Time Travel Omnibus, page 308
A curious expression came into George Bellows’ eyes; he lifted his head from his glass. Something in his stomach was suddenly twice as terrible as the grief he’d felt moments before. It was a pathetic, anguished, dare-I-hope feeling which tore him apart.
“Now in the backstretch,” the announcers’ voice came through again. “Despair still holds the lead, by three lengths. Coming up fast on the inside, however, is Castaway, the favorite.”
Bellows gripped the edge of the bar with his fingers until the knuckles were white. He closed his eyes.
“Despair still in front, only by a length now, as the horses came into the last turn. Castaway still inching up; another horse, on the outside, making a game bid. Other horse is Merrily. And now they’re in the stretch, beating down for the finish line!”
George Bellows lived and died a thousand times in the next fifteen seconds. The announcers’ voice was now the all consuming focus of every last atom of Bellows’ will power, nerve fiber, very being.
“Despair still by half a length. Castaway fading back. Merrilly, the twenty-to-one shot, moving up to within a quarter of a length of Despair. They’re nearing the finish line and it’s—Merrily! Yes, Merrily wins by a nose in a tremendous last stretch drive! Second was Despair, third was Castaway. And that’s the end of the first race at Arlington Park, run at—”
But George Bellows wasn’t listening any more. He’d slid from the bar stool and started blindly toward the door. Like a thumping carnival drum in his brain there came the chant: “Seven hundred bucks. Seven hundred hard earned dollars. Down the drain. Down the drain. Nothing left. Nothing left. Down the drain.”
He stopped just outside the tavern door and pulled out his billfold. Carefully, groggily, he counted the money he had left. A little over eighty bucks. George Bellows wondered just how damned drunk a fool could get on eighty bucks.
He decided to see. . . .
CHAPTER III
IT WAS scarcely three hours later when George Bellows, having found a bar, tropical in atmosphere, on the near north side which specialized in zombies, rolled forth for said south sea-ish bistro on his ear.
Taken under the most rigidly equal of circumstances, zombies are not drinks to sneer at. And taken with the quantity of brandy which had already been consumed by Bellows during his disastrous day, their effect can be most mildly described as sledgehammerish.
George Bellows, through much coy maneuvering, had managed to down six. zombies, even though that bistro had a strict limit of two to a customer. With the tactical brilliance given only to drunks and idiots, Bellows had discovered that since the bistro had two distinct bars and another room distinct from both bars, he could go to both bars and to the third room and have two zombies in each. That he did.
And at his third bar, Bellows found a fast chum. A dark, bearded little man with a long, pointed nose and sharp dancing eyes. The little chum called himself Achmet, which name Bellows freely translated into Allah before their acquaintance was ten minutes old.
In the dark, bearded, politely attentive Achmet, Bellows found the delight of all woe-ridden drunks, a sympathetic audience.
To little Achmet, Bellows related the entire happenings of his undeniably tragic day. And again and again Bellows demanded, with gestures, that Achmet explain the workings of fate against George Bellows.
“Ish not fair, Allah,” Bellows protested. “Ish jush like a damm chain tied roun’ m’ neck by Fate!”
“Fate,” said little Achmet quietly, “has a way of being quite unconquerable. One cannot run against its winds, my friend.”
This, quite naturally, served to bring out any latent perversiveness in the fogged mind of Bellows. He decided to argue the point.
“Thash not so!” he protested. “All’s I hadda do today wash to change a few thinghs I did, ’n everything wouldda been different. I couldda changed it all, if Idda known, and Fate couldn’t do a damn thingh aboush it!”
At this little Achmet raised his jet black eyebrows.
“You think so?” he asked with a queer little smile.
Bellows nodded, drunkenly emphatic.
“Coursh I could!”
“Supposing,” mused little Achmet, “you had all of today to live over. Do yop think you could avert the trouble you’ve had?”
Bellows pounded his fist on the bar.
“Ubetcha!”
