The Two Timers

V

John Breton opened his eyes slowly and stared through dim amber light, waiting — with a kind of pleasant terror — for the onrushing tides of identity to return to him. (There’s a rectangle of pale luminosity: what is it? Bedroom window in dim light? Some unfamiliar aspect of disembodied soul? Movie screen? Extra-dimensional doorway?) He was sometimes convinced that each night’s sleep brought a dissolving of personality, and that its accurate reformation in the morning depended entirely on his being given the right clues. If he woke up in different surroundings, with different possessions — then he could take up another life altogether, with nothing more than an uneasy suspicion that something had gone wrong.

There was a movement in the bed beside him and he turned towards it. Kate’s dreaming face…

Breton came fully awake, remembering the previous night and the arrival of Jack Breton. The man was a thinner, shabbier, more intense version of himself. He was a cipher, a flawed human being who apparently saw nothing strange in the idea of asking a man and his wife to accept him into their home, and presenting them with such a preposterous scheme.

So Kate was supposed to choose one or the other!

Breton tried to recall why he had not driven his fist into the familiar face. He had been drunk, of course, but there was more to it than that. Was it something to do with the way in which Kate had seemed to accept the idea, while pretending not to take it too seriously?

Or was it that the fantastic scheme somehow dovetailed into the flaws in their marriage? Kate and he had been together for eleven years, during which time they had seen their ups and downs, and an even more significant motion — the drifting apart. The only way they could reach each other now was by wielding longer and longer knives. It seemed that the more money he made, the more Kate needed; so he worked even harder, while she became more distant and disinterested. A frigid, sterile escalation.

The arrival of Jack Breton could mean an effortless and guilt-free escape. Kate and Jack could go away together, or — the idea gusted coolly through Breton’s mind — he could bow out of the situation and leave them to it. He could take some money and go anywhere — Europe, South America, there was even the Moon. Buzz Silvera’s last letters from Florida had as good as said they were taking any competent practical engineer who was prepared to go.

Breton was lying in his fleecy tunnel of warmth, bemusedly trying the concept on for size, when the tardy intellectual realization came that his other self had not been part of a dream. He would have to be faced, all day and for many days to come. Shivering slightly, Breton got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and went down for breakfast.

Kate Breton kept her eyes closed until John had left the room; then, without getting up, she made walking movements with her legs until the sheets were a crumpled mound at the foot of the bed, and she was lying naked, paralleling the grayed white plane of the ceiling. She lay still for a moment, wondering if John was in the shower or if he had gone downstairs. He might come back into the room and see her lying in self-conscious nudity, but that would be a non-event. (“Anthropologically speaking, you’re not quite right,” he had said reflectively, only a month earlier. “The female is characterized by conical things — and yours are cylindrical.”)

Jack Breton would not have said anything like that, Kate thought, remembering the thin, shabby figure with the eyes of a latter day Swinburne. The man projected emotion with silent-screen intensity, but — although she had mentally disassociated herself — she had felt the responses begin within her, pervasive and unstoppable. Jack Breton was almost the archetype of the Romance hero, sacrificing his life to an unattainable vision. And behind that pain-shadowed face was something which had driven him to challenge and conquer Time itself, for the sake of her, Kate Breton. I have become unique, she thought gratefully.

The feeling of excitement centering around her like an emotional cyclone grew even stronger, triggering slow undulations in her torso: Kate got up and stared at herself with speculative eyes in the long mirror.

Jack Breton stood at the window of the guest bedroom, gazing out at a world dressed in its morning grays. The Time B world. It occurred to him that there must be visible differences in the two time-streams, apart from the vital one of Kate’s existence. In this world a psychopathic killer had died in strange circumstances, which would have altered some things — especially for the future victims he never got around to. There was also the fact that in the Time B world the Breton engineering consultancy had prospered in John Bretons hands, giving him the chance to influence events in possibly significant ways. Jack reminded himself to watch out for differences and get used to them quickly, so that he could step into John Breton’s shoes with as little fuss as possible.

