Possible Tomorrows

by Groff Conklin (Ed. )

  Barney hesitated. “And if that door were still open here, and somebody attempted to step through after the exit end had expanded—”

  “Well,” McAllen said, moving over to a wall buzzer and pressing it, “that’s what I meant when I said it could be embarrassing. He’d get expanded too—disastrously. Could you use a drink, Mr. Chard? I know I want one.”

  The drinks, served by Fredericks, were based on a rather rough grade of bourbon, but Barney welcomed them. There was an almost sick fascination in what was a certainty now: he was going to get the Tube. That tremendous device was his for the taking. He was well inside McAllen’s guard; only carelessness could arouse the old man’s suspicions again, and Barney was not going to be careless. No need to hurry any thing. He would play the reserved role he had selected for himself, leave developments up to the thing that McAllen had carried the burden of his secret for twelve years, with no more satisfactory confidant than Fredericks to trust with it. Having told Barney so much, McAllen wanted to tell more. He would have needed very little encouragement to go on talking about it now.

  Barney offered no encouragement. Instead, he gave McAllen a cautiously worded reminder that it was not inconceivable they had an audience here, at which McAllen reluctantly subsided. There was, however, one fairly important question Barney still wanted answered today. The nature of the answer would tell him the manner in which McAllen should now be handled.

  He waited until he was on his feet and ready to leave before presenting it McAllen’s plump cheeks were flushed from the two highballs he had put away, in somewhat awkward phrases be had been expressing his gratitude for Barney’s generous help, and his relief that because of it the work on the Tube now could be brought to an end.

  “Just one thing about that still bothers me a little, doctor,” Barney said candidly.

  McAllen looked concerned. “What’s that Mr. Chard?”

  “Well . . . you’re in good health, I’d say.” Barney smiled. “But suppose something did happen to you before you succeeded in shutting the McAIlen Tube down.” He inclined his head toward the locked door. “That tiling would still be around waiting for somebody to open it and step through . . .” McAllen’s expression of concern vanished. He dug a forefinger cheerfully into Barney’s ribs. “Young man, you needn’t worry. I’ve been aware of the possibility, of course, and believe me I’m keeping verycareful notes and instructions. Safe deposit boxes. . . we’ll talk about that tomorrow, eh? Somewhere else? Had a man in mind, as a matter of fact but we can make better arrangements now. You see, it’s really so ridiculously easy at this stage.”

  Barney cleared his throat “Some other physicist—?”

  “Any capable physicist” McAllen said decidedly. “Just a matter, you see of how reliable he is.” He winked at Barney. “Talk about that tomorrow too—or one of these days.” Barney stood looking down, with a kind of detached surprise, at a man who had just pronounced sentence of death casually on himself, and on an old friend. For the first time in Barney’s career, the question of deliberate murder not only entered an operation, but had become in an instant and unavoidable part of it Frank Elby, ambitious and money-hungry, could take over where McAllen left off. Elby was highly capable, and Elby could be controlled. McAllen could not. He could only be tricked; and, if necessary, killed.

  It was necessary, of course. If McAllen lived until he knew how to shut the Tube down safely, he simply would shut it down, destroy the device and his notes on it A man who had gone to such extreme lengths to safeguard the secret was not going to be talked out of his conviction that the McAllen Tube was a menace to the world. Fredericks, the morose eavesdropper, had to be silenced with his employer to assure Barney of his undisputed possession of the Tube.

  Could he still let the thing go, let McAllen live? He couldn’t, Barney decided. He’d dealt himself a hand in a new game, and a big one—a fantastic, staggering game when one considered the possibilities in the Tube. It meant new interest it meant life for him. It wasn’t in his nature to put out. The part about McAllen was cold necessity. A very ugly necessity, but McAllen—pleasantly burbling something as they walked down the short hall to the front door—already seemed a little unreal, a roly-poly, muttering, fading small ghost.

