You are not supposed to believe this story, and, if you ask Sam Yoder about it, he is apt to say that it’s all a lie. But Sam is a bit sensitive about it. He doesnt want the question of privacy to be raised again - especially in Rosie’s hearing. And there are other matters. But it’s all perfecdy respectable and straightforward. It could have happened to anybody - well, almost anybody. Anybody, say, who was a telephone lineman for the Batesviile and Rappahannock Telephone Company, who happened to be engaged to Rosie and who had been told admiringly by Rosie that anybody as smart as he was ought to do something wonderful and get rich - and, of course, anybody who’d taken that seriously, had been puttering around on a device to make private conversations on a party-line telephone possible and almost had the trick.
It began about six o’clock on July second, when Sam was up a telephone pole near Bridge’s Run. He was hunting for the place where that party line had gone dead. He’d hooked in his lineman’s phone, and, since he couldn’t raise Central, he was just going to start looking for the break when his phone rang back. The line had checked dead both ways from this spot,
but when the call-bell rang he put the receiver to his ear. ‘Hello,’ said Sam. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Sam,’ said a voice, ‘this is you.’
Huh?’ said Sam. ‘What’s that?’
‘This is you,’ the voice on the wire repeated. ‘You, Sam Yoder. Don’t you recognize your own voice? This is you, Sam Yoder, calling from the twelfth of July. Don’t hang up!’
Sam didn’t even think of hanging up. He was pained. He was up a telephone pole trying to do some work, resting in his safety belt and with his climbing-irons safely fixed in the wood. Naturally, he thought somebody was trying to joke with him, and when a man is working is no time for practical jokes.
‘I’m not hanging up,’ Sam said dourly, ‘but you’d better!’ The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. If it talked a little more, he knew he would. He knew it just about as well as he knew his own, and it was irritating not to be able to call this joker by name.
The voice said, ‘Sam, it’s the second of July where you are, and you’re up a pole by Bridge’s Run. The line’s dead in two places, else I couldn’t talk to you. Lucky, ain’t it?’
Sam said formidably, ‘Whoever you are, it ain’t going to be lucky for you if you ever need telephone service and you’ve kept wasting my time. I’m busy!’
‘But I’m you!’ the voice insisted persuasively. sAnd you’re me! We’re both the same Sam Yoder, only where I am it’s July twelfth. Where you are it’s July second. You’ve heard of time-traveling, but that’s nonsense. That won’t work. But this is time-talking, and it does work! You’re talking to yourself -that’s me - and I’m talking to myself - that’s you - and it looks like we’ve got a mighty good chance to get rich.’
Then something came into Sam’s memory, and he stiffened. Every muscle in his body went taut and tight, even as he was saying to himself, ‘It can’t be!’ But he’d remembered hearing somewhere that, if a man goes and stands in a corner and talks to the wall, his voice will sound to him just like it sounds to somebody else. And being in the telephone business he’d tried it. And now he did recognize the voice. It was his. His own.
Talking to him. Which, of course, was impossible, only it appeared to be a fact.
‘Look,’ Sam said hoarsely, ‘1 don’t believe this!’
‘Then listen,’ said the voice briskly. And it was his own voice. There couldn’t be any more mistake about it than if he’d been looking in a mirror at his own face. But in about half a minute Sam’s face began to get red. It burned. His ears began to feel scorched. Because the voice - his voice - was telling him strictly private anecdotes that nobody else in the world knew. Nobody but he and Rosie.
‘Quit it!’ Sam groaned. ‘Either you or me is crazy! Or you’re Old Scratch! Quit it! Somebody might be listening. Tell me what you want and ring off!’
The voice - his own voice - told him what it wanted. It sounded pleased. It told him precisely what it wanted him to do. And then, very kindly, it told him exactly where the two breaks in the line were. And then it rang off.
Sam sweated when he looked at the first of the two places. The break was there, all right. He fixed it. He looked at the second place, where a joining was bad, and he fixed that. It was where his voice had said it would be. And that was as impossible as anything else. When he’d fixed the second dead place Sam called Central and told her he was sick and was going home and that, if there were any other phones that needed fixing today, people were probably better off without phone service, anyhow.