He frowned at the dark, stolid beeches in the back garden as he considered the disposal of the body. Apart from the purely mechanical problem, there was the more delicate question of Kate’s reaction. If she ever suspected, for even an instant, that he had murdered John it would be the end. She would have to believe that John had agreed to vanish from her life, or — if that could not be arranged — that he had died in an accident.

Jack’s eyes suddenly focused on a small silvery dome which could be seen beyond the line of beech trees. So John had got around to building a proper observatory in the garden — that was a thing he had always wanted to do and had never managed to find the time. His other self had done it, though. His other self had gone on ahead with Kate and done lots of things.

Feeling cold and lonely, Jack Breton stood at the window a moment longer, then became aware of movement in other parts of the house. There was a faint smell of coffee and frying ham in the air. He went out of the bedroom, down the long stairs and into the kitchen. Although it was very early, Kate was fully dressed and groomed, wearing a brushed wool café-au-lait sweater and white skirt. She was laying plates on the kitchen table as Jack came through the door. The sight of her stilled his heart, then sent it into a series of great, lumping spasms.

“Good morning, Kate,” he said. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Oh… hello. No, thanks.” He saw tinges of pink appear over her cheekbones.

“But you shouldn’t have to spend your time on housework,” he said with mock gallantry.

“You can set your mind at ease on that score,” John Breton said from near the window, and Jack suddenly became aware of his dressing-gowned appearance. “We have a cook-housekeeper who acts as a bulwark between Kate and the necessities of domestic life. What time does Mrs. Fitz get here, anyway?”

“She won’t be coming,” Kate answered tartly. “I called and told her we wouldn’t need her for a few days.”

John appeared not to hear. He was leaning on the window ledge with his ear close to a radio, apparently waiting for something. Jack ignored him and turned back to Kate.

“There you are!” He smiled. “You wouldn’t have to do it if I wasn’t here. I’m entitled to help.”

“It’s all ready. Please sit down.”

Kate’s eyes met his briefly and he almost reached out to take what was his. Instead, he sat compliantly at the table while all his instincts protested their frustration. The exhaustion of the previous night had lifted, and once again his mind was filled with the wonder of Kate’s existence. She was alive, warm, real; in the aura of her emotional significance more miraculous than all the starry infinities of the Time B universe…

John Breton’s fingers suddenly spun the volume control on the radio and the voice of a newscaster washed through the kitchen, causing Kate to frown at him.

“Do we need that radio so loud?”

“Keep quiet a minute.”

“I don’t see why — “

“Just keep quiet!” John twisted the control to its limit and the announcer’s voice boomed out, rippled with electronic distortions.

“… now continuing in the eastern hemisphere. A spokesman for the Mount Palomar observatory said the meteor display was already the most brilliant in history, and was showing no signs of slackening off. Televised reports from Tokyo — where the meteor display is now at its height — will be available on major networks as soon as the malfunctioning of the communications satellites, which developed a few hours ago, has been corrected.

“Mr. C.J. Oxtoby, president of Ustel — the major satellite operating agency — has denied an early report that the Courier satellites were drifting out of the synchronous orbit. Another possible explanation for the communications failure of last night — which have already led to the filing of massive compensation claims by a number of civil users — is that the satellites have suffered meteor damage.

“And now, on the local scene, fierce objections to the one-way street system proposed…”

John Breton turned the radio off.

“The world still goes on,” he said with a hint of challenge in his voice, somehow excusing himself for not having had anything important to say on the subject of the John-Kate-Jack triangle. Jack briefly wondered to whom the apology was addressed.

“Of course it does. The world does still go on. Have some breakfast and don’t think about it too much.” Jack felt a macrocosmic amusement at his other self’s preoccupation with trivia.

