In the Cards

by Alan Cogan

with women, mainly, I guess, because it was the absolutelyperfect fortune-telling device and it was much more fun than eithervideo or visiphone conversations.

  I put my own Grundy Projector away in the basement shortly after I gotmarried and I never used it any more. To my way of thinking, it madelife pretty dull. I had just been married and I was also starting to getahead at my job--Mr. Atkins had put me in charge of a whole departmentfull of accounts analyzers. I went around with all sorts of wild plansand dreams of a rosy future for us. I hoped someday to form my owncompany and I was also interested in finding a better place to live. Thedome housing development was only temporary as far as I was concernedand I wanted something bigger for when we could afford a family.

  I suppose we all have those dreams of success when we're young, andthough most of us have fairly predictable futures, I still can't helpthinking that it's those wild dreams and schemes that keep us sluggingaway and add a little zest to life. Anyway, I soon found that Marge wasknocking all the zest out of my life because she _knew_ the future forboth of us and she kept telling me about it.

  It took me a few weeks to finally persuade her that I'd rather not knowwhat was going to happen. But it was too late then, because she'd toldme everything that was important.

  For instance, I knew I was going to be living in the dome house foranother two years and probably more. I knew I was still going to beworking for Mr. Atkins and I knew just how much money I was going tohave in the bank at the end of two years. I even knew that my paunchwould get bigger and my hair would start falling out.

  Life got to be just a matter of sitting around waiting for the expectedto happen.

  * * * * *

  I tried hard to break Marge of the time projection habit, but it wasuseless. She was as addicted as everyone else and the Grundy Projectorlooked as though it was going to be here for good and no one was goingto stop it.

  After all, who could prevent an expectant mother from jumping ahead ayear or so to find out whether she is going to have a boy or girl? Iknow the doctors can tell with one hundred per cent accuracy in thesecond month, but the parents-to-be still want to find out if Juniorwill look like Mom or Dad.

  Or who could prevent a young boy and girl from finding out whom theywere going to marry? New methods of courting appeared--if you could callit courting. A boy would merely look ahead and find out who the luckygirl was going to be and then call on her. She was usually sitting atthe front door waiting for him, too. I kind of liked the old-fashionedway, when Marge and I met by chance one day and then spent monthsgetting to know each other.

  Of course it was impossible to avoid knowing future news whether youwanted to hear it or not. The newspapers, in trying to beat each otherto scoops, could only find good headline material among the Diehards;the rest of us all knew what would happen to us. Most of the paperscarried two separate sections--one for future events and the other forpresent "news."

  We still had crime with us. The crooks who knew they were going to jailalways went there at the appointed time, regardless of their elaborateprecautions and so-called foolproof systems. Others who knew they weregoing to stay free for a couple of years at least led fabulouslysuccessful lives of crimes, made more daring by the fact that they knewthey were temporarily safe from the law. The police, on the other hand,never bothered to chase these characters, knowing in advance that theyweren't going to catch them anyway.

  This naturally set the Diehards to hollering. For a time, they talked offorming vigilante groups to do their own policing, but nobody worriedabout this. It was in the cards, you see, that they weren't going to doit.

  The final blow to the Diehards came during the Federal Elections of2017, when the Neo-Republicans just got up and walked out of office andthe United North-South Democrats walked in without a single electionspeech being made. I know a few votes were cast, but everyone knew whatthe results would be long before it happened.

  The part that annoyed the Diehards so much was that it was _their_handful of votes that decided the results.

  * * * * *

  Toward the end of the first two years, Marge and I began to have ourfirst samples of that bitter quarrel we had both witnessed on our firsttime trip. I had almost forgotten about what I had seen, but soon I sawhow I was going to be taking part in such quarrels quite frequently.

  Marge just wouldn't stop making those time trips and it seemed to me shespent hours every day in her Projector. There was something in thefuture that worried her and, naturally that worried me, too. I wasalmost tempted to get my own Projector out of the basement and find outfor myself. Marge was beginning to look sick and pale all the time. Shegot much thinner and weaker and I knew she cried a lot when I wasn'taround.

  I tried my best to find the cause of the trouble, but I got nowhere.Trying to cheer her up with little surprises was a waste of time. It'sno fun trying to surprise anyone who knows better than yourself what thesurprise is going to be.

  Finally, when out of desperation I had almost decided to take my firsttime trip in nearly two years, I came home from the office to find Margesobbing hysterically beside the Projector.

  "We're going to die, Gerry!" she said, when I managed to get her fairlycoherent. "I've been looking ahead for months now and I just don't seeus _anywhere_ in the future!"

  So there it was. I didn't know what to do or say. I was scared and madand sorry for Marge for keeping such a secret bottled up inside herselffor so long.

  The first thing I said was, "There must be a mistake--" until Iremembered that there were _never_ any mistakes with Grundy Projectors.

  * * * * *

  Nevertheless, I still tried to find a way out of the situation. "Maybeyou couldn't find us because we moved," I said quickly. "Maybe I gotanother job and left town or was transferred to the Boston office. Mr.Atkins has mentioned it a couple of times."