  In the doorway Barney exchanged a few words—he couldn’t have repeated them an instant later—with the ghost, became briefly aware of a remarkably firm hand clasp, and started down the cement walk to the street Evening had come to California at last; a few houses across the street made dim silhouettes against the hills, some of the windows lit He felt, Barney realized, curiously tired and depressed. A few steps behind him, he heard McAllen quietly closings the door to his home.

  The walk, the garden, the street, the houses and hills beyond, vanished in a soundlessly violent explosion of white light around Barney Chard.

  His eyes might have been open for several seconds before he became entirely aware of the fact He was on his back looking up at the low raftered ceiling of a room. The light was artificial, subdued; it gave the impression of nighttime outdoors.

  Memory suddenly blazed up. “Tricked!” came the first thought. Outsmarted. Outfoxed. And by—Then that went lost in a brief, intense burst of relief at the realization he was still alive, apparently unhurt Barney turned sharply over on his side—bed underneath, he discovered—and stared around.

  The room was low, wide. Something undefinably odd—

  He catalogued it quickly. Redwood walls, Navaho rugs on the floor, bookcases, unlit fireplace, chairs, table, desk with a typewriter and reading lamp. Across the room a tall dark grandfather clock with a bright metal disk instead of a clock-face stood against the wall. From it came a soft, low thudding as deliberate as the heartbeat of some big animal. It was the twin of one of the clocks he had seen in McAllen’s living room-

  The room was McAllen’s, of course. Almost luxurious by comparison with his home, but wholly typical of the man. And now Barney became aware of its unusual feature; there were no windows. There was one door, so far to his right he had to twist his head around to see it. It stood half open; beyond it a few feet of a narrow passage lay within his range of vision, lighted in the same soft manner as the room. No sound came from there.

  Had he been left atone? And what had happened? He wasn’t in McAllen’s home or in that fishing shack at the lake. The Tube might have picked him up—somehow—in front of McAllen’s house, transported him to the Mallorca place. Or he might be in a locked hideaway McAllen had built beneath the Sweetwater Beach house.

  Two things were unpleasantly obvious. His investigations hadn’t revealed all of McAllen’s secrets. And the old man hadn’t really been fooled by Barney Chard’s smooth approach. Not, at any rate, to the extent of deciding to trust him.

  Hot chagrin at the manner in which McAllen had handed the role of dupe back to him flooded Barney for a moment He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His coat had been hung neatly over the back of a chair a few feet away; his shoes stood next to the bed. Otherwise he was fully clothed. Nothing in the pockets of the coat appeared to have been touched; billfold, cigarette case, lighter, even the gun, were in place; the gun, almost startingly, was still loaded. Barney thrust the revolver thoughtfully into his trousers pocket His wrist watch seemed to be the only item missing.

  He glanced about the room again, then at the half-open door and the stretch of narrow hallway beyond. McAllen must have noticed the gun. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to take it away, or at least to unload it, might have been reassuring under different circumstances. Here, it could have a very disagreeable meaning. Barney wait quietly to the door, stood a few seconds, became convinced there was no one within hearing range, and moved on down the hall.

  In less than two minutes he returned to the room, with the first slow welling of panic inside him. He had found a bathroom, a small kitchen and pantry, a storage room twice as wide and long as the rest of the place combined, crammed with packaged and crated articles, and with
an attached freezer. If it was mainly stored food, as Barney thought, and if there was adequate ventilation and independent power, as seemed to be the case, then McAllen had constructed a superbly self-sufficient hideout A man might live comfortably enough for years without emerging from it There was only one thing wrong with the setup from Barney’s point of view. The thing he’d been afraid of. Nowhere was there an indication of a window or of an exit door. The McAllen Tube, of course, might make such ordinary conveniences unnecessary. And if the Tube was the only way in or out then McAllen incidentally had provided himself with an escape-proof jail for anyone he preferred to keep confined. The place might very well have been built several hundred feet underground. A rather expensive proposition but aside from that quite feasible.

