Part 4 (1/2)

The drunk was clumsy;Wilson stepped under his guard and hit him hard in the face. It was a solid enough punch to have convinced a sober man, but his opponent shookhishead and came back for more.

”Joe” closed in.Wilson decided that he would have to put his original opponent away in a hurry, and give his attention to ”Joe”-by far the more danger-ous of the two.

A slight mix-up between the two allies gave him his chance. He stepped back, aimed carefully and landed a long jab with his left, one of the hardest blows he had ever struck in his life. It lifted his target right off his feet.

As the blow landedWilson realized his orientation with respect to the Gate, knew withbitte ~ certainty that he had again played through the scene to its inescapable climax.

He was alone with ”Joe;” their companion had disappeared through theGate.

His first impulse was the illogical but quite human and very common feeling of look-what-you-made-me-do. ”Now you've done it!” he said angrily.

”Me?” ”Joe” protested. ”You knocked him through. I never laid a finger on him.”

”Yes,”Wilson was forced to admit. ”But it's your fault,” he added, ”ifyou hadn't interfered, I wouldn't have had to do it.”

'Meinterfere? Why, you bald faced hypocrite, you b.u.t.ted in and tried to queer the pitch.Which reminds me-you owe me some explanations and I d.a.m.n well mean to have them. What's the idea of-”

”Stow it,”Wilson headed him off. He hated to be wrong and he hated still more to have to admit that he was wrong. It had been hopeless from the start, he now realized. He felt bowed down by the utterfutility of it. ”It's too late now. He's gone through.”

”Too late for what?”

”Too late to put a stop to this chain of events.”He was aware now that it always had been too late, regardless of what time it was, what year it was or how many times he came back and tried to stop it. He remembered having gone through the first time, he hadseenhimself asleep on the otherside. Events would have to work out their weary way.

”Why should we?”

It was not worthwhile to explain, but he felt the need for self -justifica-tion. ”Because,” he said, ”Diktor has played me-I mean has playedyou us-for a dope, for a couple of dopes. Look, he told you that he was going to set you up as a big shot over there, didn't he?”

”Yes-”

”Well, that's a lot of malarkey. All he means to do is to get us so incredibly tangled up in this Gate thing that we'll never get straightened out again.”

”Joe” looked at him sharply. ”How do you know?”

Since it was largely hunch, he felt pressed for reasonable explanation. ”Why go into it?” he evaded.

”Why don't you just take my word for it?”

”Why should I?”

”Why should you? Why, youlunk , can't you see? I'm yourself, older and more experienced-youhave to believe me.” Aloud he answered, ”If you can't take my word, whose word can you take?”

”Joe” grunted. ”I'm fromMissouri ,” he said. ”I'll see for myself.”

Wilsonwas suddenly aware that ”Joe” was about to step through the Gate. ”Where are you going?”

”Through! I'm going to look upDiktor and have it out with him.”

”Don't!”Wilson pleaded. ”Maybe we can break the chain even now.” But the stubborn sulky look on the other's face made him realize how futile it was. He was still enmeshed in inevitability; ithad to happen.

”Go ahead,” he shrugged. ”It's your funeral. I wash my hands of you.”

”Joe” paused at the Gate. ”It is, eh?H-m-m-m-how can it bemy funeral unless it'syour funeral, too?”

Wilsonstared speechlessly while ”Joe” stepped through the Gate. Whose funeral? He had not thought of it in quite that way. He felt a sudden impulse to rush through the Gate, catch up with his alter ego and watch over him. The stupid fool might do anything. Suppose he got himself killed? Where would that leave Bob Wilson?Dead, of course.

Or would it? Could the death of a man thousands of years in the futurekillhim in the year1952? He saw the absurdity of the situation suddenly, and felt very much relieved. ”Joe's” actions could not endanger him; he remembered everything that ”Joe” had done-was going to do. ”Joe” would get into an argument withDiktor and, in due course of events, would come back through the Time Gate.No,had come back through the Time Gate. He was ”Joe.” It was hard to remember that.