Achmet appeared to change the subject suddenly. “Do you have any interest in clocks, my friend?”
“Wha kina clocks?” Bellows demanded.
“Unusual clocks,” the little Achmet said. “Clocks with strange powers over their servant, time.”
“Sure,” Bellows lied with drunken cheerfulness and a casual wave of his hand. “I’m the orishinal clock bug. I’m inereshted in everything outta th’way. Where’sh thish clock?”
MUCH to Bellows’ amazement, the little man reached into his pocket and brought forth a small, curiously designed timepiece not larger than the average pocket watch. It seemed to be encased in a coral substance, and was topped by tiny, delicately carved camels. Its face seemed much like the face of an ordinary watch except that it was sectioned into three circular parts, each of which had watch hands and numerals.
Achmet handed the strange little clock to Bellows.
“What do you think of it, friend?”
“Ish really ’stonushing,” Bellows exclaimed. “Whash the three sets of hansh for?”
Achmet smiled, as though he’d expected that question. “One set tells the time today,” he said. “The other tells the time tomorrow, and the third tells the time yesterday.”
“How ver, ver cleversh!” marvelled Bellows.
“It is the third section that should intrigue you, my friend,” said Achmet.
Bellows blinked. “Howsh thash?”
“It tells the time yesterday. When it is set to run for yesterday, it will transport its bearer back twenty-four hours into the preceding day. In other words, should you wish to try to conquer this woeful day by living it all over again, all I would need do would be to set that third section going and give you the watch.”
Achmet’s eyes twinkled as he looked up at Bellows.
“Inereshing,” Bellows mumbled.
“Yes,” little Achmet agreed. “Especially in view of the fact that that is precisely what I intend to do. I will set the little clock”—he took it from Bellows’ hand—’“for the yesterday section.” He peered down at the timepiece, holding it in one hand while his slim, amazingly dextrous fingers tinkered with the third section on its face. Then he started winding the stem gently. He smiled, and handed the watch to Bellows.
“There, my friend. I have set the watch and now it is yours. Precisely at midnight tonight, you will be sent back into yesterday. Yesterday will, of course, be this day, the day you wish to live over again.”
Bellows blinked foggily at the watch.
“Don’ get it,” he mumbled.
“You will comprehend as soon as the phenomenon occurs,” Achmet assured him. “Even though befogged temporarily, you will recall all this when you begin this day over again. You are given your wish to relive this day. I, Achmet, wish you luck in your struggle against the fates.”
Bellows was still staring uncomprehendingly at the little clock.
“Thanksh,” he muttered.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” said Achmet.
“Sure, sure,” Bellows mumbled. “Ish jush downstairsh onna right landing.” He watched Achmet leave, smiled when the little man turned at the door and smiled goodbye. Then Bellows held the watch to his ear, shook it, shook his head, and pocketed it.
“ ‘Nother zhombie, pleash!” Bellows told the bartender.
The bartender smiled regretfully. “Sorry, sir. You’ve had the limit of two.”
Bellows sighed resignedly and turned away from the bar. It suddenly occured to him that he’d best look in at his house. The way things had gone this day, he wouldn’t be surprised to find it in ashes on his arrival.
It never occurred to him that he was riotously drunk. And it never occurred to him that he had Connie to face in that condition. He found a cab outside the south sea-ish bistro, gave the driver his address.
“And hurry, shee,” Bellows demanded. “The plash’sh burning down!”
He sighed and leaned back on the cushions. . . .
CONNIE was waiting for George Bellows as he stumbled up the porch steps searching for his key. The taxi had just roared off, and Bellows was bent over on hands and knees retrieving his billfold, key case and cigarettes when his spouse opened the door.
From the arctic tones of her voice it was obvious that she had watched his uncertain navigation up the walk to the house.
“Well!” Connie said acidly. “Pick up your things, drunken bum, and come. inside. You’ll find it eighty degrees cooler in here, I’m sure!”
George Bellows blinked at his wife, picked up the last of his scattered effects, and got up waveringly from his hands and knees. He essayed a smile.