He went home, washed his face, and made himself a brew of coffee and drank it - but none of his memory changed. Presendy he heard himself muttering.
So he said defiantly, ‘There ain’t any crazy people in my family, so it ain’t likely I’ve gone out of my head. But Gawd knows nobody but Rosie knows about me telling her sentimental that her nose is so cute I couldn’t believe she’d ever had to blow it! Maybe it was me, talking to myself.’
Talking to oneself is not abnormal. Lots of people do it. But Sam missed the implication he could have drawn from the fact that he’d answered himself back. He reasoned painfully. fIf somebody drove over to Rappahannock, past Dunnsville,
and telephoned back that there was a brush fire at Dunnsville, I wouldn’t be surprised to get to Dunnsville and find a brush fire there. So, if somebody phones back from next Tuesday that Mr. Broaddus broke his leg next Tuesday - why, I shouldn’t be surprised to get to next Tuesday and find he done it. Going to Rappahannock past Dunnsville and going to next Thursday past next Tuesday ain’t so much difference. It’s only the difference between a road-map and a calendar!’
Then he began to see implications. He blinked.
‘Yes, sir!’ he said, in awe. ‘I wouldn’t’ve thought of it if I hadn’t told myself on the telephone, but there is money to be made out of this! I must be near as smart as Rosie thinks I am! I’d better get that dinkus set up!’
He set to work in some enthusiasm. He’d more or less halfheartedly worked out an idea of how a party-line telephone conversation could be made private, and just out of instinct he’d accumulated a lot of stuff around the house that should have been on the phone company’s inventory. There were condensers and phone-microphones and selective-ringing bells and resistances and the like. He’d meant to put some of them together some day and see what happened. But he’d been too busy courting Rosie to get at it.
Now he did get to work. His own voice on the telephone had told him to. It’d warned him that one thing he’d intended wouldn’t work, but something else would. It was essentially simple, after all. He finished it, cut off his line from Central and hooked the gadget in. He rang. Half a minute later somebody rang back.
‘Hello!’ said Sam, sweating. He’d broken the line to Central, remember. In theory, he shouldn’t have gotten anybody anywhere.
But a very familiar voice said, ‘Hello,’ back at him, and Sam swallowed and said, ‘Hello, Sam! This is you in the second of July.’
The voice at the other end agreed cordially. It said that Sam had done pretty well, and now the two of them - Sam in the here and now and Sam in the middle of the week after next -would proceed to get rich together. But the voice from July twelfth seemed less absorbed in the conversation than Sam thought quite right. It seemed even abstracted. And Sam was at once sweating from the pure unreasonableness of the affair and conscious that he rated congratulations for the highly technical device he had built. After all, not everybody could build a time-talker! He said with some irony, ‘If you’re too busy to talk—’ ‘I’ll tell you,’ said the voice from the twelfth of July, gratified. ‘I am kind of busy right now. You’ll understand when you get to where I am. Don’t get mad, Sam! Tell you what! You go see Rosie, and tell her about this and have a nice evening together. Ha ha!’
“Now what,’ Sam said cagily, ‘do you mean by that “Ha ha”?’
‘You’ll find out,’ said the voice. ‘Knowin’ what I know, I’ll even double it. Ha ha, ha ha!’
There was a click. Sam yapped at the dead telephone. He rang back, but got no answer. He may have been the first man in history to take an instinctive and completely sincere dislike to himself for good cause. But presently he muttered, ‘Smart, huh? There’s two can play at that. I’m the one that’s got to do things if we are both goin’ to get rich.
He put his gadget away carefully, parted his hair, ate some cold food around the house and drove over to see Rosie. It was a night and an errand that ordinarily would have seemed purely romantic. There were fireflies floating about, and the moon shone down splendidly, and a perfumed breeze carried mosquitos from one place to another. It was the sort of night on which ordinarily Sam would have thought only of Rosie, and Rosie would have optimistic ideas about how housekeeping could, after all, be conducted on what Sam made a week.
