Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley

by Robert Sheckley

  The warm water lapped around his chest. Life, Dillon told himself sleepily, is nothing more than an itch on the hide of the non-living, a parasite of matter. Quantity counts, he told himself, as the water stroked his neck. What is the tininess of life compared to the vastness of nonliving? If nonliving is natural, he thought as the water touched his chin, then to live is to be diseased. And life’s only healthy thought is the wish for death.

  Death was a pleasant thought at that moment, as the water caressed his lips. There was a tiredness past resting, and a sickness past healing. Now it would be easy to let go, go down, abandon—

  “Very good,” Dillon whispered, pulling himself to his feet. “Very good try, Arek. Perhaps you’re tired, too? Perhaps there’s not much left in you but a little emotion?”

  It grew dark, and in the dark something whispered to Dillon, something that looked like him in miniature, that curled itself warmly on his shoulder.

  “But there are worse things than death,” his miniature said. “There are things no living being can face, guilty knowledge concealed in the very bottom of the soul, loathed and detested, but knowledge, and never to be denied. Death is better than this knowledge, Dillon. Death becomes precious, and infinitely costly. Death is to be prayed for, and cunning schemes are laid to capture death—when you must face what lies at the bottom of your soul.”

  Dillon tried not to listen to the creature who looked so much like himself. But the miniature clung to his shoulder and pointed. And Dillon saw something forming in the darkness, and recognized its form.

  “Not this, Dillon,” his double pleaded. “Please, not this! Be courageous, Dillon! Choose your death! Be bold, be brave! Know how to die at the right time!”

  Dillon, recognizing the shape of what was coming toward him, felt a fear he would never have imagined possible. For this was knowledge from the bottom of his soul, guilty knowledge of himself and all he ever thought he stood for.

  “Quickly, Dillon!” his double cried. “Be strong, be bold, be true! Die while you still know what you are!”

  And Dillon wanted to die. With a vast sigh of relief he began to release his hold, to let his essence slip away ...

  And couldn’t.

  “Help me!” he screamed.

  “I can’t!” his miniature screamed back. “You must do this for yourself!”

  And Dillon tried again, with knowledge pressing close to his eyeballs, asked for death, begged for death, and could not let himself die.

  So there was only one thing to do. He gathered his last strength and flung himself despairingly forward, at the shape that danced before him.

  It disappeared.

  After a moment Dillon realized that every threat was gone. He was standing alone in territory he had conquered. In spite of everything, he had won! Before him now lay the citadel, untenanted, waiting for him. He felt a wave of respect for poor Arek. He had been a good fighter, a worthy adversary. Perhaps he could spare him a little living space, if Arek didn’t try to—

  “That’s very kind of you, Dillon,” a voice boomed out.

  Dillon had no time to react. He was caught in a grip so powerful that any thought of resistance was futile. Only then did he sense the real power of the K’egran’s mind.

  “You did well, Dillon,” Arek said. “You need never be ashamed of the fight you fought.”

  “But I never had a chance,” Dillon said.

  “No, never,” Arek said gently. “You thought the Earth invasion plan was unique, as most young races feel. But K’egra is ancient, Dillon, and in our time we have been invaded many times, physically and mentally. So it’s really nothing new for us.”

  “You played with me!” Dillon cried.

  “I wanted to find out what you were like,” Arek said.

  “How smug you must have felt! It was a game with you. All right, get it over with, finish it!”

  “Finish what?”

  “Kill me!”

  “Why should I kill you?” Arek asked.

  “Because—because what else can you do with me? Why should I be treated differently from the rest?”

  “You met some of the others, Dillon. You wrestled with Ehtan, who had inhabited a swamp on his home planet, before he took to voyaging. And the miniature who whispered so persuasively in your ear is Oolermik, who came not too long ago, all bluster and fire, much like yourself.”

  “But—”

  “We accepted them here, made room for them, used their qualities to complement ours. Together we are more than we had been apart.”

  “You live together?” Dillon whispered. “In your body?”

  “Of course. Good bodies are scarce in the galaxy, and there’s not much room for the living. Dillon, meet my partners.”

  And Dillon saw the amorphous swamp creature again, and the scaly-hided Oolermik, and a dozen others.

  “But it can’t be!” Dillon cried. “Alien races can’t live together! Life is struggle and death! That’s a fundamental law of nature.”

  “An early law,” Arek said. “Long ago we discovered that cooperation means survival for all, and on far better terms. You’ll get used to it. Welcome into the confederacy, Dillon!”

  And Dillon, still dazed, entered the citadel, to sit in partnership with many races of the galaxy.

  DOUBLE INDEMNITY

  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 list 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.

  He had spent a long time studying that history. His plans required a Barthold. But not just any Barthold. He needed a male Barthold, thirty-eight years old, unmarried, out of touch with his family, with no close friends and no important job. If possible, with no job at all.

  He needed a Barthold, who, if he suddenly vanished, would never be missed, never searched for.

  With those specifications, Barthold had been able to cut thousands of Bartholds out of his list. Most male Bartholds were married by the age of thirty-eight. Some hadn’t lived that long. Others, single and unattached at thirty-eight, had good friends and strong family ties. Some, out of contact with family and friends, were men whose disappearance would be investigated.

  After a good deal of culling, Barthold was left with a mere handful. These he would check, in the hope of finding one who suited all his requirements ...

  If such a man existed, he thought, and quickly banished the thought from his mind.

  After a while, the grayness dissolved. He looked out and saw that he was on a cobblestone street. An odd, high-sided auto
mobile chugged past him, driven by a man in a straw hat.

  He was in New York, 1912.

  The first man on his list was Jack Barthold, known to his friends as Bully Jack, a journeyman printer with a wandering eye and a restless foot. Jack had deserted his wife and three children in Cheyenne in 1902, with no intention of returning. For Barthold’s purposes, this made him as good as single. Bully Jack had served a hitch with General Pershing, then returned to his trade. He drifted from print shop to print shop, never staying long. Now, at the age of thirty-eight, he was working somewhere in New York.

  Barthold started at the Battery and began hunting his way through New York’s print shops. At the eleventh one, on Water Street, he located his man.

  “You want Jack Barthold?” an old master printer asked him. “Sure, he’s in the back. Hey, Jack! Fellow to see you!”

  Barthold’s pulse quickened. A man was coming toward him, out of the dark recesses of the shop. The man approached, scowling.

  “I’m Jack Barthold,” he said. “Whatcha want?”

  Barthold looked at his relative and sadly shook his head. This Barthold obviously would not do.

  “Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.” He turned quickly and left the shop.

  Bully Jack, five foot eight inches tall and weighing two hundred and ninety pounds, scratched his head.

  “Now what in hell was all that about?” he asked.

  The old master printer shrugged his shoulders.

  Everett Barthold returned to his Flipper and reset the controls. A pity, he told himself, but a fat man would never fit into his plans.

  His next stop was Memphis, 1869. Dressed in an appropriate costume, Barthold went to the Dixie Belle Hotel and inquired at the desk for Ben Bartholder.

  “Well, suh,” said the courtly white-haired old man behind the desk, “his key’s in, so I reckon he’s out. You might find him in the corner saloon with the other trashy carpetbaggers.”