The Two Timers (14 page)

Near the door was a large plywood packing case filled with paper bags
and squares of brown paper for wrapping vegetables. He began lifting
the contents out carefully but the blocks of paper were unexpectedly
weighty and hard to control with his numb fingers. They kept falling to
the ground and bursting apart. Willy endured the inanimate perversity
for as long as he could, then he upended the packing case, releasing a
pulpy avalanche which slithered out to the muddy concrete of the yard.
It doesn't matter much now, he thought.
Even when he had the packing case torn apart, the job refused to go well.
The thin plywood kept splintering or reverting to separate laminations
when he tried to cut it, and nail-heads continually passed right through
it. He worked on determinedly, not pausing to eat or even to dash the
sweat from his fuzz-covered face, until by late afternoon he had completed
a shaky structure which roughly matched his requirements.
Pangs of hunger were twisting his stomach, but he had been lucky that
neither Ada nor Emily had poked her bespectacled face through the back
door all day, and he decided to press on with his task. He found a can
of red paint and a brush, and went to work with them, occasionally moaning
softly as he gave the job all the concentration of which his mind was
capable.
It was past five by the time he had finished and -- since he had to
let the paint dry, anyway -- he decided to clean himself up and get
something to eat. He loped up the dark stairs, washed his face and
feverishly changed into his Sunday suit, which seemed appropriate for
the occasion. Satisfying himself that there was still some daylight left,
Willy ran back down to the ground floor, panting with eagerness.
In the narrow passage behind the store he collided with the blocky figure
of Joe, who had just come in from work.
"Well?" Joe's voice was taut with suppressed anger. "Have you done it?"
Willy stared down at him, aghast. He had completely forgotten the
whitewashing. "Ah . . . There wasn't time. I been busy."
"I thought so." Joe caught hold of Willy's lapels and pushed him towards
the rear of the house, using all his adult strength. "Get that job done
right now, or I'll kill you, Willy. I'll
kill
you!"
Joe opened the back door, threw Willy out into the yard and slammed
the door behind him. Willy looked around helplessly for a moment,
eyes brimming with tears, then he ran to the shed and got the covered
bucket of whitewash and a broad brush. He attacked the job ferociously,
splashing the bubbling liquid onto the old uneven bricks in long curving
strokes, heedless of his clothes. An hour later the walls were all coated
and Willy, aching and blistered, set the bucket aside. At that precise
moment, the door opened and Joe came out.
"I'm sorry I was so rough on you, Willy." Joe sounded tired. "You'd better
come in and have something to eat."
"I don't want nothing," Willy replied.
"Look, I said I was sorry . . ." Joe's voice trailed away as he noticed
the scurf of trampled paper around the outhouse door. Then his gaze reached
the object Willy had spent all day building, and his jaw dropped.
"What the hell?"
"Stay away!"
Willy felt a pang of alarm as he assessed Joe's reaction to what he had
seen, and knew that the way ahead was not going to be easy. He brushed
Joe aside and ran towards his creation. Joe grappled with him but Willy,
filled with divine anger, hurled him aside with one arm. From the corner
of his eye he saw Joe tumble into the pile of lumber, and he felt a surge
of triumphant conviction. He lifted the flimsy structure, placed it over
his shoulders and strode purposefully into the house. Women shoppers
screamed as he burst out into the store on his way to the street. Willy
was only dimly aware of the screams, or of the startled gray faces of
his sisters behind the counter. For the first time in his life, he had
a real place in the world, with something important to do, and nothing
was going to stop him.
He was also only dimly aware of the futile sound of brakes as he thrust
his way out onto the street, of the automobile's slewing rush, of the
bone-crushing impact. And a few seconds later he was aware of nothing
at all.
People rushing to view the accident trampled unseeingly over the boards
which Willy had so laboriously constructed. None of them read the crudely
printed words:
THE END IS NIGH -- PREPARE TO MEET THY DOOM.
". . . but," General Abram was saying, "if all this is true it means . . ."
Dr. Rasch nodded dreamily. "That is correct, General. It means the end
of the world."
XII
As soon as he had reached his decision, Breton locked up the house and
hurried to the car.
He had no real idea how long Kate would stay with the Palfreys, but it
was vital for him to get back first if she was to believe that John had
walked out. The fishing lodge was nearly forty miles to the north. It was
not far for the big Turbo-Lincoln, but there were arrangements to be made
once he got there and he would not be able to drive too fast in case he
attracted the attention of the highway patrol. He could be unlucky enough
to encounter the mobile equivalent of Lieutenant Convery.
The car quivered gently as he pushed the turbine spin-up button, then
it settled into a kind of alert silence. Only the position of indicator
needles showed the engine was turning. Breton slid the car out onto the
street, pointed it north and brought his foot down on the throttle. The
resultant surge of acceleration snapped his head back and he eased his
foot up again, suddenly respectful of the power he was controlling.
He drove carefully, working north by west, until he had reached the main
Silverstream highway, where a small movement of his right foot brought the
speed up to sixty without any perceptible increase in engine note. A good
machine, he thought appreciatively. The complementary thought that the car
was already his flickered in the back of his mind, but he kept it there.
As he reached the outskirts of the city Breton distracted himself by
looking for visible differences between the Time B world and his memory of
the same area in Time A. But things appeared no different -- there was the
same penumbra of lumber yards, used-car lots, lonely little banks stranded
far away from their parent organizations, knots of bravely-lit stores,
diners, and occasional incongruous groups of houses. The same straggling
slob-land he had always known and detested, exactly repeated. Altering
a few human lives had left the city untouched, he realized.
When the car had shaken off the city and was arrowing through the
Montana prairie, Breton increased speed, and insects began to splatter
the windshield. A coppery sun was setting to his left, withdrawing its
light from a peacock-green sky. Far off to the east something flickered
above the horizon and he instinctively covered his right eye, expecting
to find the teichopsia that usually preceded one of his attacks. But this
time there were no prismatic fortifications, and when he took his hand
away he knew the glimmer in the sky had been a meteor. So the showers
are still going on, he thought. And what else is happening?
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."