by Bob Shaw
Some people are becoming telepathic, satellites are drifting out of place, the solar radiation is affecting radio communication, religious cranks are predicting the end of the world. . . .
Something moved at the rear of the car. Breton, who had been reaching for the radio to see if he could pick up a newscast, froze and listened intently, but the faint sound was not repeated. John Breton must have been stirring in his sleep, he decided. He switched the radio on.
". . . of NASA has recommended that all airlines operating supersonic transports should restrict their operational ceiling to fifty thousand feet until further notified. This limitation has been imposed by the reported sharp increase in cosmic radiation which scientists regard as a health-hazard for passengers on long-distance, high-altitude flights. In Washington D.C. this morning . . ."
Breton switched off quickly, feeling that somehow his future with Kate was being threatened. The need for her was stirring in his body again, and tonight they would be alone in the house. Memories of that first open-mouthed kiss, visions of Kate's breasts suddenly alive and free in their escape from the nylon harness, of ivory-textured thighs -- a sensual montage filled Breton's mind, making it impossible for him to think about anything other than the all-important miracle of Kate's existence.
He forced himself to concentrate on immediate necessities, keeping the tracer-stream of white road markers accurately below the car's left wing, occasionally washing the shattered insects from the windshield. But she was there before him, all the while, and he knew he would never again let go of her.
The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time he reached the shores of Lake Pasco and angled off the highway along the narrower road which dipped through a stand of pines. Dusk closed in, ambushing the car as soon as he got down among the trees. Breton negotiated two minor crossroads, anxiously aware that it was at least twelve years since he had been in the area. There was an ivy-covered fishing lodge on the south shore which he had always admired, even though it had been far beyond his income in those days. He thought that would be the one John Breton would have bought after he prospered -- but this was one facet in which Time B really could be divergent. Suppose John's tastes had changed?
Cursing himself for not having pinned down the location of the lodge exactly, while he had the chance, Breton steered the car down a deserted, half-remembered track and reached a cleared space at the water's edge. He swung around on the pebbly surface and parked between the single-storied lodge and a green-painted boathouse. The cold, moist air from the lake insinuated itself under his clothing as soon as he got out of the car. Shivering slightly, he took the keys from his pocket and went to the door of the dark-windowed lodge.
The third key he tried turned the lock. He pushed the door open and went back to the car and lifted the lid of the trunk. John Breton was lying curled on his side. He looked ill, and the choking, biscuity smell of urine rose up around him, making Jack flinch guiltily. His other self had been left with nothing, not even dignity, and Jack too felt sullied. He dragged the unconscious man from the metallic cave of the trunk and, holding him under the arms, trailed him to the lodge. As they were going up the three steps at the door, John mumbled something and began to struggle feebly.
"You'll be all right," Jack whispered inanely. "Just relax."
The lodge's central room was furnished with deep, tweed-covered chairs. A neo-rustic dining table and wooden chairs were clustered at the window which overlooked the lake. Four doors opened off the room. Jack chose the one which looked as though it would lead to the basement, and his guess proved correct. He left John lying on the floor and flipped the light switch at the head of the wooden stairs, but the darkness below remained. A quick search of the room revealed a main switch hidden in a cupboard. He threw the lever and saw yellow brilliance spill from the basement door.
As he was being eased downstairs, John Breton began to struggle again. Jack tried to restrain him and keep balance for the both of them at the same time, but he found himself in danger of a serious falL He released his grip on John, letting him jar his way helplessly down the remaining steps. John hit the concrete floor of the basement with a solid thud and lay without moving. One of his black slip-on shoes was still missing.
Jack Breton stepped over him and went to a workbench at one side on which some engine parts were sitting. He opened the bench's long drawer and found what be was looking for -- a spool of fishing line. The label confirmed that the line was of the recently developed locked-molecule variety which looked like finest sewing thread and had a breaking strain measured in thousands of pounds. He cut off two lengths, employing the special pressure-guillotine provided on the spool, and used one piece to tie John's wrists together behind his back. The other, longer piece he worked through one of the ceiling joists, tied it securely and bound the other end around John's arm, above the elbow. He dropped the spool in his pocket to eliminate any chance of John getting hold of it later and escaping.
"What are you doing to me?" John's voice was blurred, but it had a kind of tired reasonableness. It came just as Jack was clamping the final knot.
"I'm tying you up so you won't be any trouble."
"I guessed that. But why did you bring me here? Why am I not dead?" In his drugged, dazed condition, John sounded only mildly interested.
"Convery came around today -- twice. I got worried about him."
