They leaped into the Flipper and Barthold jabbed for 1869.
THEY concealed the Flipper as well as they could, in a back street livery stable, and walked to a little park nearby. They opened their shirts to the warm Memphis sunlight and lay back on the grass.
“That investigator must have a supercharged time job,” Barthold said. “That’s why he’s reaching our stops before us.”
“How does he know where we’re going?” Bairthre asked.
“Our stops are a matter of company record. He knows we haven’t got a time clock, so these are the only places we can reach.”
“Then we aren’t safe here,” said Bairthre. “He’s probably looking for us.”
“Probably he is,” Barthold said wearily. “But he hasn’t caught us yet. Just a few more hours and we’re safe! It’ll be morning in the Present, and the check will have gone through.”
“Is that a fact, gentlemen?” a suave voice inquired.
Barthold looked up and saw Ben Bartholder standing before him, a small derringer balanced in his good left hand.
“So he offered you the reward, too!” Barthold said.
“He did, indeed. And a most tempting offer, let me say. But I’m not interested in it.”
“You’re not?” Bairthre said.
“No. I’m interested in only one thing. I want to know which of you walked out on me last night in the saloon.”
Barthold and Bairthre stared at each other, then back at Ben Bartholder.
“I want that one,” Bartholder said. “Nobody insults Ben Bartholder. Even with one hand, I’m as good a man as any! I want that man. The other can go.”
Barthold and Bairthre stood up. Bartholder stepped back in order to cover them both.
“Which is it, gents? I don’t possess a whole lot of patience.”
He stood before them, weaving slightly, looking as mean and efficient as a rattlesnake. Barthold decided that the derringer was too far away for a rush. It probably had a hair-trigger, anyhow.
“Speak up!” Bartholder said sharply. “Which of you is it?”
THINKING desperately, Barthold wondered why Ben Bartholder hadn’t fired yet, why he hadn’t simply killed them both.
Then he figured it out and immediately knew his only course of action.
“Everett,” he said.
“Yes, Everett?” said Bairthre.
“We’re going to turn around together now and walk back to the Flipper.”
“But the gun—”
“He won’t shoot. Are you with me?”
“With you,” Bairthre said through clenched teeth.
They turned like soldiers in a march, and began to pace slowly back toward the livery stable.
“Stop!” Ben Bartholder cried. “Stop or I’ll shoot you both!”
“No, you won’t!” Barthold shouted back. They were in the street now, approaching the livery stable.
“No? You think I don’t dare?”
“It isn’t that,” Barthold said, walking toward the Flipper. “You’re just not the type to shoot down a perfectly innocent man. And one of us is innocent!”
Slowly, carefully, Bairthre opened the Flipper’s door.
“I don’t care!” Bartholder yelled. “Which one? Speak up, you miserable coward! Which one? I’ll give you a fair fight. Speak up or I’ll shoot you both here and now!”
“And what would the boys say?” Barthold scoffed. “They’d say that the one-handed man lost his nerve and killed two unarmed strangers!”
Ben Bartholder’s iron gun hand sagged.
“Quick, get in,” Barthold whispered.
They scrambled in and slammed the door. Bartholder put the derringer away.
“All right, mister,” Ben Bartholder said. “You been here twice, and I think you’ll be here a third time. I’ll wait around. The next time I’ll get you.”
He turned and walked away.
THEY had to get out of Memphis. But where could they go? Barthold wouldn’t consider Konigsberg, 1676, and the Black Death. London, 1595, was filled with Tom Barthal’s criminal friends, any of whom would cheerfully cut Barthold’s throat for treachery.
“We’ll go all the way back,” Bairthre said. “To Maiden’s Castle.”
“And if he comes there?”
“He won’t. It’s against the law to go past the thousand-year limit. And would an insurance man break the law?”
“He might not,” Barthold said thoughtfully. “He just might not. It’s worth a try.”
And again he activated the Flipper.
They slept in an open field that night, a mile from the fortress of Maiden’s Castle. They stayed beside the Flipper and took turns at sentry duty. And finally the sun rose, warm and yellow, above the green fields.
“He didn’t come,” Bairthre said.
“What?” Barthold asked, waking with a start.
“Snap out of it, man! We’re safe. Is it morning yet in your Present?”
“It’s morning,” Barthold said, rubbing his eyes.
“Then we’ve won and I’ll be a king in Ireland!”
“Yes, we’ve won,” Barthold said. “Victory at last is—damn!”
“What’s the matter?”
“That investigator! Look over there!”
Bairthre stared across the fields, muttering, “I don’t see a thing. Are you sure—”
Barthold struck him across the back of the skull with a stone. He had picked it up during the night and saved it for this purpose.
He bent over and felt Bairthre’s pulse. The Irishman still lived but would be unconscious for a few hours. When he recovered, he would be alone and kingdomless.
Too bad, Barthold thought. But under the circumstances, it would be risky to bring Bairthre back with him. How much easier it would be to walk up to Inter-Temporal himself and collect a check for Everett Barthold. Then return in half an hour and collect another check for Everett Barthold.
And how much more profitable it would be!