“Lo, Connie. Look lovely!”
“Get in here!” his spouse ordered.
Bellows weaved into his home, and Connie slammed the door behind him.
“What is the meaning of all this, you snake?” she demanded. And then, before he could answer, she added suspiciously: “Where’s the car?”
George Bellows smiled vaguely at his wife.
“Smashed the damn thing up. Didn’ like it, anyway. Ran ish shmack inna trucksh!”
“You ran it into a truck?” Connie’s eyes were wide, her voice horrified.
George Bellows nodded a trifle proudly. “Never ush car again. All shmash.”
“Oh, George!” His wife’s voice was a wail of anger and pain.
“Accomplish lotta thingsh today.” Bellows weaved there smilingly as he spoke. “Tole Homer Barshun whash he could do wish the damn job. Quit coldsh.”
This was not a precise recounting of what had happened. But to Bellows’ fogged mind it seemed like an excellently brief manner of imparting everything to Connie without too much wasted words and explanation.
“George!” Connie gurgled the word in shocked, sick fear.
Bellows nodded, still smiling with vague happiness. “Put alia money I collectsh from Barton onna horsh. Horsh almosh won. Ran secun.”
“How,” Connie managed sickly, “how much money did you put on.this—this horse?”
“Sheven hunner dollarsh!” said Bellows with shy pride.
There was a moment of unbroken, electric silence. His wife stared at Bellows utterly aghast, as if she were viewing Bluebeard in Madame Tussaud’s wax museum for the first time. Her face was white, and twin crimson splashes of rage marked her cheeks. Her pretty lips were a tight line of frigid wrath.
Her voice was scarcely a whisper when she finally spoke.
“I’ll send someone over tomorrow for my things,” Connie said. “I couldn’t stand staying in this house another minute. If you ever see me again, it’ll be because you scraped up train fare to appear in person at Reno!”
She stepped around him, then, opened the hall door and slammed it shatteringly behind her as she left the house.
GEORGE BELLOWS looked sickly at the still trembling door. He turned and staggered into the living room. As tight as he was, he knew that this was the payoff. This was the final crushing blow of the hideous day.
He suddenly felt very sick, terribly weary, and dreadfully drunk. He peeled off his coat, letting it drop to the floor. Then he bent over, picked out a small object from the pocket of the coat and stared curiously at it.
It was an exceptionally strange little clock of some sort. Drunkenly, Bellows swayed there unsteadily, staring down at the curio. He held it to his ear, then shook his head. There was no recognition, no recollection in his eyes as he stared at the clock. He lurched over to a coffee table and placed the curious timepiece carefully atop it.
Then he slumped soddenly down on the divan. He started to lean back. He felt as if someone were trying to close his eyes. He sat up, fighting off a swift nausea.
Carefully, Bellows bent over and removed his shoes. This done, he leaned back on the divan again, and again it lured him hypnotically. He felt so tired. So damned tired. He sank back wearily.
Minutes later his snores resounded through the room. He was asleep, or, more precisely, was “out cold.”
CHAPTER IV
STRONG morning sunlight, pouring into the face of George Bellows, finally succeeded in waking him scarcely two minutes before the alarm clock went off.
For a moment Bellows lay there, blinking appreciatively in the warming glow of nature’s klieg lights. Then, suddenly, he sat up in bed and looked wildly around.
In the twin bed beside his own, Connie, his wife, slept peacefully.
Bellows put both hands to his head, closing his eyes. Then he opened them again. Connie was still there. The morning was still sunny, and he was still in his bedroom.
“My God,” Bellows gasped. “How did I get here?”
The memory of everything that had occurred in the preceding twenty-four dismal hours returned to him in an overwhelming flood of remorse and sick anguish.
His car smashed, job gone, money lost, wife walking out on him. His sick drunk and his passing out downstairs, all that came to his consciousness.
