“Fine. Sign this.”
“What is it?” Bairthre asked, frowning at the legal-looking document that Barthold had thrust before him.
“It simply states that, upon receiving adequate compensation as set by the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation, you will go at once to a past of your own choosing and there remain, waiving any and all rights to the Present. Sign it as Everett Barthold. I’ll fill in the date later.”
“But the signature—” Bairthre began to object, then halted and grinned. “Through hypno-learning, I know about hypno-learning and what it can do, including the fact that you didn’t have to give me the answers to my questions. As soon as I asked them, I knew the explanations. The mirror-flaw, too, by the way—that’s why you hypnoed me into being left-handed and left-eyed. And, of course, the grafted fingerprints go the opposite way, the same as if you saw them in a mirror.”
“Correct,” said Barthold. “Any other questions?”
“None I can think of at the moment. I don’t even have to compare our signatures. I know they’ll be identical, except—” Again he paused and looked angry. “That’s a lousy trick! I’ll be writing backward!”
Barthold smiled. “Naturally. How else would you be a mirror-image of me? And just in case you decide you like my time better than yours and try to have me sent back, remember the precautions I took beforehand. They’re good enough to send you to the Prison Planetoid for life.”
He handed the document to Bairthre.
“You don’t take any chances, do you?” Bairthre said, signing.
“I try to cover all eventualities. It’s my home and my present that we’re going to, and I plan to keep possession. Come on. You need a haircut and a general going-over.”
Side by side, the identical-looking men walked to the Flipper.
Mavis Barthold didn’t have to worry about overacting. When two Everett Bartholds walked in the front door, wearing identical garments, with the same expression of nervous embarrassment, and when two Everett Bartholds said, “Er, Mavis, this will take a little explaining ...”
It was just too much. Foreknowledge acted as no armor. She shrieked, threw her arms in the air, and fainted.
Later, when her two husbands had revived her, she regained some composure. “You did it, Everett!” she said. “Everett?”
“That’s me,” said Barthold. “Meet my kinsman, Connor Lough mac Bairthre.”
“It’s unbelievable!” cried Mrs. Barthold.
“Then we look alike?” her husband asked.
“Exactly alike. Just exactly!”
“From now on,” said Barthold, “think of us both as Everett Barthold. The insurance investigators will be watching you. Remember—either of us, or both, could be your husband. Treat us exactly alike.”
“As you wish, my dear,” Mavis said demurely.
“Except, of course, for the matter of—I mean except in the area of—of—damn it all, Mavis, can’t you really tell which one of us is me?”
“Of course I can, dear,” Mavis said. “A wife always knows her husband.” And she gave Bairthre a quick look, which he returned with interest.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Barthold. “Now I must contact the insurance company.” He hurried into the other room.
“So you’re a relative of my husband,” Mavis said to Bairthre. “How alike you look!”
“But I’m really quite different,” Bairthre assured her.
“Are you? You look so like him! I wonder if you really can be different.”
“I’ll prove it to you.”
“How?”
“By singing you a song of ancient Ireland,” Bairthre said, and proceeded at once in a fine, high tenor voice.
It wasn’t quite what Mavis had in mind. But she realized that anyone so like her husband would have to be obtuse about some things.
And from the other room, she could, hear Barthold saying, “Hello, Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation? Mr. Gryns, please. Mr. Gryns? This is Everett Barthold. Something rather unfortunate seems to have happened ...”
There was consternation at the offices of the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation, and confusion, and dismay, and a swift telephoning of underwriters, when two Everett Bartholds walked in, with identical nervous little smiles.
“First case of its kind in fifteen years,” said Mr. Gryns. “Oh, Lord! You will submit, of course, to a full examination?”
“Of course,” said Barthold.
“Of course,” said Barthold.
The doctors poked and probed them. They found differences, which they carefully listed with long Latin terms. But all the differences were within the normal variation range for temporal identicals and no amount of juggling on paper could change that. So the company psychiatrists took over.
Both men responded to all questions with careful slowness. Bairthre kept his wits about him and his nerve intact. Using his hynoed knowledge of Barthold, he answered the questions slowly but well, exactly as did Barthold.
Inter-Temporal engineers checked the time clock in the Flipper. They dismantled it and put it back together again. They examined the controls, set for Present, 1912, 1869, 1676, and 1595. 662 had also been punched—illegally—but the time clock showed that it had not been activated. Barthold explained that he had hit the control accidentally and thought it best to leave it alone.