  Barney felt his breath begin to quicken, and told himself to relax. Wherever he was, he shouldn’t be here long. McAllen presently would be getting in contact with him. And then—

  His glance touched the desk across the room, and now he noticed his missing wrist watch on it He went over, picked it up, and discovered that the long white envelope on which the watch had been placed was addressed to him.

  For a moment he stared at the envelope. Then, his fingers shaking a little, he tore open the envelope and pulled (Hit the typewritten sheets within.

  The letterhead, he saw without surprise, was OLIVER B. MCALLEN.

  The letter read:

  Dear Mr. Chard:

  An unfortunate series of circumstances, combined with certain character traits in yourself, make it necessary to inconvenience you in a rather serious manner.

  To explain: The information I gave you regarding the McAllen Tube and my own position was not entirely correct. It is not the intractable instrument I presented it as being—it can be “shut off” again quite readily and without any attendant difficulties. Further, the decision to conceal its existence was not reached by myself alone. For years we—that is, Mr. Fredericks, who holds a degree in engineering and was largely responsible for the actual construction of the Tube—-and I, have been members of an association of which I cannot tell you too much. But I may say that it acts, among other things as the present custodian of some of the more dangerous products of human science, and will continue to do so until a more stable period permits their safe release.

  To keep developments such as the McAllen Tube out of irresponsible hands is no easy task these days, but a variety of effective devices are employed to that end. In this instance, you happened upon a “rigged” situation, which had been designed to draw action from another man, an intelligent and unscrupulous individual who lately had indicated a disturbing interest in events connected with the semipublic fiasco of my “matter transmitter” some years ago. The chances of another person becoming aware of the temporal incongruities which were being brought to this man’s attention were regarded as so remote that they need be given no practical consideration. Nevertheless, the unexpected happened: you became interested. The promptness with which you acted on your chance observations shows a bold and imaginative manner of thinking on which you may be genuinely congratulated.

  However, a perhaps less commendable motivation was also indicated. While I appeared to stall on craning to decisions you may have regarded as inevitable, your background was being investigated by the association. The investigation confirmed that you fall within a personality category of which we have the greatest reason to be wary.

  Considering the extent of what you had surmised and learned, falsified though the picture was, this presented a serious problem. It was made more acute by the fact that the association is embarking on a “five-year-plan” of some importance. Publicity during this period would be more than ordinarily undesirable. It will therefore be necessary to see to it that you have no opportunity to tell what you know before the plan is concluded. I am sure you can see it would be most unwise to accept your simple word on the matter. Your freedom of movement and of communication must remain drastically restricted until this five-year period is over.

  Within the next two weeks, as shown by the clock in your quarters, it will have become impossible for me or for any member of the association to contact you again before the day of your release. I tell you this so that you will not nourish vain hopes of changing the situation in your favor, but will adjust as rapidly as you can to the fact that you must spend the next five years by yourself. What ameliorations of this basic condition appeared possible have been provided.

  It is likely that you will already have tried to find a way out of the cabin in which you were left. The manner of doing this will become apparent to you exactly twenty-four hours after I conclude and seal this letter. It seemed best to advise you of some details of your confinement before letting you discover that you have been given as much limited freedom as circumstances allowed.

  Sincerely yours,

  OLIVER B. MCALLEN

  Barney dropped the letter on the desk, stared down at it, his mouth open. His face had flushed red. “Why, he’s crazy!” he said aloud at last “He’s crazier than—” He straightened, looked uneasily about the room again.

  Whether a maniac McAllen made a more desirable jailer than a secret association engaged in keeping dangerous scientific developments under cover could be considered an open question. The most hopeful thought was that Dr. McAllen was indulging an unsuspected and nasty sense of humor.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t the slightest reason to believe it. McAllen was wise to him. The situation was no gag—and neither was it necessarily what McAllen wanted him to think. Unless his watch had been reset, he had been knocked out by whatever hit him for roughly five hours—or seventeen, he amended. But he would have been hungry if it had been the longer period; and he wasn’t Five hours then. Five hours wouldn’t have given them time to prepare the “cabin” as it was prepared: for someone’s indefinite stay. At a guess, McAllen had constructed it as a secure personal retreat in the event of something like a nuclear holocaust. But, in that case, why vacate it now for Barney Chard?