  "I looked," Marge said miserably. "I looked everywhere and I justcouldn't see us anywhere."

  "But how do you know we're going to die?" I argued. "Did you see ithappen?"

  She shook her head. "I didn't dare look that close. I got it pinned downto somewhere in the next month and I didn't dare look any closer, afraidI might have to see something horrible. All I know is we just won't bearound sometime after the next four or five weeks."

  "Has anyone mentioned anything to you about our death?" I asked. It wasconsidered improper to even hint at another person's death just in casethat person hadn't found out. Still, you know how tactless some peoplecan be.

  Marge just shook her head and went right on sobbing.

  "Listen," I said, "I'll bet you're getting all worked up for nothing.Anything--absolutely anything--could happen in the next few weeks.There's probably a perfectly simple explanation for the whole thing."

  I guess I wasn't very convincing because Marge just stared dumbly at me,tears spilling out of her eyes. "Gerry, would--would you go and look? Ifit's something harmless, you can come right back and tell me. If it'ssomething awful, I won't ask about it."

  "No," I said. "That would be just the same as telling you what's goingto happen. Besides, I don't want to know."

  We just sat around the house for the rest of that evening. After Margehad gone to bed, I went down to the basement and smashed both our BilboGrundy Time Projectors into little pieces. I'd seen the hopelessness anddespair in people who had learned just how and when they would die.Smashing the things wouldn't change the future--I realized that--but Ididn't want Marge obeying the impulse to find out. Or myself, for thatmatter.

  * * * * *

  Shortly after that, the quarreling started in earnest. Marge wouldn'tlet up on the business of dying, and as well as being scared, I was alsosick of hearing about our short and questionable future. Marge wasfurious with me for destroying her Projector and blamed me constantlyfor making her suffer by preventing her from looking into the future.

  "Now we won't know wha
t's going to happen until it's too late!" sheshrieked at me.

  "That's right!" I yelled back. "And that's just the way I want it!What's the use of knowing and worrying in advance if there's no way ofdoing anything about it?"

  Then, one night, we had the identical fight that we had watched twoyears earlier, on our first time trip. Marge, as usual, was cryinghysterically about not having long to live and I was shouting at herabout wishing herself into the grave. She seemed to have forgotten thatI was going to go, too, and had taken all the suffering on her ownshoulders.

  When I was hollering and stamping about the room, I had a funny, eeriefeeling as I suddenly remembered that my younger unmarried self hadwatched--or was watching--the same scene.

  I just stopped doing anything for a moment and stared around the room.Naturally I saw nothing, because there was nothing to see, and Iremembered how quickly my younger self had fled when I had looked uplike that. Ashamed, I tried to soothe Marge, but she was too far gone tobe comforted.

  I was glad to get out of the house every day and spend a few hours atthe office. I must admit that I was scared to be with Marge because itlooked as though we were going to go together and I felt safer away fromher. I know it's nothing to be proud of, but it helped ease the tension,for Marge as well as myself.

  One day, Mr. Atkins stopped in at my office and sat down to talk. Therewas nothing unusual about this; he often visited me for a chat, eventhough he wasn't so friendly with the other employees.

  We talked for a while about the usual things, department business andsome of the staff members.

  Then Mr. Atkins turned the conversation away from business matters. "Doyou have one of those newfangled Time Projector things, Gerald?" heasked. Mr. Atkins was getting on in years and called everythingintroduced in the last thirty years "newfangled."

  "No," I said. "I did have one, but I stopped using it soon after I gotit."

  "Didn't you like it?"

  I shrugged. "It wasn't that. I just preferred to find out for myselfwhat would happen to me." I didn't want to tell him the true story or myother troubles.

  Mr. Atkins sat back in his chair and sighed. "Ah, yes. I don't supposeyou remember too much about the old days, not after the last two yearswe've been through. People had problems in those days and they used tohave to solve them for themselves. People don't have to make decisionsany more, you know. Do you think you could still make a decision,Gerald?"

  * * * * *

  I got a little excited and found it difficult to stop fidgeting and stayquietly seated. I began to suspect that he was leading up to somethingimportant. It could have been the transfer to another branch or anout-of-town assignment which would explain our disappearance in thefuture.

  "I still try to make plans and direct my own future whenever I can," Istalled.

  "It's difficult, I know," Mr. Atkins went on, "especially when all thenews is about something that's going to happen a day or a week or a yearfrom now. It's not so bad for an old man like me, but it must be toughon you young fellows. Too bad this Bilbo--uh--"

  "Grundy," I said. "Bilbo Grundy." Mr. Atkins knew the name as well as Idid, but it was one of his little tricks to pretend he was getting oldand forgetful, although he really wasn't. It used to be a good businesstactic before the Grundy Projector came out. It wasn't any more--notwith people being able to see outcomes of dealings--but he couldn't getrid of the habit.

