Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley (32 page)

“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,” Barthold 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!”

Slowly, carefully, Bairthre opened the Flipper's door.

“I don't care!” Bartholder yelled. “Which one? Speak up, you miserable coward! Which one? I'll give you a fair fight. Speak up or I'll shoot you both here and now!”

“And what would the boys say?” Barthold scoffed. “They'd say that the one-handed man lost his nerve and killed two unarmed strangers!”

Ben Bartholder's iron gun hand sagged.

“Quick, get in,” Barthold whispered.

They scrambled in and slammed the door. Bartholder put the derringer away.

“All right, mister,” Ben Bartholder said. “You been here twice, and I think you'll be here a third time. I'll wait around. The next time I'll get you.”

He turned and walked away.

They had to get out of Memphis. But where could they go? Barthold wouldn't consider Konigsberg, 1676, and the Black Death. London, 1595, was filled with Tom Barthal's criminal friends, any of whom would cheerfully cut Barthold's throat for treachery.

“We'll go all the way back,” Bairthre said. “To Maiden's Castle.”

“And if he comes there?”

“He won't. It's against the law to go past the thousand-year limit. And would an insurance man break the law?”

“He might not,” Barthold said thoughtfully. “He just might not. It's worth a try.”

And again he activated the Flipper.

They slept in an open field that night, a mile from the fortress of Maiden's Castle. They stayed beside the Flipper and took turns at sentry duty. And finally the sun rose, warm and yellow, above the green fields.

“He didn't come,” Bairthre said.

“What?” Barthold asked, waking with a start.

“Snap out of it, man! We're safe. Is it morning yet in your Present?”

“It's morning,” Barthold said, rubbing his eyes.

“Then we've won and I'll be a king in Ireland!”

“Yes, we've won,” Barthold said. “Victory at last is—damn!”

“What's the matter?”

“That investigator! Look over there!”

Bairthre stared across the fields, muttering, “I don't see a thing. Are you sure—”

Barthold struck him across the back of the skull with a stone. He had picked it up during the night and saved it for this purpose.

He bent over and felt Bairthre's pulse. The Irishman still lived but would be unconscious for a few hours. When he recovered, he would be alone and kingdomless.

Too bad, Barthold thought. But under the circumstances, it would be risky to bring Bairthre back with him. How much easier it would be to walk up to Inter-Temporal himself and collect a check for Everett Barthold. Then return in half an hour and collect another check for Everett Barthold.

And how much more profitable it would be!

He climbed into the Flipper and looked once more at his unconscious kinsman. What a shame, he thought, that he will never be a king in Ireland.

But then, he thought, history would probably find it confusing if he had succeeded.

He activated the controls, headed straight for the Present.

He reappeared in the back yard of his house. Quickly he bounded up the steps and pounded on the door.

“Who's there?” Mavis called.

“Me!” Barthold shouted. “It's all right, Mavis—everything has worked out fine!”

“Who?” Mavis opened the door, stared at him, and let out a shriek.

“Calm down,” Barthold said. “I know it's been a strain, but it's all over now. I'm going for the check and then we'll—”

He stopped. A man had just appeared in the doorway beside Mavis. He was a short man, beginning to bald, his features ordinary, and his eyes were mild behind horn-rimmed glasses.

It was himself.

“Oh, no!” Barthold groaned.

“Oh, yes,” his double said. “One cannot venture beyond the thousand-year barrier with impunity, Everett. Sometimes there
is
a sound reason for a law. I am your time-identical.”

Barthold stared at the Barthold in the doorway. He said, “I was chased—”

“By me,” his double told him. “In disguise, of course, since you have a few enemies in time. You imbecile, why did you run?”

“I thought you were an investigator. Why were you chasing me?”

“For one reason and one reason only.”

“What was that?”

“We could have been rich beyond our wildest dreams,” his double said, “if only you hadn't been so guilty and frightened! The three of us—you, Bairthre, and me—could have gone to Inter-Temporal and claimed
triple indemnity
!”

“Triple indemnity!” Barthold breathed. “I never thought of it.”

“The sum would have been staggering. It would have been infinitely more than for double indemnity. You disgust me.”

“Well,” Barthold said, “what's done is done. At least we can collect for double indemnity, then decide—”

“I collected both checks and signed the release forms for you. You weren't here, you know.”

“In that case, I'd like my share.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” his double told him.

“But it's mine! I'll go to Inter-Temporal and tell them—”

“They won't listen. I've waived all your rights. You can't even stay in the Present, Everett.”

“Don't do this to me!” Barthold begged.

“Why not? Look at what you did to Bairthre.”

“Damn it,
you
can't judge me!” Barthold cried. “
You're me!
”

“Who else is there to judge you except yourself?” his double asked him.

Barthold couldn't cope with that. He turned to Mavis.

“Darling,” he said, “you always told me you'd know your own husband. Don't you know me now?”