  Too many questions, he thought. Better just keep looking around.

  The blank metal face on the grandfather clock swung back to reveal a group of four dials, each graduated in a different manner, only one of them immediately familiar. Barney studied the other three for some seconds; then their meaning suddenly came clear. The big clock had just finished softly talking away the fourth hour of the first day of the first month of Year One. There were five figures on the Year Dial.

  He stared at it. A five-year period of—something seemed to be the key to the entire setup.

  Barney shook his head. Key it might be, but not one he could read without additional data. He snapped the cover disk shut on the unpleasantly suggestive dials, and began to go mentally over McAllen’s letter.

  The business that in twenty-four hours—twenty now—the manner of leaving the cabin would become “apparent” to him—that seemed to dispose of the possibility of being buried underground here. McAllen would hardly have provided him with a personal model of the Tube; he must be speaking of an ordinary door opening on the immediate environment equipped with a time lock.

  In that case, where was the door?

  Barney made a second, far more careful search. Three hours later, he concluded it He’d still found no trace of an exit. But the paneling in any of the rooms might slide aside to reveal one at the indicated time, or a section of the floor might swing back above a trap door. There was no point in attempting to press the search any further. After all, he only had to wait.

  On the side, he’d made other discoveries. After opening a number of crates in the storage room, and checking contents of the freezer, he could assume that there was in fact more than enough food here to sustain one man for five years. Assuming the water supply held out—there was no way of checking on it; the source of the water like that of the power and the ventilation lay outside the area which was accessible to him—but if the water could be depended on, he wouldn’t go hungry or thirsty. Even tobacco
and liquor were present in comparably liberal quantities. The liquor he’d seen was all good; almost at random he had selected a bottle of cognac and brought it and a glass to the main room with him. The thought of food wasn’t attractive at the moment But he could use a drink.

  He half-filled the glass, emptied it with a few swallows, refilled it and took it over to one of the armchairs. He began to feel more relaxed almost at once. But the truth was, he acknowledged, settling back in the chair, that the situation was threatening to unnerve him completely. Everything he’d seen implied McAllen’s letter came close to stating the facts; what wasn’t said became more alarming by a suggestion of deliberate vagueness. Until that melodramatically camouflaged door was disclosed—seventeen hours from now—he’d be better off if he didn’t try to ponder the thing out.

  And the best way to do that might be to take a solid load on rapidly, and then sleep away as much of the intervening time as possible.

  He wasn’t ordinarily a hard drinker, but he’d started on the second bottle before the cabin began to blur on him. Afterwards, he didn’t remember making it over to the bed.

  Barney woke up ravenous and without a trace of hangover. Making a mental adjustment to his surroundings took no more time than opening his eyes; he’d been dreaming Dr. McAllen had dropped him into a snake pit find was sadistically dangling a rope twelve feet above his head, inviting him to climb out To find himself still in the softly lit cabin was—far a few seconds, at any rate—a relief.

  The relief faded as he sat up and looked at his watch. Still over an hour to go before McAllen’s idiotic door became “apparent.” Barney swore and headed tor the bathroom to freshen up.

  There was an electric shaver there, the end of its con) vanishing into the wall. Barney used it as meticulously as if he were embarking on a day of normal activities, prepared a breakfast in the kitchen and took it to the main room. He ate unhurriedly, absorbed in his thoughts, now and then glancing about the room. After a few minutes he uneasily pushed back the plate and stood up. If McAllen’s twenty-four hours began with the moment the big clock in the room had been started, the door should be in evidence by now.