He climbed into the Flipper and looked once more at his unconscious kinsman. What a shame, he thought, that he will never be a king in Ireland.
But then, he thought, history would probably find it confusing if he had succeeded.
He activated the controls, headed straight for the Present.
HE reappeared in the back yard of his house. Quickly he bounded up the steps and pounded on the door.
“Who’s there?” Mavis called.
“Me!” Barthold shouted. “It’s all right, Mavis—everything has worked out fine!”
“Who?” Mavis opened the door, stared at him, and let out a shriek.
“Calm down,” Barthold said. “I know it’s been a strain, but it’s all over now. I’m going for the check and then we’ll—”
He stopped. A man had just appeared in the doorway beside Mavis. He was a short man, beginning to bald, his features ordinary, and his eyes were mild behind horn-rimmed glasses.
It was himself.
“Oh, no!” Barthold groaned.
“Oh, yes,” his double said. “One cannot venture beyond the thousand-year barrier with impunity, Everett. Sometimes there is a sound reason for a law. I am your time-identical.”
Barthold stared at the Barthold in the doorway. He said, “I was chased—”
“By me,” his double told him. “In disguise, of course, since you have a few enemies in time. You imbecile, why did you run?”
“I thought you were an investigator. Why were you chasing me?”
“For one reason and one reason only.”
“What was that?”
“We could have been rich beyond our wildest dreams,” his double said, “if only you hadn’t been so guilty and frightened! The three of us—you, Bairthre, and me—could have gone to Inter-Temporal and claimed triple indemnity!”
“Triple indemnity!” Barthold breathed. “I never thought of it.”
“The sum would have been staggering. It would have been infinitely more than for double indemnity. Y
ou disgust me.”
“Well,” Barthold said, “what’s done is done. At least we can collect for double indemnity, then decide—”
“I collected both checks and signed the release forms for you. You weren’t here, you know.”
“In that case, I’d like my share.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his double told him.
“But it’s mine! I’ll go to Inter-Temporal and tell them—”
“They won’t listen. I’ve waived all your rights. You can’t even stay in the Present, Everett.”
“Don’t do this to me!” Barthold begged.
“Why not? Look at what you did to Bairthre.”
“Damn it, you can’t judge me!” Barthold cried. “You’re me!”
“Who else is there to judge you except yourself?” his double asked him.
BARTHOLD couldn’t cope with that. He turned to Mavis.
“Darling,” he said, “you always told me you’d know your own husband. Don’t you know me now?”
Mavis moved back into the house. As she went, Barthold noticed the flash of ruumstones around her neck and asked no more.
Barthold and Barthold stood face to face. The double raised his arm. A police heli, hovering low, dropped to the ground. Three policemen piled out.
“This is what I was afraid of, officers,” the double said. “My double collected his check this morning, as you know. He waived his rights and went into the past. I was afraid he’d return and try for more.”
“He won’t bother you again, sir,” a policeman said. He turned to Barthold. “You! Climb back in that Flipper and get out of the Present. The next time we see you, we shoot!”
Barthold knew when he was beaten. Very humbly, he said, “I’ll gladly go, officers. But my Flipper needs repairs. It doesn’t have a time clock.”
“You should have thought about that before signing the waiver,” the policeman said. “Get moving!”
“Please!” Barthold said.
“No,” Barthold answered.
No mercy. And Barthold knew that, in his double’s place, he would have said exactly the same thing.
He climbed into the Flipper and closed the door. Numbly he contemplated his choices, if they could be called that.
New York, 1912, with its maddening reminders of his own time and with Bully Jack Barthold? Or Memphis, 1869, with Ben Bartholder awaiting his third visit? Or Konigsberg, 1676, with the grinning, vacant face of Hans Baerthaler for company, and the Black Death? Or London, 1595, with Tom Barthal’s cutthroat friends searching the streets for him? Or Maiden’s Castle, 662, with an angry Connor Lough mac Bairthre waiting to even the score?
It really didn’t matter. This time, he thought, let the place pick me.
He closed his eyes and blindly stabbed a button.
DISPOSAL SERVICE
The visitor shouldn’t have got past the reception desk, for Mr. Ferguson saw people by appointment only, unless they were very important. His time was worth money, and he had to protect it.
But his secretary, Miss Dale, was young and easily impressed; and the visitor was old, and he wore conservative English tweeds, carried a cane, and held an engraved business card. Miss Dale thought he was important, and ushered him directly into Mr. Ferguson’s office.
“Good morning, sir,” the visitor said as soon as Miss Dale had closed the door. “I am Mr. Esmond from the Disposal Service.” He handed Ferguson his card.
“I see,” Ferguson said, annoyed at Miss Dale’s lack of judgment. “Disposal Service? Sorry, I have nothing I wish disposed of.” He rose, to cut the interview short.
“Nothing whatsoever?” Mr. Esmond asked.
“Not a thing. Thank you for calling—”
“I take it, then, that you are content with the people around you?”
“What? How’s that any of your business?”
“Why, Mr. Ferguson, that is the function of the Disposal Service.”
“You’re kidding me,” Ferguson said.