Mavis moved back into the house. As she went, Barthold noticed the flash of ruumstones around her neck and asked no more.

Barthold and Barthold stood face to face. The double raised his arm. A police heli, hovering low, dropped to the ground. Three policemen piled out.

“This is what I was afraid of, officers,” the double said. “My double collected his check this morning, as you know. He waived his rights and went into the past. I was afraid he'd return and try for more.”

“He won't bother you again, sir,” a policeman said. He turned to Barthold. “You! Climb back in that Flipper and get out of the Present. The next time we see you, we shoot!”

Barthold knew when he was beaten. Very humbly, he said, “I'll gladly go, officers. But my Flipper needs repairs. It doesn't have a time clock.”

“You should have thought about that before signing the waiver,” the policeman said. “Get moving!”

“Please!” Barthold said.

“No,” Barthold answered.

No mercy. And Barthold knew that, in his double's place, he would have said exactly the same thing.

He climbed into the Flipper and closed the door. Numbly he contemplated his choices, if they could be called that.

New York, 1912, with its maddening reminders of his own time and with Bully Jack Barthold? Or Memphis, 1869, with Ben Bartholder awaiting his third visit? Or Konigsberg, 1676, with the grinning, vacant face of Hans Baerthaler for company, and the Black Death? Or London, 1595, with Tom Barthal's cutthroat friends searching the streets for him? Or Maiden's Castle, 662, with an angry Connor Lough mac Bairthre waiting to even the score?

It really didn't matter. This time, he thought, let the place pick me.

He closed his eyes and blindly stabbed a button.

T
HE CREW
of a spaceship must be friends. They must live harmoniously in order to achieve the split-second interaction that becomes necessary from time to time. In space, one mistake is usually enough.

It is axiomatic that even the best ships have their accidents; the mediocre ones don't survive.

Knowing this, it can be understood how Captain Sven felt when, four hours before blastoff, he was told that radioman Forbes would not serve with the new replacement.

Forbes hadn't met the new replacement yet, and didn't want to. Hearing about him was enough. There was nothing personal in this, Forbes explained. His refusal was on purely racial grounds.

“Are you sure of this?” Captain Sven asked, when his chief engineer came to the bridge with the news.

“Absolutely certain, sir,” said engineer Hao. He was a small, flat-faced, yellow-skinned man from Canton. “We tried to handle it ourselves. But Forbes wouldn't budge.”

Captain Sven sat down heavily in his padded chair. He was deeply shocked. He had considered racial hatred a thing of the remote past. He was as astonished at a real-life example of it as he would have been to encounter a dodo, a moa, or a mosquito.

“Racialism in this day and age!” Sven said. “Really, it's too preposterous. It's like telling me they're burning heretics in the village square, or threatening warfare with cobalt bombs.”

“There wasn't a hint of it earlier,” said Hao. “It came as a complete surprise.”

“You're the oldest man on the ship,” Sven said. “Have you tried reasoning him out of this attitude?”

“I've talked to him for hours,” Hao said. “I pointed out that for centuries we Chinese hated the Japanese, and vice versa. If we could overcome our antipathy for the sake of the Great Cooperation, why couldn't he?”

“Did it do any good?”

“Not a bit. He said it just wasn't the same thing.”

Sven bit off the end of a cigar with a vicious gesture, lighted it, and puffed for a moment. “Well, I'm damned if I'll have anything like this on
my
ship. I'll get another radioman!”

“That won't be too easy, sir,” Hao said. “Not here.”

Sven frowned thoughtfully. They were on Discaya II, a small outpost planet in the Southern Star Reaches. Here they had unloaded a cargo of machine parts, and taken on the Company-assigned replacement who was the innocent source of all the trouble. Discaya had plenty of trained men, but they were all specialists in hydraulics, mining, and allied fields. The planet's single radio operator was happy where he was, had a wife and children on Discaya, owned a house in a pleasant suburb, and would never consider leaving.

“Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous,” Sven said. “I can't spare Forbes, and I'll not leave the new man behind. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, the Company would probably fire me. And rightly, rightly. A captain should be able to handle trouble aboard his own ship.”

Hao nodded glumly.

“Where is this Forbes from?”

“A farm near an isolated village in the mountain country of the Southern United States. Georgia, sir. Perhaps you've heard of it?”

“I think so,” said Sven, who had taken a course in Regional Characteristics at Uppsala, to better fit himself for the job of captain. “Georgia produces peanuts and hogs.”

“And men,” Hao added. “Strong, capable men. You'll find Georgians working on all frontiers, out of all proportions to their actual numbers. Their reputation is unexcelled.”

“I know all this,” Sven grumbled. “And Forbes is an excellent man. But this racialism—”

“Forbes can't be considered typical,” Hao said. “He was raised in a small, isolated community, far from the mainstream of American life. Similar communities all over the world develop and cling to strange folkways. I remember a village in Honan where—”