It was suspicious, but not actionable.
A lot of power had been used, the engineers pointed out. But the time clock showed stops only to 1595. They brought the time clock back to the lab for further investigation.
The engineers then went over the interior of the Flipper inch by inch, but could find nothing incriminating. Barthold had taken the precaution of throwing the brown suitcase and its contents into the English Channel before leaving the year 662.
Mr. Gryns offered a settlement, which the two Bartholds turned down. He offered two more, which were refused. And, finally, he admitted defeat.
The last conference was held in Gryns’s office. The two Bartholds sat on either side of Gryns’s desk, looking slightly bored with the entire business. Gryns looked like a man whose neat and predictable world has been irrevocably upset.
“I just can’t understand it,” he said. “In the years you traveled in, sirs, the odds against a time flaw are something like a million to one!”
“I guess we’re that one,” said Barthold, and Bairthre nodded.
“But somehow it just doesn’t seem—well, what’s done is done. Have you gentlemen decided the question of your coexistence?”
Barthold handed Gryns the paper that Bairthre had signed in 662. “He is going to leave, immediately upon receipt of his compensation.”
“Is this satisfactory to you, sir?” Gryns asked Bairthre.
“Sure,” said Bairthre. “I don’t like it here anyhow.”
“Sir?”
“I mean,” Bairthre said hastily, “what I mean is, I’ve always wanted to get away, you know, secret desire, live in some quiet spot, nature, simple people, all that ...“
“I see,” Mr. Gryns said dubiously. “And do you feel that way, sir?” he asked, turning to Barthold.
“Certainly,” Barthold asserted. “I have the same secret desires he has. But one of us has to stay—sense of duty, you know—and I’ve agreed to remain.”
“I see,” Gryns said. But his tone made it clear that he didn’t see at all. “Hah. Well. Your checks are being processed now, gentlemen. A purely mechanical procedure. They can be picked up tomorrow morning—always assuming that no proofs of fraud are presented to us before then.”
The atmosphere was suddenly icy. The two Bartholds said good-by to Mr. Gryns and left very quickly.
They rode the elevator down in silence. Outside the building, Bairthre said, “Sorry about that slip about not liking it here.”
“Shut up!”
“Huh?”
Barthold seized Bairthre by the arm and dragged him into an automatic heli, taking care not to choose the first emp
ty one he saw.
He punched for Westchester, then looked back to see if they were being followed. When he was certain they were not, he checked the interior of the heli for camera or recording devices. At last he turned to speak to Bairthre.
“You utter damned fool! That boner could have cost us a fortune!”
“I’ve been doing the best I can,” Bairthre said sullenly. “What’s wrong now? Oh, you mean they suspect.”
“That’s what’s wrong! Gryns is undoubtedly having us followed. If they can find anything—anything at all to upset our claim—it could mean the Prison Planetoid.”
“We’ll have to watch our steps,” said Bairthre soberly.
“I’m glad you realize it,” Barthold said.
They dined quietly in a Westchester restaurant and had several drinks. This put them in a better frame of mind. They were feeling almost happy when they returned to Barthold’s house and sent the heli back to the city.
“We will sit and play cards tonight,” said Barthold, “and talk, and drink coffee, and behave as though we both were Barthold. In the morning, I’ll go collect our checks.”
“Good enough,” Bairthre agreed. “I’ll be glad to get back. I don’t see how you can stand it with iron and stone all around you. Ireland, man! A king in Ireland, that’s what I’ll be!”
“Don’t talk about it now.” Barthold opened the door and they entered.
“Good evening, dear,” Mavis said, looking at a point exactly midway between them.
“I thought you said you knew me,” Barthold commented sourly.
“Of course I do, darling,” Mavis said, turning to him with a bright smile. “I just didn’t want to insult poor Mr. Bairthre.”
“Thank you, kind lady,” said Bairthre. “Perhaps I’ll sing you another song of ancient Ireland later.”
“That would be lovely, I’m sure,” Mavis said. “A man telephoned you, dear. He’ll call later. Honey, I’ve been looking at ads for scart fur. The Polar Martian Scart is a bit more expensive than plain Canal Martian Scart, but—”
“A man called?” Barthold asked. “Who?”