"I don't blame you." John tried to laugh. "Especially if he came twice -- he never did that before, not even when he was trying to pin Spiedel's death on me. He has read your soul. Convery reads souls, you know. . . ." John broke off to retch, turning his face to the dusty floor, and Jack felt a sudden dismay. An idea was half-formed in his mind. He went upstairs, out to the car and brought in the two cases full of John's clothes. John was still lying on his side, but he was conscious, his eyes watchful.
"Why the cases?"
"You've just walked out of your marriage."
"You think she'll believe it?"
"She'll believe it when you don't come back."
"I see." John lapsed into silence for a moment. "You're going to keep me here till you're sure you're in the clear with Convery, and then . . ."
"That's right." Jack set the cases down. "And then . . ."
"That's great," John said bitterly. "That's bloody great. You know you're a maniac, don't you?"
"I've already explained my position. I gave you nine years of life."
"You gave me nothing. It happened as a . . . as a byproduct of your own schemes."
"It happened just the same."
"If you think that reconciles me to the prospect of being murdered -- it proves you're a maniac." John closed his eyes momentarily. "You're a sick man, Jack. And you're wasting your time."
"Why?"
"The only reason you got a toehold with Kate and me was that we were ripe for somebody like you to come along. But Kate'll see through you any day -- and when that happens she'll run. She'll run hard, Jack."
Jack stared down at his other self. "You're trying to talk your way out of this. It won't work. This isn't one of your old movies.
"I know. I know it's real. Remember the way Granddad Breton looked that morning I . . . we . . . found him in bed?"
Jack nodded. Involuntary propulsion of the eyeballs, they had called it. He had been eight years old at the time, and the technical jargon had not been much comfort.
"I remember."
"That morning, I decided never to die."
"I know. Do you think I don't know?" Jack took a deep breath. "Listen, why don't you cut out?"
"What do you mean?"
"If I let you go -- would you take off? Would you vanish altogether and leave Kate and me alone?" Having uttered the words, Jack felt an overwhelming surge of benevolence towards his other self. This was the way to handle the situation -- surely John would gladly accept life elsewhere in preference to death here in this basement. He watched John's reactions carefully.
"Of course I would." John
's eyes became alive. "I'd go anywhere -- I'm not stupid."
"Well, then."
The two men looked into each other's faces and Jack Breton felt something very strange take place inside his head. His mind and John Breton's mind touched. The contact was fleeting and feather-light, yet frightening. It was the first time anything remotely like it had ever happened to him, but he understood it with perfect certitude. He understood, too, that John had been lying to him when he said he was prepared to bow out.
"I suppose we were naturals for this telepathy thing that seems to be going around," John said quietly. "Our brains must be practically identical, after all."
"I'm sorry.
"I'm not. I'm almost grateful to you, in fact. I didn't realize how much Kate meant to me, but now I know -- and it's too much to let me walk out and leave her to someone like you.
"Even if the alternative is dying."
"Even if the alternative is dying." John Breton managed to smile as he spoke.
"So be it," Jack said flatly. "So be it."
"You weren't going to let me go, anyway."
"I . . ."
"Telepathy is a two-way thing, Jack. A moment ago I found out as much about you as you did about me. You're convinced you couldn't really take the risk of having me running around loose -- and there's something else."
"Such as?" Jack Breton had an uneasy feeling that he was losing the initiative in a conversation in which he ought to have been completely on top.
"At heart, you want to kill me. I represent your own guilt. You're in the unique position of being able to pay the supreme penalty -- by executing me -- yet to live on.
"That, if I may coin a phrase, is double-talk."
"It isn't. I don't know what you went through after Kate died in your time-stream, but it made you into a psychological cripple, Jack. When you're faced with a problem you blind yourself to all solutions except the one which satisfies your own need to kill."
"Nonsense." Jack Breton began making sure the curtains on the basement's small windows were well secured.
"You've demonstrated this already -- by your own admission." John was beginning to sound drowsy.
"Go on."
"When you made that big trip back through time -- there was no need for you to take a rifle and shoot Spiedel. You could have accomplished as much, or more, by going back to the scene of that stupid row I had with Kate when the car broke down. All you had to do was warn me."
"I thought I had explained the limitations of chronomotive physics to you," Jack replied. "There is no conscious selection of destination -- the mind is drawn towards the key event, the turning point."
"Precisely what I'm saying! I'm a victim of hemicrania sine dolore, too. I've seen the marching colored angles dozens of times in the last nine years, and I've made dozens of trips -- always to the scene of the argument, because I knew that was where it started. That was where my guilt lay, but you couldn't face that, Jack.
"You accepted it for a while, then -- you told us about it the night you arrived at the house -- you began to focus on the scene of the killing. You began to see the trees of the park projecting up through the traffic lanes. The reason was that the murder scene had a powerful attraction for you. It had Spiedel -- a ready-made vehicle for the transference of your guilt; it was a moment of danger for Kate -- in which there was no time to weigh up right and wrong. There was only time to kill . . ."