They got settled down in the hammock on Rosie’s front porch, and Sam said expansively, ‘Rosie, I’ve made up my mind to get rich. You ought to have everything your little heart desires. Suppose you tell me what you want so I’ll know how rich I’ve got to get?’
Rosie drew back. She looked sharply at Sam.
‘Do you feel all right, Sam?’
He beamed at her. He’d never been married, and he didn’t know how crazy it sounded to Rosie to be queried on how much money would satisfy her. There simply isn’t any answer to that question.
‘Listen,’ Sam said tenderly. ‘Nobody knows it, but tonight Joe Hunt and the Widow Backus are eloping romantic to North Carolina to get married. We’ll find out about it tomorrow. And day after tomorrow, on the folrth of July, Dunnsville is going to win the baseball game with Bradensberg, seven to five, all tied till the ninth inning, and then George Peeby is going to hit a homer with Fred Holmes on second base.’
Rosie stared at him. Sam explained complacendy. The Sam Yoder in the middle of the week after next had told him what to expect in those particular cases. He would tell him other things to expect, so Sam was going to get rich.
Rosie said, ‘Sam! Somebody was playing a joke on you!’
‘Yeah?’ Sam said comfortably. ’‘Who else but me knows what you said to me that time you thought I was mad with you and you were crying out back of the well-house?’
sSam!’ said Rosie.
‘And,’ Sam went on, ‘nobody else knows about that time we were picknicking and a bug got down the back of your dress and you thought it was a hornet.’
‘Sam Yoder!’ wailed Rosie. ‘You never told anybody about that!’
‘Nope,’ Sam said truthfully, ‘I never did. But die me in the week after next knew. He told me! So he had to be me talking to me. Couldn’t’ve been anybody else.’
Rosie gasped. Sam explained all over again. In detail. When he had finished, Rosie seemed dazed.
Then she said desperately, ‘S-sam! Either you’ve t-told somebody else everything we ever said or did together, or else -else there’s somebody who knows every word we ever said to each other. That’s awful! Do you really and truly mean to tell me—’
‘Sure I mean to tell you,’ Sam said happily. ‘The me in the week after next called me up and talked about things nobody knows but you and me. Can’t be no doubt at all! ’
Rosie shivered^ Then she chattered, ‘He - he knows every word we ever said. Then he knows every word we’re saying now!* She gulped. ‘Sam Yoder, you go home!’
Sam gaped at her. She got up and backed away from him.
‘D-do you think,’ she said despairingly, ‘that I - that I’m g-going to talk to you when - s-somebody else listens to every w-word I say and - knows everything I do? D-do you think I’m going to m-marry you, Sam Yoder?’
Then she ran away, weeping noisily, slammed the door on Sam and wouldn’t come out again. Her father came out presently, looking patient, and asked Sam to go home so Rosie could finish crying and he could read his newspaper in peace.
On the way back to his own house Sam meditated darkly. By the time he got home he was furious. The him in the week after next could have warned him about this! When he got home he rang and rang and rang on the cutoff line, with his gadget hooked in to call July the Twelfth. But there was no answer.
When morning came he rang again, but there was still no answer. He loaded his tool-kit in the truck and went off to work feeling about as low as a man could feel.
He felt lower when he reported at the office and somebody told him excitedly that Joe Hunt and the Widow Backus had eloped to North Carolina to get married. Nobody’d have tried to stop them if they’d gotten married prosaically at home, but they’d eloped to make things more romantic.
It wasn’t romantic to Sam. It was devastating proof that there was another him ten days off, knowing everything he knew and more besides, and very likely laughing his head off at the fix Sam was in. Because, obviously, Rosie would be still more convinced when she heard this news. She’d know Sam wasn’t crazy or the victim of a practical joke. He’d told the truth.
It wasn’t the first time a man got in trouble with a woman by telling her the truth, but it was new to Sam. It hurt.
He went over to Bradensburg that day to repair some broken lines, and around noon he went into a store to get something to eat. There were some local sportsmen in the store, bragging to each other about what the Bradensburg baseball team would do to the Dunnsville nine on the morrow.
