Time Travel Omnibus, page 310
It was over very quickly. Over just as Bellows had known it would be. Over just as it had been the first time. The announcer was bleating excitedly.
“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—”
Grinning triumphantly, Bellows paid for his milk and cheese sandwich and left the restaurant. He decided to go directly to Mindy’s where he could leave word with the bartender for Louie. Word to meet him there later, say at five, with the ten thousand five hundred dollars winnings.
MINDY’S was only ten minutes away by cab, but Bellows, in his mood of exuberant triumph, decided to walk it. He arrived there a little less ban half an hour later.
Casually, Bellows ordered a ginger-ale, and then, just as casually, asked Mindy if Louie had been in.
“Yeah, sure about ten minutes ago,” Mindy said. “Which reminds me, he left you this.”
Mindy walked over to the cash register and pulled forth a long envelope, brought it back to Bellows.
“He seemed white and shaky about somethin’,” Mindy said, handing the envelope to Bellows.
“He should,” Bellows grinned. He took the envelope. Louie paid off fast; he had to say that for him. And then Bellows frowned swiftly. The envelope was not a fat bulging thing that might contain currency. Instead it seemed to have only a thin sheet of paper in it. Bellows tore open the envelope wondering if Louie paid by check.
The check was not a check. It was a brief, horribly explanatory note.
“Dear Georgie,” the sprawling scrawl read.
“Don’t like to do this, but can’t help it. Your dough is down the drain and I don’t know how I can pay off. If you’re ever in California, look me up.
Yrs. regretfully,
Looie.”
George Bellows felt suddenly as if he wanted to vomit. The room seemed to swim grayly around him, and he had to hold onto the bar for support. This was his triumph over fate. This was his so-successfully bucking of an already predetermined destiny. No matter what he did, or how he fought, the pattern could never be changed basically.
No more car. No more job. No more seven hundred dollars. Just like the first living of this day. George Bellows’ head was figuratively very bloody, but now it was definitely bowed.
Through the dim fog of despair and sick futility that shrouded him, he heard his voice saying desperately to Mindy:
“Bring me a bottle of brandy. A nice big bottle of brandy. You can skip the soda.”
Mindy merely raised his eyebrows. But he brought out the bottle. . . .
EVEN at the start of the bottle, Bellows was conscious of one unshakable fact. His destiny for this day—as it had undoubtedly been for all the days of his life from birth to death—was rigidly patterned, unalterably sealed. There was no fighting it. No bucking the winds of fate.
He’d tried. He’d tried with a thorough knowledge of the bad luck that lay ahead of him, and still he hadn’t been able to dodge any of the tragedies he knew to be coming.
And what made it even more terrible was his positive knowledge that the final tragedy of the day was also inevitable. He would lose his wife, to finish the ironically futile battle. There could be no preventing that. Connie, just as she had in the first living of this day, would walk out on him in disgust. Nothing could prevent it. Nothing in the world that he could possibly do.
Staying sober wouldn’t prevent it. If he stayed sober some other fiendish complication would step in to carry out the preordained destiny. So to hell with staying sober.
“To hell,” Bellows summed it up neatly, “with everything!”
Halfway through the first bottle, George Bellows became squintingly philosophical, and since he was practically the only customer in the place at that hour, he was able to commandeer Mindy’s ear.
“Y’re licked already, chum,” Bellows said carefully, pointing a none too steady finger at Mindy’s chest. “Wyncha give up? Wyncha go in fifty-fifty onna gun wi’ me? We’ll commit sooshide, huh?”
“Now,” said Mindy moderately and with practiced tact, “I don’t know about that.”
“Y’oughtta know,” Bellows insisted. He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “I know,” he hissed.
Mindy smiled tolerantly and lighted a cigarette on which George Bellows had already wasted half a pack of matches.
“Thanksh,” Bellows muttered parenthetically. Then: “Y’re lucky. Y’don’t know y’re licked. I do.”