Yes, he was ”Joe.” As well as the first guy. They would thread their courses, in and out and roundabout and end up here, withhim.Had to.

Wait a minute-in that case the whole crazybusipess was straightened out. He had gotten away from Diktor , had all of his various personalities sorted out and was back where he started from, no worse for the wear except for a crop of whiskers and, possibly, a scar on his lip. Well, he knew when to let well enough alone. Shave, and get back to work, kid.

As he shaved he stared at his face and wondered why he had failed to recognize it the first time. He had to admit that he had never looked at it objectively before. He had always taken it for granted.

He acquired a crick in his neck from trying to look at his own profile through the corner of one eye.

On leaving the bathroom the Gate caught his eye forcibly. For some reason he had a.s.sumed that it would be gone. It was not. He inspectedit, walked around it,carefully refrained from touching it. Wasn't thed.a.m.ned thing evergoin ~ to go away? It had served its purpose; why didn'tDiktor shut it off?

He stood in front of it, felt a sudden surge of the compulsion that leads men to jump from high places.

What would happen if he went through? What would he find? He thought ofArma . And the other one-what was her name? PerhapsDiktor had not told him.The other maidservant, anyhow, the second one.

But he restrained himself and forced himself to sit back down at the desk. If he was going to stay here-and of course he was, he was resolved on that point-he must finish the thesis. He had to eat; he needed the degree to get a decent job. Now where was he?

Twenty minutes later he had come to the conclusion that the thesiswould have to be rewritten fromOne end to the other. His prime theme, the application of the empirical method to the problems of speculative metaphysics and its expression in rigorous formulae, was still valid, he decided, but he had acquired a ma.s.s of new and not yet digested data toincorporate in it. In rereading his ma.n.u.script he was amazed to find how dogmatic he had been. Time after time he had fallen into the Cartesian fallacy, mistaking clear reasoning for correct reasoning.

He tried to brief a new version of the thesis, but discovered that there were two problems he was forced todeal with which were decidedly not clear in his mind: the problem of the ego and the problem of free will. When there had been three of him in the room, which one was theego -was.h.i.+mself?And how wasit that he had been unable to change the course of events?

An absurdly obvious answer to the first question occurred to him at once. The ego was.h.i.+mself . Self is self, an unproved andunprovable first statement, directly experienced. What, then, of the other two?

Surely they had been equally sure of ego-being-he remembered it. He thought of a way to state it: ego is the point of consciousness, the latest term in a continuously expanding series along the line of memory duration. That sounded like a general statement, but he was not sure; he would have to try to formulate it mathematically before he could trust it. Verbal lan-guage had such queer b.o.o.by traps in it.

The telephone rang.

He answered it absent mindedly. ”Yes?”

”Is that you, Bob?”

”Yes. Who is this?”

”Why, it's Genevieve, of course, darling. What's come over you today? That's the second time you've failed to recognize my voice.”

Annoyance and frustration rose up in him. Here was another problem he had failed to settle-well, he'd settle it now. He ignored her complaint. ”Look here, Genevieve, I've told you not to telephone me while I'm working. Good-by!”

”Well, of all the-Youcan't talk that way to me, Bob Wilson! In the first place, you weren't working today. In the second place, what makes you think you can use honey and sweet words on me and two hours later snarl at me? I'm not any too sure I want to marry you.”

”Marry you? What put that silly idea in your head?”

The phone sputtered for several seconds. Whenit had abated some-what he resumed with, ”Now just calm down. This isn't the Gay Nineties, you know. You can't a.s.sume that a fellow who takes you out a few times intends to marry you.”

There was a short silence. ”So that's the game, is it?” came an answer at last in a voice so cold and hard and completely shrewish that he almost failed to recognize it. ”Well, there's a way to handle men like you. A woman isn't unprotected in this state!”