"You're wrong," Jack whispered.
"Face up to it, Jack -- it's your only chance. You and I were one man at that time, so I know what lay right at the back of your mind. You wanted Kate to die. When Convery came to the door that first time you heard the same inner voice as I did, the one telling you you had been set free. But there's nothing so terrible about it . . ." John's eyes closed again, and his voice began to fade. ". . . You can't love a woman without wanting to kill her sometime . . . she won't always be what you want her to be . . . sometimes she wants to be herself . . . trick is to learn to adjust . . . you gotta adjust. . . ." John Breton fell asleep, his bruised face pressed against the floor.
"You fool," Jack said. "You poor fool."
He went up the stairs and paused with his hand on the light switch, checking the arrangements he had made to keep John imprisoned. When the other man recovered consciousness he would be able to move around the central part of the basement, but he would be unable to reach any tools with which he might free himself. John Breton would be extremely uncomfortable, Jack reflected grimly, but it would not be for very long. He clicked out the light and went back outside, carefully locking the door of the lodge behind him.
It had grown much darker while he was inside, but the sky was literally alive with light. Above the northern horizon, ghostly curtains of red and green brilliance spread their shimmering folds across the heavens, twitching and flailing in response to the awesome solar winds. The aurora was so bright that it screened out the polar stars. Familiar constellations shone in the rest of the sky, but they too had dimmed in comparison to the vast, silent pyrotechnics of the meteor display. The night world was being bombarded with fire by a frantic giant, divergent showers tracing their paths across the atmospheric shield in an unsteady rhythm, punctuated by brighter projectiles which spanned the horizons in mind-quailing arcs.
The whole fantastic scene was reflected in the waters of the lake, turning its surface into a seething mirror. Breton faced it unseeingly for a moment, then got into the car. His hand brushed against a smooth, dark object lying on the front seat. It was John Breton's shoe -- the one which had caught Lieutenant Convery's attention earlier in the day. Opening the window, he threw the shoe out towards the water, but it fell short and he heard it bounce on the pebbles. He shrugged, started the car and slewed it around in a gravel-spitting circle.
Driving south on the Silverstream highway, he found himself continually glancing in the mirror with a feeling of being followed -- even though there was nothing behind but the pulsing lights of the aurora.
XIII
Breton was relieved to find the house in darkness when he got back.
He put the car in the garage and went into the house by the back door. A glance at his watch showed him that he had been away less than three hours -- it had seemed much longer. Walking through the hall, he noticed the bottle of sleeping tablets lying where he had thrown it. He picked it up and took it back to the bathroom.
The sight of himself in the bathroom mirror gave Breton a shock. His face was haggard and shaded with stubble, his clothing rumpled and streaked with dust. He looked around the room and noted with approval that, as well as a shower stall, it was fitted with a deep tub. While hot water was thundering from the tap, he searched closets and produced clean underwear, a soft, dark-green shirt and a pair of slacks belonging to John Breton. He carried them into the bathroom, locked the door and proceeded to have the hottest bath he could remember. Half an hour later he was clean, relaxed and freshly-shaven -- and it felt good.
He went downstairs into the friendly, soft-toned spaciousness of the big living room and stood, hesitating, before the cocktail cabinet. He had been avoiding alcohol almost completely for years because, as far as he was concerned, drinking and hard work were mutually exclusive. But that phase of his life had passed -- he had now achieved just about everything he had set out to achieve, and could afford to relax a little. He inspected the whiskey, found it was Johnny Walker Black Label and nodded in satisfaction. John and he had diverged in many ways over the nine years, but his other self was still a good judge of liquor. He poured a generous measure, carried it over to the deepest armchair and began sipping. The evocative aroma, and the warmth of distilled sunlight seeping through his system, relaxed him still further. He took another glass. . . .
Breton awoke with a start of panic, wondering where he was. It took several seconds for his surroundings to register, and when they did, he felt worried. The wall-clock told him it was past two in the morning, and obviously Kate had not come home yet. He got to his fee
t, shivering after the long sleep, then heard the faint sound of the garage doors being closed. Kate had arrived, after all, and the sound of her car's high-compression engine coming up the drive must have been what had awakened him.
Self-consciously, nervously, he went through to the back of the house and opened the kitchen door. She came towards the light, the belt of her tweed suit untied and the jacket lying open to reveal the horizontal tensions of her tangerine-colored sweater. Breton had never seen Kate look so much like Kate.
"John," she said uncertainly, shielding her eyes. "Oh . . . Jack."