by Clee Garson
I'dappreciate it."
Arth was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his bald head in hishands. "I remember now," he sorrowed. "You didn't have a hotel. What astupidity. I'll be phased. Phased all the way down."
"You haven't got a handful of aspirin, have you?" I asked him.
"Just a minute," Arth said, staggering erect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. "Stay where you are. Don't move. Don't touchanything."
"All right," I told him plaintively. "I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, not lice."
Arth was gone. He came back in two or three minutes, box of pills inhand. "Here, take one of these."
I took the pill, followed it with a glass of water.
* * * * *
And went out like a light.
Arth was shaking my arm. "Want another _mass_?"
The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaringaccompaniment.
_In Muenchen steht ein Hofbraeuhaus! Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!_
At the _G'sufa_ everybody upped with their king-size mugs and drank eachother's health.
My head was killing me. "This is where I came in, or something," Igroaned.
Arth said, "That was last night." He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.
Something, somewhere, was wrong. But I didn't care. I finished my _mass_and then remembered. "I've got to get my bag. Oh, my head. Where did wespend last night?"
Arth said, and his voice sounded cautious, "At my hotel, don't youremember?"
"Not very well," I admitted. "I feel lousy. I must have dimmed out. I'vegot to go to the Bahnhof and get my luggage."
Arth didn't put up an argument on that. We said good-by and I could feelhim watching after me as I pushed through the tables on the way out.
At the Bahnhof they could do me no good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head was getting worse by the minute. The factthat they'd somehow managed to lose my bag didn't help. I worked on thatproject for at least a couple of hours. Not only wasn't the bag at theluggage checking station, but the attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the check receipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate, especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.
I didn't get anywhere tearing my hair and complaining from one end ofthe Bahnhof to the other. I drew a blank on the bag.
And the head was getting worse by the minute. I was bleeding to deaththrough the eyes and instead of butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me, _nobody_ should drink a gallon or more of Marzenbraeu.
* * * * *
I decided the hell with it. I took a cab to the airport, presented myreturn ticket, told them I wanted to leave on the first obtainable planeto New York. I'd spent two days at the _Oktoberfest_, and I'd had it.
I got more guff there. Something was wrong with the ticket, wrong dateor some such. But they fixed that up. I never was clear on what wasfouled up, some clerk's error, evidently.
The trip back was as uninteresting as the one over. As the hangoverbegan to wear off--a little--I was almost sorry I hadn't been able tostay. If I'd only been able to get a room I _would_ have stayed, I toldmyself.
From Idlewild, I came directly to the office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as well check in with Betty.
I opened the door and there I found Mr. Oyster sitting in the chair hehad been occupying four--or was it five--days before when I'd left. I'dlost track of the time.
I said to him, "Glad you're here, sir. I can report. Ah, what was it youcame for? Impatient to hear if I'd had any results?" My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish in a revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I could think of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddy hangover.
"Came for?" Mr. Oyster snorted. "I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought you had already left."
"You'll miss your plane," Betty said.
There was suddenly a double dip of ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down at the calendar.
Mr. Oyster was saying something to the effect that if I didn't leavetoday, it would have to be tomorrow, that he hadn't ponied up thatthousand dollars advance for anything less than immediate service.Stuffing his receipt in his wallet, he fussed his way out the door.
I said to Betty hopefully, "I suppose you haven't changed this calendarsince I left."
Betty said, "What's the matter with you? You look funny. How did yourclothes get so mussed? You tore the top sheet off that calendaryourself, not half an hour ago, just before this marble-missing clientcame in." She added, irrelevantly, "Time travelers yet."
I tried just once more. "Uh, when did you first see this Mr. Oyster?"
"Never saw him before in my life," she said. "Not until he came in thismorning."
"This morning," I said weakly.
While Betty stared at me as though it was _me_ that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to being sent off to a pressure cooker, Ifished in my pocket for my wallet, counted the contents and winced atthe pathetic remains of the thousand. I said pleadingly, "Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door--on the way to the airport?"
"You've been acting sick all morning. You went out that door about tenminutes ago, were gone about three minutes, and then came back."
* * * * * * * * *
"See here," Mr. Oyster said (interrupting Simon's story), "did you saythis was supposed to be amusing, young man? I don't find it so. In fact,I believe I am being ridiculed."
Simon shrugged, put one hand to his forehead and said, "That's only thefirst chapter. There are two more."
"I'm not interested in more," Mr. Oyster said. "I suppose your point wasto show me how ridiculous the whole idea actually is. Very well, you'vedone it. Confound it. However, I suppose your time, even when spent inthis manner, has some value. Here is fifty dollars. And good day, sir!"
He slammed the door after him as he left.
Simon winced at the noise, took the aspirin bottle from its drawer, tooktwo, washed them down with water from the desk carafe.
Betty looked at him admiringly. Came to her feet, crossed over and tookup the fifty dollars. "Week's wages," she said. "I suppose that's oneway of taking care of a crackpot. But I'm surprised you didn't take hismoney and enjoy that vacation you've been yearning about."
"I did," Simon groaned. "Three times."
Betty stared at him. "You mean--"
Simon nodded, miserably.
She said, "But _Simon_. Fifty thousand dollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone back again to Munich. If there was one timetraveler, there might have been--"
"I keep telling you," Simon said bitterly, "I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them. Probably thousands." He took a deepbreath. "Listen, we're just going to have to forget about it. They'renot going to stand for the space-time continuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks like it might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back at the beginning and let thingsstart--for you--all over again. They just can't allow anything to comeback from the future and change the past."
"You mean," Betty was suddenly furious at him, "you've given up! Whythis is the biggest thing-- Why the fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!"
Simon said wearily, "There's just one thing you can bring back with youfrom the future, a hangover compounded of a gallon or so of Marzenbraeu.What's more you can pile one on top of the other, and another on top ofthat!"
He shuddered. "If you think I'm going to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourth hangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can think again."
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ June 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copy
right on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.