logically.
“Look at it this way,” Masrin said. “Minutiae makes history. The present is made up of a tremendous number of infinitesimal factors, which shaped and molded the past. If you add another factor to the past, you’re bound to get another result in the present. But the present is as it is, unchangeable. So we have a paradox. And there can’t be any paradox!”
“Why can’t there?” Kay asked.
Masrin frowned. For a bright girl, she was following him very poorly, “Just believe me,” he said. “Paradox isn’t allowed in a logical universe.” Allowed by whom? And he had the answer.
“The way I see it,” Masrin said, “there must be a regulating principle in the universe. All our natural laws are expressions of it. This principle can’t stand paradox, because . . . because—” He knew that the answer had to do with suppressing the fundamental chaos, but he didn’t know why.
“Anyhow, this principle can’t stand paradox.”
“Where did you get that idea?” Kay asked. She had never heard Jack talk that way before.
“I’ve had these ideas for a long time,” Masrin said, and believed it. “There was just never any reason to talk about it. Anyhow, I’m going back fo
r my suitcase.”
He walked out to the landing, followed by Kay. “Sorry I can’t bring you any souvenirs,” Masrin said cheerfully. “Unfortunately, that would result in a paradox also. Everything in the past has had a part in shaping the present. Remove something, and it’s like removing one unknown from an equation. You wouldn’t get the same result.” He started down the stairs.
On the eighth step, he disappeared again.
He was back in prehistoric America. The savages were gathered around the suitcase, only a few feet from him. They hadn’t opened it yet, Masrin noticed thankfully. Of course, the suitcase itself was a pretty paradoxical article. But its appearance—and his—would probably be swallowed up in myth and legend. Time had a certain amount of flexibility.
Looking at them, Masrin couldn’t decide if they were forerunners of Indians, or a separate sub-race which didn’t survive. He wondered if they thought he was an enemy, or a garden-variety evil spirit.
Masrin darted forward, shoved two of them aside, and grabbed his suitcase. He ran back, circling the little hill, and stopped.
He was still in the past.
Where in chaos was that hole in time, Masrin wondered, not noticing the strangeness of his oath. The savages were coming after him now, starting around the little hill. Masrin almost had the answer, then lost it as an arrow sped past him. He sprinted, trying to keep the hill between himself and the Indians. His long legs pumped, and a club bounced behind him.
Where was that hole in time? What if it had moved? Perspiration poured from his face as he ran. A club grazed his arm, and he twisted around the side of the hill, looking wildly for shelter.
He met three squat savages, coming after him.
Masrin fell to the ground as they swung their clubs, and they tripped over his body. Others were coming now, and he jumped to his feet.
Up! The thought struck him suddenly, cutting through his fear. Up!
Pie charged the hill, certain that he would never reach the top alive.
And he was back in the boarding house, still holding the suitcase.
“Are you hurt, darling?” Kay put her arms around him. “What happened?”
Masrin had only one rational thought. He couldn’t remember any prehistoric tribe that carved their clubs as elaborately as these savages. It was almost a unique art form, and he wished he could get one of the clubs to a museum.
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