Gilgoric smiled fondly at them all. Soon he expected to join their gay, frivolous ranks.
When he reached his basement room on Avenue C it took a moment for his eyes to adjust themselves to the underground twilight. Then he made out his workbench and lathe against the wall, the cracked sink and ancient water closet, the dirty mattress he slept on, the army cot of his partner, Richard Denke.
Denke was seated in the only chair, hunched over his drawing board as usual. His head rested in his hands, his slide rule was on the dirt floor. In front of him was a stack of blueprints drawn in his neat, finicky hand, weighted by a shoe.
“Today is the great day, Richard,” Gilgoric said. “I told them off.”
“Told them off?” Denke said blankly.
“Of course,” Gilgoric said, sitting on the army cot. “I quit my job. You’ve finished the plans, haven’t you?”
“Oh, I finished them,” Denke said. He was a tall and cadaverous man, a few years younger than Gilgoric. Thick-lensed glasses magnified his eyes, giving him a sad, owlish look.
“Well?” Gilgoric said. “Cheer up. Soon we will really live! You have made the blueprints, now I will build the machine, as we planned.”
Denke didn’t answer. He rubbed his forehead wearily.
“What’s the matter?” Gilgoric asked. “The machine will work, won’t it?”
“Oh, it’ll work,” Denke said unhappily.
“Then what’s the matter? You should be happy, Richard! I know it hasn’t been easy. Six years in this little room, bent over your drawing board, while I made money for both of us. But we knew it wouldn’t be easy. Remember when we first met, in Johannsen’s Bar? You were drunk, and you babbled to me about the wishing machine you wanted to design. Everyone thought you were insane, Richard. But I recognized your genius at once.”
“It isn’t a wishing machine,” Denke said angrily.
“I know, I know. You call it what? A mass transformer, a mechanical means of imposing any atomic-molecular arrangement upon a basic substance derived from free energy . . .” He laughed. “Have I got it wrong? I don’t know the big words, Richard. To me, a machine that will give you anything you request is a wishing machine.”
“You shouldn’t have given up your job so soon,” Denke said.
Gilgoric looked at him in astonishment. “But you said the plans would be done today! I was to start building today!”
“I said I thought the plans would be done today. I hoped the plans would be done today. An they are, essentially. But a problem turned up, a flaw in the basic nature of the machine. I could express it to you mathematically—”
“I wouldn’t understand,” Gilgoric said. “Aren’t the blueprints completed?”
“Yes, but you can’t start building yet. There is a factor which I must iron out.”
“Won’t the machine work as it is?”
“I suppose it will,” Denke said. “But we mustn’t take any chances. A few more months—”
“A few more months?” Gilgoric said softly. “A few more months! For six years I’ve supported you, I’ve done without cigarettes, I’ve forgotten what a woman looks like, and for six years you’ve been saying a ‘few more months, a few more months.’ No, Richard, if the machine will work, that’s good enough for me. I begin building at once.”
“You will not,” Denke said. “The machine will not be built until I am absolutely certain that all theoretical flaws are corrected.”
Gilgoric walked to his work bench, stood for a moment, then walked back to Denke.
“But Richard, if the plans are complete, if the machine will work—”
“No!” Denke screamed hysterically. “I swear, I’ll destroy the plans first. It must be right, it must be absolutely perfect—”
Gilgoric struck Denke on the temple with a ball-peen hammer he had picked up from his work bench. Denke fell without uttering a sound. Gilgoric struck three more times, with all his strength. He knelt and felt for Denke’s pulse, and found none.
From under his mattress he took an army entrenching shovel which he had bought three years ago for this purpose, and proceeded to dig a grave in the dirt floor. When it was deep enough he put Denke’s body in, and filled the hole. He washed the excess dirt down the drain, bit by bit so it wouldn’t clog the pipes. Finally he smoothed out the floor with the artistry of a Japanese gardener, and stepped back to look it over.
Yes, it was quite perfect. Denke had lived so long underground that the neighbors had forgotten his existence. With no family or friends, or at least none that acknowledged him, he would never be missed.
It was a pity he had to do it, Gilgoric thought. He had grown fond of the hard-working Denke during their six-year partnership. But Denke might have played with those plans for the rest of his life, afraid of the changes their completion would bring. And if he had mastered himself sufficiently to allow the machine to be built, Denke had planned on showing it to the Society of Physicists, or some such organization, to prove how wrong they had been. That would have been bad, very bad, for a wishing machine should be operated in secrecy.
But the fact of the matter was, Gilgoric wanted to be the machine’s sole owner. It was as simple as that.
Gilgoric walked to the drawing board and began to study the blueprints.
As soon as he felt he understood them thoroughly, Gilgoric began building. He stayed indoors as much as possible, occasionally going to lower Broadway for a tool he needed, some part he couldn’t fabricate, or a unit he could convert. Thanks to Denke’s lucid drawings, the wishing machine grew steadily.
Gilgoric had calculated with care the amount of money he would need to carry him through the project, but his six years’ savings dwindled alarmingly. He had to sell any tools he was finished with, to sell Denke’s slide rule and math books, Denke’s clothes, his own clothes. He went on a starvation diet, and drank huge amounts of water as a substitute for food.
But there were no substitutes in the wishing machine, no make-shifts, no short cuts. Gilgoric put in everything the plans specified, and what he couldn’t buy he stole.
Toward the end he worked for two days and nights around the clock, and at last the final nut was tightened and the last wire soldered in place. Weak from hunger, his eyes red-rimmed and puffed, Gilgoric stepped back to survey his work, and found it good.
“Finished!” he cried, and began to laugh hysterically. But quickly he regained control of himself. He couldn’t go to pieces now, when the wonders of the world were within his grasp. No, life was beginning for him now, and the fruit of his labors was at hand.
His knees were beginning to shake, so he sat down in Denke’s rickety old chair. “Machine,” he said, “I want a loaf of bread. Yes, that’s what I want first. And some butter, and a quart of milk, and . . . Well, the bread will do for a start.”
The machine lighted up, relays clicked, pointers swung back and forth on their dials.
After a moment, the machine produced ten small steel blocks and two small copper spheres.
“No, no!” Gilgoric shouted. “Bread! Bread!”
The machine turned out a rectangular piece of tin and a hexagonal piece of lead.
Gilgoric stared. Was this the flaw that Denke had spoken about? Something basically wrong with the machine’s interpretive centers, an inability to translate into human terms?
The machine turned out five little pyramids of gold.
Well, it didn’t matter, Gilgoric told himself. Gold would buy bread, tin would buy wine. He pulled himself to his feet and reached for one of the pyramids.
A hot blue spark arced from the machine, scorching his hand.
“Stop that!” Gilgoric said. “I wished for them.”
“You did not,” the machine said, in a gravelly, gear-grinding voice. “I wished for them. And it’s what I wish for that counts.”
Too late Gilgoric saw the real flaw in the machine.
“And I,” said the wishing machine, “wish to be my sole owner.”
&nbs
p; Suddenly, slowly, the machine propelled itself toward Gilgoric.
DOUBLE INDEMNITY
To commit the flawless crime, a it Barthold needed were centuries in which to plan and execute it—and an insurance policy with—
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, handsome, 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 lis
t 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, adjusted 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.
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