Mindy wandered away to fix a drink for a customer who’d just entered. Bellows gravely began a sotto-voiced argument with himself. The summation of it seemed to be that the world was the miserable place it was because of small dark gentlemen named Achmet, or Allah, who gave people curious clocks and ruined their lives for them by making them see how futile everything was.
To an outsider, a casual listener, Bellows’ self argument would have been scarcely coherent. But to him, it made much sense, especially after pondering it a little longer.
By the time he’d finished his bottle, Bellows had determined to seek out the swarthy, dark-bearded little chap named Achmet, or Allah, or whatever it was, who’d been responsible for his having to endure this tragic day of proving to himself the futility of struggle against fate.
BELLOWS found a cruising taxi on Michigan Boulevard, and managed to make the general direction in which he wanted to travel vaguely clear to the driver.
Then he leaned back and slept.
Ten minutes later the cabbie and a doorman were shaking him into wakefulness.
“Come on, buddy,” the driver said impatiently. “Isn’t this where you want to go?”
Bellows opened his eyes a moment to blink around.
“Allah here?” he demanded.
“Pickled to the roots,” snorted the doorman disdainfully. “Take him somewhere else; we don’t want him here.”
The driver shook Bellows again. Again Bellows opened his eyes.
“Listen, Buddy,” the driver pleaded, “where do yuh wanta go?”
“Go shee Allah,” Bellows mumbled with vague determination. He closed his eyes and began snoring again.
“Look in his wallet,” the doorman said. “Maybe his address’ll be there. You can take him home.”
George Bellows, unconscious of the fact that fate again was bringing him into an inescapable encounter, snored happily onward. The driver shrugged.
“Okay. I don’t like to do that. But it’s better’n dumping him into the street like this.” He proceeded to roll Bellows over to get his wallet. . . .
IT WAS approximately twenty minutes later when the taxi drew up in front of the Bellows’ neighborhood residence. It being late afternoon, the arrival gained considerable attention from most of the block’s residents.
With no little effort, the driver at last succeeded in waking George Bellows. And on climbing unsteadily from the cab and blinking in the sunlight, Bellows became aware of where he was for the first time.
He knew he was in front of his house. He knew that he was drunk. And he remembered that he faced the final and by far most terrible tragedy of the day. This was the scene in which Connie would leave him.
Bellows shoved some bills into the cabbie’s hand and turned to make his weaving way up the walk. Alcoholically fogged though he was, he sensed that the ancient Roman martyrs must have felt much as he did now when they walked into the arena to face the lions.
He fumbled for his keys as he climbed the porch steps. He dropped his billfold and keys and cigarettes, and was bending over on all fours to retrieve them when he heard the front door open. He looked up to see Connie standing there in the doorway, staring at him aghast.
Bellows retrieved his things, stuffed them haphazardly into his pocket, and swayed back up on his feet.
He felt a foolish grin cracking his mouth, an uncontrollable grin.
“Lo, Connie,” he mumbled. “Look lovely.”
THEN he navigated the rest of the steps and stumbled past her into the house. Connie still hadn’t said a word. Now he heard her slam the door behind him.
He stumbled around to face her, the silly grin still on his face.
“What does all this mean?” Connie asked quietly. “And tell me also what you’ve done with the car.”
“Carsh smash’tup!” Bellows said. “Shtree’car hit it. N’er be worsha nickle again.”
“Oh, George!” Connie gasped.
“I alsho don’ hawa job anymore,” Bellows hiccupped. “An I losh alia money we got lef onna horsh.” Connie’s expression was one of sick horror. Her pretty gray-green eyes were moist, and suddenly twin tears ran down her cheeks.
“Go ’head,” Bellows said. “Now leave me. I’ma bum, thash wot. Leamme ’n get it o’er wish.”
And then, to Bellows utter amazement, Connie’s arms were around him and she was hugging him tightly and sobbing.
“Oh, George. Oh you poor darned unlucky George. What a positively horrible day you musta have had. Don’t think I’m angry, George. I couldn’t be angry when you’re so utterly down. I couldn’t in a million years. You, poor, poor miserable George!”