“I don’t like those meteors,” John said as he sat down. “Yesterday was one hell of a day. A gravimetric survey goes haywire, the Palfreys arrive, I drink a ruinous quantity of Scotch I don’t even want, I take the longest trip for years, even the sky starts to play tricks, and then…”

“To cap it all, I show up,” Jack completed. “I know it’s tough on you, but don’t forget I have every right to be here. We settled all that last night.”

“You settled it,” John muttered ungraciously. “I don’t see how I can even talk this thing over with Kate while you’re hanging around us.

“What is there to talk over?” Jack Breton ate steadily as he spoke, enjoying himself.

John’s fork clattered to his plate. He sat with hunched shoulders for a moment, looking down at it, then raised his eyes to Kate in a level stare of disgust.

“Well, how about it? Have you weighed up our various merits and demerits yet?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Kate’s voice was taut with anger. “You’re the man around this house — if you don’t like Jack being here why don’t you do something positive about it?”

“Positive? You’re the one that’s in a position to do something positive — he said so himself. All you’ve to do is tell him to leave because you would prefer to go on living with me. What could be easier?”

“You seem to be trying to make it difficult,” Kate said slowly. “Are you doing it deliberately?”

“Very good, Kate,” John commented, abruptly recovering his composure. “I like the way you turned that one around. Very neat.”

Kate’s lips moved soundlessly as she raised a bottle-green coffee cup to her mouth, shooting him one of her exaggerated, schoolgirl looks of scorn over the rim. What an unlikely emotion, Jack thought, to cause rejuvenation.

John Breton pushed his food away and got to his feet. “Sorry to break this up, but somebody around here has to work.”

“You aren’t going to the office!” Kate sounded shocked.

“I’ve got to — besides, you two will have lots to talk about.”

Jack concealed his amazement at the other man’s seeming indifference to how near he was to losing Kate. “Do you have to go? Why not let Hetty handle things for a few days?”

John frowned. “Hetty? Hetty who?”

“Hetty Calder, of course.” Cool vapors of unease swirled momentarily in Jack’s chest as he saw the perplexed look on John’s face. This was supposed to be a duplicate world, perfect in every detail. How could John Breton have any difficulty in placing Hetty Calder?

“Oh, Hetty! It’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten. She’s been dead for seven or eight years.”

“How…?”

“Lung cancer, I think it was.”

“But I saw her just a week or so ago. She was all right — and still smoking two packs a day.”

“Perhaps she changed her brand in your world.” John shrugged casually, and in that instant Jack hated him.

“Isn’t that strange?” Kate spoke in a child’s wondering voice. “To think that funny little woman’s alive, somewhere, going about her business and not knowing we’ve already attended her funeral, not knowing she’s really dead.”

Jack Breton experienced an urge to correct Kate, but was unable to find any suitable grounds. If Kate was really alive, then Hetty was really dead — it was all part of the deal. He sipped hot coffee, surprised at the strength of the regrets conjured up by the memory of Hetty’s homely, capable face breathing through its centrally-mounted cigarette.

“I’m going to get dressed.” John Breton hesitated at the door as if about to say something further, then went out of the kitchen, leaving Jack alone with Kate for the first time. The air was warm, and prisms of pale sunlight slanted from the curtained windows. A pulsing silence filled the room as Kate toyed desperately with her food, looking slightly distraught and out-of-place against the background of cozy domesticity. She took a cigarette and lit it. Breton’s awareness of her was so intense that he could hear the tobacco and rice paper burning as she drew on the smoke.

“I think I arrived at just the right time,” he said finally.

“Why’s that?” She avoided looking at him.

“You and… John are about ready to split up, aren’t you?”

“That’s putting it a little strongly.”

“Come on, Kate,” be urged. “I’ve seen the two of you. It was never like this with us.”

Kate looked fully at him and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes.