  "It's too bad he had to invent that fool time gadget," he went on. "Isuppose your wife uses it all the time. They seem to be very popularwith women."

  "Marge gave it up a short time ago," I lied. "She got bored with it."

  Mr. Atkins nodded thoughtfully. "Wouldn't it be nice to live in an ageagain when none of us knew what was going to happen? When life had lotsof surprises--both good and bad? When you could get up in the morningand not be sure what was going to happen before night? Would you likethat, Gerald?"

  I didn't know what to say. He was off on that wandering-mind routine andI didn't know for sure whether he was really rambling or not.

  "I think I'd like it, Mr. Atkins," I said. "As long as everyone else wasin the same boat."

  "_Would_ you like it?" He was suddenly looking at me with the shrewd,out-of-the-corner-of-the-eye expression he had when he was handling somewealthy client's intricate income tax problems.

  "I mean it," I told him. "I'm tired of living among people who know mybusiness two years ahead of time."

  "I can get you to a world like that," he said quietly.

  I didn't say anything in reply. Who could?

  "I have some friends," he went on, "who make a practice of helpingpeople like yourself to better things."

  "What do you mean by 'better things'?" I asked warily.

  "I'm talking about time travel, Gerald. The real thing--not the BilboGrundy toy, but real physical time travel. These friends have gone a lotfurther than Grundy did with his invention and they perform the serviceof transporting people to a better age."

  "You mean the future?"

  "The past!" said Mr. Atkins. "The chances are the future will be evenworse. I'm talking about the middle of the last century, around thenineteen-fifties or thereabouts."

  I began to laugh. "The nineteen-fifties! What would I do to earn aliving in those days?"

  * * * * *

  He gave me a thin smile. "I guess that would be your first unsolvedproblem. After all, you said you wanted problems and the chance to makeplans and try to make them come true."

  "But why pick me?" I wanted to know.

  "I like you, Gerald," he said. "I would like to see you have a decentchance. And don't flatter yourself--you wouldn't be the first one to go.You'd be in good company."

  I just sat staring vacantly at him.

  "I guess you could say this is your first big decision in two years," headded. "There's no hurry. You can think it over for a while."

  I asked questions--lots of them--but I didn't get too many answers. Mr.Atkins explained that naturally the affair was hush-hush. After the waythe Grundy Projector had been thrust so irresponsibly upon us, no onewanted any further complications. But there were some answers I couldpiece together both from what I already knew and the hints he dropped.

  I'd been in on conferences and listened to Mr. Atkins try to figure outways of expanding, building up our business. Each time, he'd beenstymied by the Grundy Projector. If he'd bull some idea through, hiscompetitors would see exactly how it worked out. If he didn't, they'dknow that, too. And I had heard him rant when the accountants--using theGrundy Projectors, of course--would make up their inventory, sales,profit-and-loss and tax statements two years or more in advance.

  That was actually what galled him. Mr. Atkins was used to making plans,calculating risks and gains, taking his chances. With the GrundyProjectors in existence, nobody could do that any more. I gathered fromwhat he told me that there was a syndicate of men like himself backingthe inventor of a genuine time machine. They didn't condemn the Grundyinvention on any moral or religious or even selfish grounds. They justresented very bitterly the same thing that annoyed me--the sense ofrepetition.

  As Mr. Atkins put it, "It's no different than reading a story and thenhaving to relive the whole thing, anticipating each action and bit ofdialogue. And that's precisely what this is. Only it's our lives, notfiction. We didn't like it, Gerald. We didn't like it at all! But we didsomething about the problem instead of merely complaining."

  Let me say right now that I thought the solution they came up with wasnonsensical and I kept searching, all the time we talked, for ways ofpolitely turning down the offer. Escaping to to the past was aridiculous answer. But it was just the kind of notion that would appealto an old-fashioned character like Mr. Atkins.

  I didn't tell him so, of course. I thanked him for his consideration andshook hands and felt relieved when he finally left.

  * * * * *

  My mind was made up by then.
I'd back out, quit if I had to, rather thantake refuge in the past to evade the future.

  It wasn't until I got out of the office that I realized there was no bigdecision to make; it was already made for me. Either I was going to dieor I was going into the past--and I wasn't going to die if I could helpit. But neither did I intend going into the past if I could really help_that_!

  When Marge realized that I wasn't merely trying to take her mind off thefatal day, she pounced on me and hugged me as though I myself hadinvented the time machine just to save her life!

  "It's wonderful, darling!" she cried. "You were right all along! Oh, howcan you forgive me for making things so unbearable for you?"

  "About this idea of going into the past--" I said.

  "What's the difference when we go to," she cut in, "as long as we don'thave to die?"

  "But I figured on telling Mr. Atkins at the last minute that all I wantis a transfer--"

  "What's the sense of guessing?" she asked excitedly. "All we have to dois borrow a couple of Projectors and see!"

  I began to feel myself being squeezed into a one-way trap. I put my footdown--but where it landed was in a Grundy Projector from the people nextdoor--and where it figuratively emerged was eleven days later, when