“But Connie isn’t gone,” he told himself perplexedly. “She’s right here, and I’m in bed, not sprawled on the couch downstairs. I don’t even have a hangover. What’s it all about? Could it have been a dream?”
He closed his eyes trying to reason it out. He’d be sick as a dog if he had been drunk the night before. But he felt fine. Connie wouldn’t have returned in a hundred years, had she walked out on him. Yet here she was right across from him.
“It couldn’t have happened,” Bellows told himself.
And yet he could swear that it all had happened. But how could he argue against the facts of the present situation, facts belying all the vividly terrible recollections he had?
“My God,” Bellows muttered, “it must have been some terrible dream!”
Then he saw the clock, and knowing that the alarm was due to ring in another instant, he reached over and shut it off. Quietly, then, Bellows rose and slipped into a bathrobe.
For a moment he stood there beside his wifes’ bed, frowning. That dream, that damned nightmarish dream, was still as clear to him as if he’d actually experienced it.
“I’d be willing to swear it all happened,” he thought. “I’d swear to it on a mountain of Bibles. Ugh!” He shuddered at the grim recollections that were still with him.
George Bellows then woke his wife.
Connie blinked sleepily, opened her eyes fully, then smiled at her husband.
“Good morning, George. Time to get up already?”
Bellows smiled none too certainly, for the vivid recollections were still persistently with him, and he told her it was almost eight o’clock.
“I’d better hurry with your breakfast then,” Connie said. “You start dressing and shaving and I’ll have breakfast ready by the time you’re done.”
Bellows nodded, still bewilderedly unconvinced about everything, and started for his morning shower. . . .
WHEN he came down to breakfast, the puzzled expression was still in Bellows’ eyes, and he gazed at the table warily. It was set for him as usual, tomato juice, coffee, toast, a newspaper propped up against the sugar bowl.
Connie came out from the kitchen, smiling brightly.
“You seem strange this morning, George. Anything wrong?”
“No,” Bellows said, seating himself.
“No, nothing at all.”
Connie took a seat across from him.
“That’s good,” she declared. Then she began to chatter brightly about innumerable inconsequential things, while Bellows picked up his tomato juice and glanced down at the headlines in the paper.
He had two shocks simultaneously.
The tomato juice tasted foul, and the headline in the paper was the same as he had seen it in his, his “dream” !
Connie, still chattering happily, didn’t notice her husband put down the tomato juice hastily and stare in pop-eyed amazement at the paper.
With a hand that trembled visibly, Bellows lifted the lid from the toast tray and looked beneath it. The toast was burned!
It was all he could do to reach for the cream pitcher and gingerly pour a little of the liquid into his coffee. Then after adding sugar, Bellows lifted the cup to his lips.
The coffee tasted like hell, for the cream had slightly soured!
During this interval Bellows had been paying no attention whatsoever to his wife’s chatter. Now he looked up at her whitely, and her voice came into his range of consciousness.
“And so you see, George,” chirped his wife, “even though we make a lot of money compared to some of the people we know, we really ought to think of cutting down expenses. After all, with this war, and everything, we can’t be too certain about conditions. Especially since you are in the advertising business, and everybody knows how badly this war has hit the advertising business.”
Bellows’ jaw went slack. He gaped foolishly at his wife, while through his mind there ran the phrase, “This is just exactly as she said it in the dream, if it really was just a dream!”
Then he said, unaware of speaking aloud: “But it couldn’t be a dream, then! It couldn’t have been a dream!”
Connie now found it her turn to gape. She looked at her husband in amazement.
“What on earth are you saying, George?”
Bellows was still too white to redden at his wife’s words. He could only shake his head stupidly, as if trying to rid it of a fog. Something much more deeply rooted than reason was assuring him that the horrible nightmare he’d experienced hadn’t been a dream at all. He glanced down at the paper wildly. Yes, every news story on the front page had been there before him in that so-called dream. And everything else in the pattern duplicated that pseudodream, even to the words his wife spoke, the foul taste of the tomato juice, the burned toast and the slightly sour coffee!