“Not at all,” Mr. Esmond said, with some surprise.
“You mean,” Ferguson said, laughing, “you dispose of people?”
“Of course. I cannot produce any personal endorsements, for we are at some pains to avoid all advertising. But I can assure you we are an old and reliable firm.”
Ferguson stared at the neat, stiffly erect Esmond. He didn’t know how to take this. It was a joke, of course. Anyone could see that.
It had to be a joke.
“And what do you do with the people you dispose of?” Ferguson asked jovially.
“That,” Mr. Esmond said, “is our concern. To all intents and purposes, they disappear.” Ferguson stood up. “All right, Mr. Esmond. What really is your business?”
“I’ve told you.” Esmond said.
“Come now. You weren’t serious . . . If I thought you were serious. I’d call the police.” Mr. Esmond sighed and stood up. “I take it, then, you have no need of our services. You are entirely satisfied with your friends, relatives, wife.”
“My wife? What do you know about my wife?”
“Nothing, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Have you been talking to our neighbors? Those quarrels mean nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“I have no information about your marital stale, Mr. Ferguson,” Esmond said, sitting down again.
“Then why did you ask about my wife?”
“We have found that marriages are our chief source of revenue.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with my marriage. My wife and I get along very well.”
“Then you don’t need the Disposal Service,” Mr. Esmond said, tucking his cane under his arm.
“Just a moment.” Ferguson began to pace the floor, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t believe a word of this, you understand. Not a word. But assuming, for a moment, that you were serious. Merely assuming, mind you—what would the procedure be if I—if I wanted—”
“Just your verbal consent,” Mr. Esmond said.
“Payment?”
“After disposal, not before.”
“Not that I care,” Ferguson said hastily. “I’m just curious.” He hesitated. “Is it painful?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Ferguson continued to pace. “My wife and I get along very well,” he said. “We have been married for seventeen years. Of course, people always have difficulties living together. It’s to be expected.”
Mr. Esmond’s face was expressionless.
“One learns to compromise,” Ferguson said. “And I have passed the age when a passing fancy would cause me to—to—”
“I quite understand,” Mr. Esmond said.
“I mean to say,” Ferguson said, “my wife can, of course, be difficult. Vituperative. Nagging. I suppose you have information on that?”
“None,” Mr. Esmond said.
“You must have! You must have had a particular reason for looking me up!”
Mr. Esmond shrugged his shoulders.
“Anyhow,” Ferguson said heavily, “I’m past the age when a new arrangement is desirable. Suppose I had no wife? Suppose I could establish a liaison with, say, Miss Dale. It would be pleasant, I suppose.”
“Merely pleasant,” Mr. Esmond said.
“Yes. It would have no lasting value. It would lack the firm moral underpinning upon which any successful enterprise must be based.”
“It would be merely pleasant,” Mr. Esmond said.
‘That’s right. Enjoyable, of course. Miss Dale is an attractive woman. No one would deny that. She has an even temper, an agreeable nature, a desire to please. I’ll grant all that.”
Mr. Esmond smiled politely, stood up and started to the door.
“Could I let you know?” Ferguson asked suddenly.
“You have my card. I can be reached at that number until five o’clock. But you must decide by then. Time is money, and our schedule must be kept up.”
“Of course,” Ferguson said. He laughed hollowly. “I still don’t b
elieve a word of this. I don’t even know your terms.”
“Moderate, I assure you, for a man in your circumstances.”
“And I would disclaim all knowledge of ever having met you, talked with you, anything.”
“Naturally.”
“And you will be at this number?”
“Until five o’clock. Good day, Mr. Ferguson.”
After Esmond left, Ferguson found that his hands were shaking. The talk had disturbed him, and he determined to put it out of his mind at once.
But it wasn’t that easy. Although he bent earnestly over his papers, forcing his pen to take notes, he was remembering everything Esmond had said.
The Disposal Service had found out, somehow, about his wife’s shortcomings. Esmond had said she was argumentative, vituperative, nagging. He was forced to recognize those truths, unpalatable though they might be. It took a stranger to look at things with a clear, unprejudiced eye.
He returned to his work. But Miss Dale came in with the morning mail, and Mr. Ferguson was forced to agree that she was extremely attractive.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Ferguson?” she asked.
“What? Oh, not at the moment,” Ferguson said. He stared at the door for a long time after she left.
Further work was impossible. He decided to go home at once.
“Miss Dale,” he said, slipping on his topcoat, “I’m called away. I’m afraid a lot of work is piling up. Would it be possible for you to work with me an evening or two this week?”
“Of course, Mr. Ferguson,” she said.
“I won’t be interfering with your social life?” Ferguson asked, trying to laugh.
“Not at all, sir.”
“I’ll—I’ll try to make it up to you. Business. Good day.”
He hurried out of the office, his cheeks burning.
At home, his wife was just finishing the wash. Mrs. Ferguson was a small, plain woman with little nervous lines around her eyes. She was surprised to see him.
“You’re home early,” she said.
“Is there anything wrong with that?” Ferguson asked, with an energy that surprised him.
“Of course not—”
“What do you want? Should I kill myself in that office?” he snapped.
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