Sam said peevishly, ‘Huh! Dunnsville will win that game by two runs!’
A local sportsman said pugnaciously:
‘Have you got any money that agrees with you? If you have, put it up and let somebody cover it!’
Sam wanted to draw back. But he had roused the civic pride of Bradensburg. He tried to temporize, and he was jeered at. In the end, indignandy, he dragged out all the money he had with him and bet it - eleven dollars. It was covered instantly, amid raucous laughter. And on the way back to Batesville he reflected unhappily that he was going to make eleven dollars out of knowing what was going to happen in the ninth inning of that ball game, but it looked like he’d lost Rosie.
He tried to call the other himself up again that night. There was no more answer than before. He unhooked the gadget and restored normal service to himself. He called Rosie’s house. She answered the phone herself.
‘Rosie,’ Sam said yearningly, ‘are you still mad with me?’
‘I never was mad with you,’ said Rosie, gulping. sI’m mad with whoever was talking to you on that phone and knows all our private affairs. And I’m mad with you if you told him.’ ‘But I didn’t tell him!’ Sam said despairingly. ‘He’s me! All he has to do is just remember! I tried to call him again last night and again this morning,’ he added bitterly, ‘and he don’t answer. Maybe he’s gone off somewheres. I’m thinking it might be a - a kind of illusion, maybe.’
‘You said there’d be an elopement last night,’ said Rosie, her voice wabbling. ‘And there was. Joe Hunt and the Widow Backus. Just like you said!’
‘It - it could’ve been a coincidence,’ said Sam, not too hopefully.
‘I’m - w-waiting,’ Rosie said shakily, to see if Dunnsville beats Bradensburg seven to five tomorrow, tied to the ninth, with George Peeby hitting a homer then with Fred Holmes on second base. If - if that happens, I’ll - I’ll die!’
‘Why?’ asked Sam.
‘Because/ Rosie wailed, ‘it’ll mean that I can’t m-marry you ever, because s-somebody else’d be looking over your shoulder and we wouldn’t ever be by ourselves all our lives, night or day!’
She hung up, weeping, and Sam swore slowly and steadily and with venom. As he swore, he worked to hook up his device again. And then Sam rang, and rang, and rang. But he didn’t answer.
Next day, in the big Fourth of July game, Dunnsville beat Bradensburg seven to five. It was tied to the ninth. Then George Peeby hit a homer with Fred Holmes on second base. Sam collected eleven dollars in winnings, but he could have wept.
> He stayed home that night, brooding and every so often trying to call himself up on the device he had invented and been told - by himself - to modify. It was a nice gadget, but Sam did not enjoy it. It was a nice night, too. There was moonlight. But Sam did not enjoy that, either. Moonlight wouldn’t do Sam any good as long as there was another him in the middle of the week after next, refusing to talk to him so he could get out of the fix he was in.
But next morning the phone-bell woke him up. He swore at it out of habit until he got out of bed, and then he realized that his gadget was hooked in and Central was cut off. Then he made it in one jump to the instrument.
‘Hello!’
‘Don’t fret/ said his own voice, patronizingly. ‘Rosie’s going to make up with you.’
‘How in blazes d’you know what she’s going to do?’ Sam raged. ‘She won’t marry me with you hanging around! I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get rid of you—’
Hush up!’ said the voice on the telephone, impatiently, ‘I’m busy! I’ve got to go collect the money you’ve made for us.’
You collect money?’ roared Sam. ‘I get in trouble and you collect money?’
‘1 have to collect it/ his voice said with the impatient patience of one speaking to a small and idiot child, ‘before you can have it. Listen here! Where you are it’s Tuesday. You’re going over to Dunnsville today to fix some phones. You’ll be in Mr. Broaddus’s law office about half-past ten. You look out the window and notice a fella sitting in a car in front of the bank. Notice him good!’
‘1 won’t do it,’ Sam said defiantly. ‘I ain’t taking any orders from you! Maybe you’re me, but I make money and you collect it. For all I know you spend it before I get to it! I’m quitting this business right now! It’s cost me my own true love and all my life’s happiness and to hell with you!’
Murray Leinster Page 11