“No? I don’t understand this Time A and Time B thing very well, Jack, but up until that night in the park you and John were the same person. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well, we had fights and arguments then, too. I mean, it was you — as well as John — who refused to give me taxi fare and — “

“Don’t, Kate!” Breton struggled to make his mind encompass what she was saying. She was right, of course, but during the last nine years he had avoided some avenues of memory, and he was strangely reluctant to be forced to explore them now. The dream could not sustain the dichotomy.

“I’m sorry — perhaps that wasn’t fair.” Kate tried to smile. “None of us seem to be able to shake off that particular episode. And there’s Lieutenant Convery…”

“Convery! Where does he come in?” Breton’s senses were alerted.

“The man who attacked me was called Spiedel. Lieutenant Convery was in charge of the investigations into his death.” Kate looked somberly at Breton. “Did you know you were seen that night?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You were. Half a dozen teenagers who must have been having a communal roll in the grass told the police about seeing a man with a rifle who materialized almost on top of them and vanished just as quickly. Naturally enough, the description they were able to give fitted John. To be honest, until last night I always had an illogical feeling it had been John — although the investigation cleared him completely. Several of our neighbors had seen him standing at the window, and his rifle was broken anyway.”

Breton nodded thoughtfully, suddenly aware of how near he had come to saving Kate and getting rid of the Time B Breton at one stroke. So the police had tried to pin the shooting on John! What a pity the dictates of chronomotive physics had caused the bullet which killed Spiedel to snap back into Time A along with the rifle and the man who had fired it. The rifling marks on it would have matched those produced by John Breton’s unfired and broken rifle — which would have given the omnipotent ballistics experts something to think about.

“I still don’t see what you mean about Convery,” he said aloud. “You said John was cleared.”

“He was, but Lieutenant Convery kept on coming around here. He still calls when he’s in the district, and drinks coffee and talks to John about geology and fossils.”

“Sounds harmless.”

“Oh, it is. John likes him, but he reminds me of something I don’t want to remember.”

Breton reached across the table and took Kate’s hand. “What do I remind you of?”

Kate moved uneasily, but kept her hand in his. “Something I do want to remember, perhaps.”

“You’re my wife, Kate — and I want you back.” He felt her fingers interlock with his then grow tighter and tighter as though in some trial of strength. Her face was that of a woman in childbirth. They sat that way, without speaking, until John Breton’s footsteps sounded outside the kitchen door. He came in, now wearing a gray business suit, and went straight to the radio.

“I’ll get the latest news, before I go.”

“I’ll tidy up here,” Kate said. She began clearing the table.

Jack Breton stood up, aware of an overwhelming resentment at his other self’s presence in the house, and walked slowly through the house until he was standing in the cool brown silence of the living room. Kate had responded to him — and that was important. It was why it had been necessary for him to do it this way, to walk straight in on Kate and John and explain everything to them.

A more logical and efficient method would have been to keep his presence in the Time B world a secret; to murder John, dispose of the body and quietly take over his life. But then he would have been burdened with a sense of having cheated Kate, whereas now he had the ultimate justification of knowing she preferred him to the man the Time B Breton had come to be. That mattered very much, and now it was time to think in detail about his next step — the elimination of John Breton.

Frowning in concentration, Jack Breton moved about the living room, absentmindedly lifting books and small ornaments, examining them and carefully putting everything back in its original place. His attention was caught by a sheaf of closely-written squares of white paper, the top one of which had an intricate circular pattern on it. He lifted the uppermost sheet and saw that what he had taken to be a pattern was actually handwriting in a finely-executed spiral. Breton rotated the paper and slowly read a fragment of poetry.

I have wished for you a thousand nights, While the green-glow hour-hand slowly veers. I could weep for the very need of you, But you wouldn’t taste my tears.

He had set the sheet down and was turning away from the table when the significance of the lines speared into him. It took several seconds for the floodgates of memory to open, and when they did his forehead prickled icily with fear. He had written those words himself during the period of near-madness following Kate’s death — but he had never shown them to anyone.

And that had been in another world, and another time.