Dazedly, Bellows let Connie lead him into the living room where she made him lie down on the sofa. He was still too stunned to speak when Connie came back with cold towels and an ice pack.
But the sobering impact of the ice pack and cold towels was nothing as compared to the shockingly sobering impact of Connie’s utterly reversed behavior.
“I’m making some black coffee, darling,” she said smiling bravely. “You just lie still, and don’t worry about anything. It’s all going to be all right, honey. You wait and see. You’ll find another job, and the car doesn’t mean anything. I’ve a little money I’ve been saving on the sly. It will tide us along.” Even had he been utterly sober, Bellows wouldn’t have been able to figure it out. It was utterly contradictory. Completely, totally out of line with what had happened the first time. And for no reason. Absolutely no earthly reason.
AN HOUR later when Connie went out to get his third cup of black coffee, Bellows, still beneath the cold towels and the ice pack, was able to figure out the only possible explanation for it all.
“It’s simply that she’s a woman,” he thought, “and there is no rhyme or reason to any reaction of the female of the species. No one, not even Fate itself, can determine how a woman will react from one instant to the next.”
And when Connie came back with the third cup of black coffee, the smile Bellows gave her wasn’t the least bit silly. It was brimming with appreciation and the deepest affection man can offer to the one imponderable, incalculable quotant in the otherwise inflexible scheme of Fate—woman.
For he knew that as long as the species existed in the world, man need never fear any predetermination of anything, anytime.
Connie saw the smile, and asked tenderly:
“What are you thinking of, George?”
“Eve,” Bellows grinned. “Mother Eve. She certainly threw a rigidly ordered world beautifully out of balance when she entered the picture. And am I glad!”
Connie gently adjusted the ice pack on her husband’s forehead and wondered vaguely what the hell he was talking about. . . .
CAVERNS OF TIME
Carlos McCune
Time sot mixed up in this cave and the three musketeers found new uses for their incredibly clever blades, thereby addins an unscheduled chapter to history
CLIVE nosed the truck over the brow of the ridge and rapidly shifted up through the gears as it gained momentum on the down-grade. He didn’t like the ridge, it was too steep and too crooked, and worse, there were too many timid tourists hugging the inside on blind curves. In their present state the brakes on this small truck were ridiculously inadequate for the relatively heavy load of twelve hundred gallons of gasoline that filled the tank. Clive didn’t know why he took such chances when there was an even chance of “piling up,” but unconsciously the thrill of uncertainty was his only incentive for staying on this truck-driving job the four months of the year that he was not studying medicine.
The tanker continued to pick up speed, while Clive gave it all the brake he had on his approach to curves that couldn’t be negotiated otherwise. Ten miles of this slope and he was preparing to congratulate himself upon the successful descent, as was his custom, when he saw something that instantly tensed all of the muscles in his body. He grabbed the hand-brake, at the same time slamming the foot-brake pedal to the floor-boards, finally coming to a stop.
“Clive, you’re wacky,” he muttered; “you’re asleep and you don’t know it.”
From past experience he knew there was only one treatment for sleepiness. He leaned over the steering-wheel and closed his eyes. He was just dozing off when he was startled nearly through the windshield by a terrific din. Quickly composing himself he scrambled out of the cab, making his way toward the rear of the truck—sure that he would find another car smashed into the rear of the tanker. He had barely taken two steps, however, when the sound of voices caused him to stop dead in his tracks. The voices were speaking in a foreign tongue—French. Clive immediately recognized it for he had studied this language for three years in his undergraduate days.
“Well Messieurs, what do you make of it?” One voice was saying.
“Strike it again, d’Artagnan, perhaps we can rouse some creature from within.” This speaker’s voice was boisterously loud.
“I am afraid, Messieurs, that after the mad dash we have just witnessed we will find no living creature in this strange vehicle. It is a miracle that it stopped before dashing itself to pieces against the rocks you see ahead.” This voice had an air of quiet dignity that immediately commanded Clive’s respect.