“He didn’t say. Anyhow, it wears much better and the fur has that iridescent sheen that only—”
“Mavis! What did he want?”
“It was something about the double indemnity claim,” she said. “But that’s all settled, isn’t it?”
“It is not settled until I have the check in my hand,” Barthold told her. “Now tell me exactly what he said.”
“Well, he told me he was calling about your so-called claim on the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation—”
“’So-called?’ Did he say ‘so-called’?”
“Those were his exact words. So-called claim on the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation. He said he had to speak to you immediately, before morning.”
Barthold’s face had turned gray. “Did he say he’d phone back?”
“He said he’d call in person.”
“What is it?” Bairthre asked. “What does it mean? Of course—an insurance investigator!”
“That’s right,” Barthold said. “He must have found something.”
“But what?”
“How should I know? Let me think!”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. The three Bartholds looked at each other dumbly.
The doorbell rang again. “Open up, Barthold!” a voice called. “Don’t try to duck me!”
“Can we kill him?” Bairthre asked.
“Too complicated,” said Barthold, after a little thought. “Come on! Out the back way!”
“But why?”
“The Flipper’s parked there. We’re going into the past! Don’t you see? If he had proof, he’d have given it to the insurance people already. So he only suspects. He probably thinks he can trip us up with questions. If we can keep away from him until morning, we’re safe!”
“What about me?” Mavis quavered.
“Stall him,” Barthold said, dragging Bairthre out the back door and into the Flipper. The doorbell was jangling insistently as Barthold slammed the Flipper’s door and turned to the controls.
Then he realized that the Inter-Temporal engineers had not returned his time clock.
He was lost, lost. Without the time clock, he couldn’t take the Flipper anywhere. For an instant, he was in a complete state of panic. Then he regained control of himself and tried to think the problem through.
His controls were still set for Present, 1912, 1869, 1676, 1595, and 662. Therefore, even without the time clock, he could activate any of those dates manually. Flying without a time clock was a federal offense, but to hell with that.
Quickly he stabbed 1912 and worked the controls. Outside, he heard his wife shrieking. Heavy footsteps were pounding through his house.
“Stop! Stop, you!” the man was shouting.
And then Barthold was surrounded by a filmy, never-ending grayness as the Flipper speeded down the years.
Barthold parked the Flipper on the Bowery. He and Bairthre went into a saloon, ordered a nickel beer apiece, and worked on the free lunch.
“Damned nosy investigator,” Barthold muttered. “Well, we’ve shaken him now. I’ll have to pay a stiff fine for joyriding a Flipper with no time clock. But I’ll be able to afford it.”
“It’s all moving too fast for me,” said Bairthre, downing a great gulp of beer. Then he shook his head and shrugged. “I was just going to ask you how going into the past would help us collect our checks in the morning in your Present. But I realize I know the answer.”
“Of course. It’s the elapsed time that counts. If we can stay hidden in the past for twelve hours or so, we’ll arrive in my time twelve hours later than we left. Prevents all sorts of accidents such as arriving just as you depart, or even before. Routine traffic precautions.”
Bairthre munched a salami sandwich. “The hypno-learning is a little sketchy about the time trip. Where are we?”
“New York, 1912. A very interesting era.”
“I just want to go home. What are those big men in blue?”
“They’re policemen,” Barthold said. “They seem to be looking for someone.”
Two mustached policemen had entered the saloon, followed by an enormously fat man in ink-stained clothes.
“There they are!” shouted Bully Jack Barthold. “Arrest them twins, officers!”
“What is all this?” inquired Everett Barthold.
“That your jalopy outside?” one of the policemen asked.
“Yes, sir, but—”
“That clinches it, then. Man’s got a warrant out for you two. Said you’d have a shiny new jalopy. Offering a nice reward, too.”
“The guy came straight to me,” said Bully Jack. “I told him I’d be real happy to help—though I’d rather take a poke at him, the lousy, insinuating, dirty—”
“Officers,” Barthold pleaded, “we haven’t done anything!”
“Then you got nothing to fear. Come along quiet now.”
Barthold plunged suddenly past the policemen, shoved Bully Jack in the face, and was in the street. Bairthre, who had been considering the same thing, stomped hard on one policeman’s foot, jabbed another in the stomach, rammed Bully Jack out of his way and followed on Barthold’s heels.
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,” Bartho
ld 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!”
Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley Page 24