“Then it wasn’t a dream,” Clive murmured: “Or it was and I am still dreaming.” His eyes wandered to the deep, transparent blue of the sky, and to the eagle that was scarcely violating its solitude, floating about on motionless wings. The sun beat down mercilessly, but paradoxically a cool breeze was blowing down through the canyon to the right, as it always did about this time of day. Clive inhaled deeply this refreshing draught. “I can’t possibly be asleep,” he thought; “everything is too real.” He again turned his attention to the voices on the other side of the truck.
“Athos is right, but perhaps the coachman was spared by the same providence that saved the coach,” said a fourth voice.
“Mordieu!” The second voice was even more boisterous than before: “What kind of providence would spare a coachman that would lose his horses on such a grade?”
Clive could contain himself no longer, dream or no dream, he was going to enjoy the situation to the fullest. He walked boldly around the truck, and addressed the strange company:
“I have the horses safely under lock and key, friends, all 85 of them, and so if you will climb back on your respective mounts, and ride back to the booby hatch, or the circus, or wherever you belong I’ll skin this wagon on into town.”
THE four men he addressed were indeed a strange sight—small wonder that Clive suspected himself of dreaming. They wore long cloaks—much too warm for this near-desert climate—and large felt hats with flowing plumes. They wore high leather boots reaching above their knees, and each carried a long straight sword at his side. The mounts were as remarkable as the riders. In this country of cow-boys and horses Clive had never seen horse furnishings such as these noble animals carried—a combination of leather, steel, silver, and velvet—very impractical, but having a very business-like appearance.
Though they rode almost identical mounts, and dressed similarly, the four men certainly were not drawn together by any personal similarity. One was rather short and stocky, having prominent cheek-bones, and a swarthy complexion. “D’Artagnan,” was the thought that flashed through Clive’s mind, for he was the exact picture of the hero of Clive’s life-long favorite novel. A second was, in contrast, a veritable giant. A shock of light hair hung to his shoulders, framing a flushed face which bore a rather blank expression. “Porthos,” this one registered. A third gave the impression of effeminate elegance, an impression that was belied by the cold glitter in his eye. “Aramis,” thought Clive. Fourth was the most commanding figure of the group. Tall and handsome, this man embodied all the qualities commonly ascribed to aristocracy. This could only be Athos.
Clive felt embarrassed the moment he had made this rude speech. “After all,” he thought, “they are probably members of one of the motion picture companies that film many of their scenes in this country.” This embarrassment lasted only a moment, however, quickly changing to a feeling of concern, for as soon as the strangers had recovered from the first surprise their swords flashed menacingly in their hands, and “d’Artagnan” cried:
“It’s an English dog, let me have the pleasure, Messieurs, of spitting him on my sword.”
Clive would not have been surprised if they had vanished in thin air, but events had taken an unsuspected turn with rather startling effects. He turned and fled toward the cab of the tanker. The motor roared obligingly at a flick of the starter button, and the truck moved out upon the highway. He stopped the truck again on the top of a small knoll about one hundred yards distant, for a glance at the rear-view mirror had assured him he was no longer in danger of being perforated by this maniac’s sword—Clive was sure now that the strangers were escaped inmates of an asylum, or almost sure—the noble bearing of “Athos” made him wonder.
Climbing to the top of the tank in order to get a better view, Clive looked back upon a scene of confusion. The horses, evidently startled by the roar of the truck motor were streaking across a nearby ridge, while the strangers who had tried in vain to stop them were watching them disappear in apparent dismay. When finally convinced that the horses would neither stop nor return, the four again turned their attention to the tanker, and after a hasty conference started walking up the hill to where Clive was now seated cross-legged on top of the tank. Clive had by this time overcome his momentary fear, and felt only amusement as he saw his would-be persecutors approach slowly-panting and perspiring under the weight of the heavy, warm clothes they were wearing. When they arrived within hailing distance, Clive called out to them, this time in French:
