Time Travel Omnibus, page 537
“There’s going to be a big legal case about that very soon,” he said. “A big betting firm is going to sue Second Chance Incorporated and half a dozen people who have won big bets, claiming that flashback makes their business impossible. There’s no way of telling, you see, whether a man has made a flashback or not, short of hypnosis and truth drugs. The ruling is going to be that whenever anybody makes a lot of money fast by betting or investments or insurance or any other form of legal gambling, he may be asked to submit to hypnosis or truth-drug questioning. If he’s made a flashback, his gains are forfeit.”
Doreen was interested. “Suppose instead of making the investment himself, he sells the information?”
“You’ve got a brain too,” said Gene admiringly. “Yes, that’s going to be tried too. And it won’t work either, because whoever is questioned will reveal where he got the information, if any, and it’ll be tracked down that way. No, flashback doesn’t mean easy money. My book’s different. I really did write it.”
“Suppose somebody else stole your book? I mean, made a flashback, wrote it down and sold it as his own?”
“He’d have to carry it all in his head—and that’s not easy for anybody but the author.”
Doreen went on talking animatedly about the ramifications of flashback, and Gene realized with mixed feelings that he’d been all too successful in diverting her. An hour before she’d have given herself to him. Now she was talking as if he were an interesting item in Readers Digest.
As far as he was concerned she hadn’t changed. She was still in her white two-piece, and he was fully aware of her breathtaking physical presence.
He forced his attention back abruptly to his reason for telling her about the flashback.
“Doreen,” he said, “I must have had a reason. You know that.” At once that puzzled, doubtful look returned to her eyes.
“I can’t tell you about it,” he said. “Not yet. Doreen, can you wait a few days—a week or two?”
“And then?” she breathed.
“I don’t know.” He felt a heel again. What he was saying was: Will you hang around so that I can condescend to notice you if another girl turns me down?
“I’m not to see you during that time?”
“Well . . . suppose we keep on just meeting in the park?”
She was radiant again. Anything so long as he did not cut her out of his life.
He jumped up. It was cooler now, wearing on towards evening. “Let’s go somewhere and dance.”
“Just one thing, Gene,” she said. “Last time—did you and I meet?”
“No,” he said.
She whispered something which he didn’t hear, and she wouldn’t repeat it when he asked her to.
This time the publishers offered an advance of $5,000, which was a mild surprise. Previously it had been only $3,500.
As before, there was a lot dickering about serialization and it came to nothing. Also two film companies heard about One Face for Heaven, demanded copies, and made ridiculously small offers which were turned down.
Five thousand was quite enough for Genes immediate needs. He knew the book would really make money in about six months’ time.
One Sunday in July he met Doreen as usual in the park. He had tried to get her to go home that weekend, but she had said no, she had things to do in town anyway. Gene wondered if it was the last time he’d be seeing her.
Afterwards, timing his movements carefully, he drove his recently acquired 1969 Buick—not the same one he had had before, but that shouldn’t matter—to a certain boulevard and turned in to park.
He cursed.
A cab was dropping a fare precisely where Gene wanted to put the Buick. However, the passenger, an elderly woman, was paying off the driver, and in a few seconds he would move off.
Unfortunately he didn’t. The cabbie, a slow, lean-jawed man with iron-gray hair, sat back, took an apple from his pocket and proceeded to bite into it reflectively.
Gene was getting desperate. The taxi would undoubtedly move within a few minutes, but a glance at Gene’s watch showed him there weren’t many minutes to spare. If the driver took his time over eating that apple, it would be too late.
He had to be shifted.
Gene thought wildly of ramming him. That wouldn’t do; there would be an argument.
He thought of jumping in the cab and getting the driver to start out somewhere. Then Gene could suddenly remember something and jump out. Or he could get the driver to go round the block.
But there wasn’t time.
Gene leaped out of the Buick and ran to the cab.
“Will you deliver a message?” he said breathlessly. “It’s urgent.”
The gray-haired driver removed the apple reluctantly from his mouth and was about to say something. But Gene’s wallet was under his nose, open.
“Sure,” he said. “Where and what?”
“Miss Doreen Barrett,” Gene said. While he gave the address he tried to think up a message—any message. Finally he said weakly: “Tell her I’ll call at eight tonight. Hurry, will you?”
The cabbie made no secret of the fact that he thought there was something decidedly nuts about all this, but Gene’s ten-dollar bill was real. He took it, put the car in gear, and moved off.
Almost as soon as the wheels of the cab began to turn, Gene was back in the Buick and putting it where the taxi had been. He looked at the trees lining the boulevard and saw he wasn’t in exactly the right spot. He started to back out, then saw the salmon-pink Cadillac in the distance, coming fast.
Gene nearly exploded when he saw the elderly taxi-driver at his elbow, bending towards him.
“Did you say seven or eight?” he asked.
“Eight!” Gene almost screamed, and the taxi-driver turned to go back to his cab, twenty yards away. Then he paused and looked round. His eyes widened, and Gene heard a squeal of brakes and a scream of tires.
Genes head banged sickeningly against the side window as the salmon-pink Cadillac smashed into the rear of the Buick and slewed it sidewise. Sick, dizzy, less than half conscious, he slumped over the wheel.
Vaguely he was aware he’d hit his head a lot harder than usual.
Seconds later the far door of the Buick was opened, someone who smelled nice slid along the seat, and abruptly his head was on a soft breast and a gentle hand was probing his head. He tried to look up.
She was as wonderful as ever. Glorious black hair; the softest, kindest eyes he had ever seen; a face so lovely that he caught his breath as he always did; and a figure that proclaimed its perfection even through the long blue dress which swathed it.
“Lady, dames like you should take a cab,” a voice was saying. “If I’d stayed where I was you’d of hit me!”
Irritation brushed away some of Gene’s daze. All the other times Belinda and he had had this moment to themselves.
“I’m all right,” he said.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Belinda was saying. “There was a patch of oil—”
“Bud, if you want a witness,” said the other voice, the voice Gene wished would go away, “I’m your man. Dames like this one—”
“I’m all right,” Gene insisted. “Go and deliver that message.”
“You’re badly shaken,” Belinda said. “My house is right here. Could you walk if I helped you?”
That was the last he remembered for a while. He had a vague idea the taxi-driver conquered his indignation sufficiently to help Belinda get him inside. Gene was thinking dazedly: This is new. This never happened before.
Previously she had driven him home. He’d never been taken into the house.
When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a sofa and Belinda was bathing his head with cold water. Apparently she had got rid of the taxi-driver.
“Lie still,” she said. “I’ll send for a doctor in a minute.”
He didn’t want a doctor. He wanted Belinda to go on caring for him.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll be all right soon.”
“I guess you will,” she said, sponging his head gently, “but we’d better make sure.”
“I’m allergic to doctors. And you’re doing a wonderful job.”
She smiled, that wonderful warm smile.
“All right,” she said. “I won’t excite the patient. Now I’ll have to go out and move the car. You stay where you are and don’t worry about anything. The accident was entirely my fault and I’ll have your car fixed right away.”
Gene felt dizzy again after she had gone. He had certainly had a much harder knock on the head than usual. That must have been because in his haste he hadn’t put the Buick in exactly the right place.
He marvelled at the way tiny differences created a whole new series of events. Already, only minutes after meeting Belinda for the first time, he was on a completely new track. He was in her house. This was better, much better.
Belinda was back. “Don’t move,” she said. She sat on the sofa in front of him, looked at the side of his head and a worried expression came into her eyes. “It’s bleeding again,” she said. “Sure you don’t want me to send for a doctor?”
“Quite sure,” said Gene. “I’ll be all right in a minute. My name’s Gene Player, by the way.”
“I’m Belinda Morton. Player . . . I wonder if I know a friend of yours. Do you know Harry Scott?”
“Yes,” said Gene.
“He’s talked about you,” said Belinda. “He’s a great friend of mine. As a matter of fact . . .”
She jumped up. “I must bathe your head again,” she said. And in a moment she was back with a sponge and cold water.
“I can’t say how sorry I am about this,” she said. “I braked too hard, skidded on a patch of oil, and—”
“Don’t keep apologizing,” said Gene. “I’m beginning to be very glad it happened.”
She laughed deliciously. Belinda was no Doreen. She was poised, assured.
“That’s the nicest compliment I ever had,” she said. “And you managed to say it as if you meant it.”
“I did mean it. It wouldn’t be a compliment if I didn’t. Let me apologize for a change. I’m afraid there’s some of my blood on your dress.”
She smiled. “As if that mattered.”
Gene realized then that he’d had a vague hope that when he met her, buttressed by Doreen’s love, he’d find he didn’t really care about Belinda after all, and could return happily to Doreen. It was no good. He was in love with Belinda all over again.
Once again, through the superficial things they were saying, he felt her warmth and kindness and sincerity, and he ached for her as always.
“Why are you allergic to doctors?” she asked.
“If you must have the truth, I’m not really. I’m just afraid he’d find out I was malingering and then I’d have no excuse to lie here and look at you.”
Belinda laughed again. There was some surprise in her laugh. Gene sounded as if he meant these things he was saying. But he couldn’t mean them. She’d never seen him before in her life.
“You sound to me like a very accomplished wolf,” she observed.
He sighed. “I guess if I said I’d fallen in love with you at first sight I’d merely confirm your opinion?”
“You certainly would.”
“Then I’d better not say it.” She was frowning now. “Don’t do it, Mr. Player,” she said. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t say so earnestly things you don’t mean. I’m old-fashioned. I like truth. I like to believe I know the truth when I hear it. It bothers me to hear anybody lying so convincingly.”
“Isn’t there a simpler explanation?”
“What?”
“That I am telling the truth. That I am in love with you—Belinda.”
She was at a loss, a rare occurrence. She remembered the blood on her dress and seized on it as an excuse to do something. “Excuse me while I change my dress,” she said. “Don’t move.”
“Do you really think I would?”
With a last quizzical glance, she was gone.
Gene knew he was gambling wildly. He might be throwing away an excellent chance; on the other hand, everything else had failed . . .
The telephone on the table beside him buzzed. He picked it up.
“Belinda?” said a voice he knew well.
“No—guess who,” he retorted.
There was a surprised pause. “Gene Player,” said Harry’s voice. “I didn’t know you knew Belinda.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“Well, I do,” said Gene.
“Is she back? I guess she must be or you wouldn’t be there. Can I speak to her?”
“Not just at the moment. Shall I ask her to call you back, Harry?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter.” The tone was faintly huffy. “If she’s forgotten she was supposed to be meeting me—”
“Oh, was she? I didn’t know about that. She hasn’t said anything about it to me.”
“She wouldn’t.” And this time Harry’s tone was decidedly huffy.
“Well, never mind. Be seeing you.”
Gene’s heart was pounding again. A real turning point! The way it had gone before was that Belinda had caused a minor accident, met Gene, taken him home, and gone on to meet Harry. Harry had been affectionate after her long stay in Canada, and Gene hadn’t yet registered on Belinda’s life. By the time Gene had seen her again five days later, it was too late.
Gene wondered what to say when she came back. Not mention the call? But later Harry would say he had called and spoken to Gene.
He had no more time to think, for Belinda was back, in a flowered-silk negligee. For a couple of seconds Gene gaped at her. She just wasn’t the sort of girl to entertain strangers in a negligee.
“Did I hear the phone?” she said.
So that was it. She’d heard the phone and slipped on a wrap.
“Yes—Harry Scott,” Gene said. “He said something about it didn’t matter.”
“Oh.”
“Harry isn’t a rival, is he?” Gene demanded.
She stared at him, then laughed helplessly. “I never met anybody like you. You lie on my sofa bleeding and making violent love to me five minutes after I smash your car and knock a hole in your head.”
“Sit down and smooth my fevered brow,” said Gene.
She did so. Her wrap fell open and she didn’t seem to mind. Not that she was anything like indecent underneath—she wore a slip which would have been a respectable dress in any other year but 1975. Nevertheless, she wasn’t exactly discouraging him.
“Is he?” Gene asked.
“Is who what?”
“Is Harry a rival?”
She laughed again. “Not exactly. He’s just a friend. And if he didn’t really care whether we went out today or not, probably not as close a friend as I thought.”
She didn’t seem to care about that, either.
And Gene knew that he’d won.
Not over weeks, months, years, as he’d expected. Not with a tremendous effort. Not by brilliant planning, passionate love-making, tender love letters.
Simply by hitting his head a little harder and telling Belinda honestly that he loved her, before Harry had a chance to tell her the same thing.
He hadn’t won Belinda yet, but he’d won the chance to win Belinda. Something he’d never had before.
He wasn’t up against an immutable.
But now there was something to clear up, before it became important. “Look, Belinda,” he said. “I took that call from Harry just now. I don’t want . . . you said you didn’t like people who lied. I don’t want you ever to think I lied. He only said it didn’t matter after I gave him the idea that I was in love with you myself. That wasn’t a lie.”
She was staring steadily at him. “No,” she said. “I don’t think it was.”
He sat up. The room swam as he did so, but then he caught Belinda’s shoulders and was all right. Direct action had taken him a long way already. It didn’t seem that it would let him down now.
He kissed her.
As he did so the doorbell rang.
They could have ignored it, but Gene drew back involuntarily, thinking of Harry, and by the time he realized it couldn’t be Harry, because Harry hadn’t had time to be at the door even if he phoned from the nearest callbox, it was too late.
Belinda got up and went out.
Five seconds later a whirlwind burst in. It was female and it was crying. It threw itself across Gene’s legs, crying now with relief, because he was not badly hurt.
It was, naturally, Doreen.
“I got your message,” she said. “The man who brought it said you’d been hurt. Oh, Gene, I hope nothing like that ever happens to me again. I know what we agreed. But I can’t help it, I love you.”
Over her blonde head Gene saw Belinda come back into the room. She was surprised, a little hurt. Only very slightly hurt, because she couldn’t possibly be in love with him yet.
Gene knew he could still have Belinda. A few kind words to Doreen, to show that she had never been anything important to him, and she would control herself with an enormous effort and go. He could tell Belinda the truth about Doreen, and she would believe him, because it would be the truth.
His gaze met Belinda’s over Doreen’s golden head, and he saw Belinda halt suddenly and stare. She was staring at his eyes, and her own were softening.
Only then did he realize his own eyes were full of tears, and why.
He couldn’t do it. He had lost Belinda again. He still loved her, would always love her. But he loved Doreen too, and knew it had to be she, not Belinda.
Belinda wouldn’t believe what he wanted to tell her about Doreen, because it wouldn’t be the truth.
He was up against an immutable.
He folded Doreen in his arms. “And you know what?” he said to her. “I love you. Always. Forever.” He raised his eyes again to Belinda, who was still looking tender and puzzled. “And that’s final,” he added.
PRODUCTION PROBLEM
Robert F. Young
“THE MAN FROM TIMESEARCH, Inc. is here, sir.”
“Show him in,” Bridgemaker told the robutler.
The man from TimeSearch halted just within the doorway. Nervously he shifted the oblong package he was carrying from one band to the other. “Good morning, Honorable Bridgemaker.”
Doreen was interested. “Suppose instead of making the investment himself, he sells the information?”
“You’ve got a brain too,” said Gene admiringly. “Yes, that’s going to be tried too. And it won’t work either, because whoever is questioned will reveal where he got the information, if any, and it’ll be tracked down that way. No, flashback doesn’t mean easy money. My book’s different. I really did write it.”
“Suppose somebody else stole your book? I mean, made a flashback, wrote it down and sold it as his own?”
“He’d have to carry it all in his head—and that’s not easy for anybody but the author.”
Doreen went on talking animatedly about the ramifications of flashback, and Gene realized with mixed feelings that he’d been all too successful in diverting her. An hour before she’d have given herself to him. Now she was talking as if he were an interesting item in Readers Digest.
As far as he was concerned she hadn’t changed. She was still in her white two-piece, and he was fully aware of her breathtaking physical presence.
He forced his attention back abruptly to his reason for telling her about the flashback.
“Doreen,” he said, “I must have had a reason. You know that.” At once that puzzled, doubtful look returned to her eyes.
“I can’t tell you about it,” he said. “Not yet. Doreen, can you wait a few days—a week or two?”
“And then?” she breathed.
“I don’t know.” He felt a heel again. What he was saying was: Will you hang around so that I can condescend to notice you if another girl turns me down?
“I’m not to see you during that time?”
“Well . . . suppose we keep on just meeting in the park?”
She was radiant again. Anything so long as he did not cut her out of his life.
He jumped up. It was cooler now, wearing on towards evening. “Let’s go somewhere and dance.”
“Just one thing, Gene,” she said. “Last time—did you and I meet?”
“No,” he said.
She whispered something which he didn’t hear, and she wouldn’t repeat it when he asked her to.
This time the publishers offered an advance of $5,000, which was a mild surprise. Previously it had been only $3,500.
As before, there was a lot dickering about serialization and it came to nothing. Also two film companies heard about One Face for Heaven, demanded copies, and made ridiculously small offers which were turned down.
Five thousand was quite enough for Genes immediate needs. He knew the book would really make money in about six months’ time.
One Sunday in July he met Doreen as usual in the park. He had tried to get her to go home that weekend, but she had said no, she had things to do in town anyway. Gene wondered if it was the last time he’d be seeing her.
Afterwards, timing his movements carefully, he drove his recently acquired 1969 Buick—not the same one he had had before, but that shouldn’t matter—to a certain boulevard and turned in to park.
He cursed.
A cab was dropping a fare precisely where Gene wanted to put the Buick. However, the passenger, an elderly woman, was paying off the driver, and in a few seconds he would move off.
Unfortunately he didn’t. The cabbie, a slow, lean-jawed man with iron-gray hair, sat back, took an apple from his pocket and proceeded to bite into it reflectively.
Gene was getting desperate. The taxi would undoubtedly move within a few minutes, but a glance at Gene’s watch showed him there weren’t many minutes to spare. If the driver took his time over eating that apple, it would be too late.
He had to be shifted.
Gene thought wildly of ramming him. That wouldn’t do; there would be an argument.
He thought of jumping in the cab and getting the driver to start out somewhere. Then Gene could suddenly remember something and jump out. Or he could get the driver to go round the block.
But there wasn’t time.
Gene leaped out of the Buick and ran to the cab.
“Will you deliver a message?” he said breathlessly. “It’s urgent.”
The gray-haired driver removed the apple reluctantly from his mouth and was about to say something. But Gene’s wallet was under his nose, open.
“Sure,” he said. “Where and what?”
“Miss Doreen Barrett,” Gene said. While he gave the address he tried to think up a message—any message. Finally he said weakly: “Tell her I’ll call at eight tonight. Hurry, will you?”
The cabbie made no secret of the fact that he thought there was something decidedly nuts about all this, but Gene’s ten-dollar bill was real. He took it, put the car in gear, and moved off.
Almost as soon as the wheels of the cab began to turn, Gene was back in the Buick and putting it where the taxi had been. He looked at the trees lining the boulevard and saw he wasn’t in exactly the right spot. He started to back out, then saw the salmon-pink Cadillac in the distance, coming fast.
Gene nearly exploded when he saw the elderly taxi-driver at his elbow, bending towards him.
“Did you say seven or eight?” he asked.
“Eight!” Gene almost screamed, and the taxi-driver turned to go back to his cab, twenty yards away. Then he paused and looked round. His eyes widened, and Gene heard a squeal of brakes and a scream of tires.
Genes head banged sickeningly against the side window as the salmon-pink Cadillac smashed into the rear of the Buick and slewed it sidewise. Sick, dizzy, less than half conscious, he slumped over the wheel.
Vaguely he was aware he’d hit his head a lot harder than usual.
Seconds later the far door of the Buick was opened, someone who smelled nice slid along the seat, and abruptly his head was on a soft breast and a gentle hand was probing his head. He tried to look up.
She was as wonderful as ever. Glorious black hair; the softest, kindest eyes he had ever seen; a face so lovely that he caught his breath as he always did; and a figure that proclaimed its perfection even through the long blue dress which swathed it.
“Lady, dames like you should take a cab,” a voice was saying. “If I’d stayed where I was you’d of hit me!”
Irritation brushed away some of Gene’s daze. All the other times Belinda and he had had this moment to themselves.
“I’m all right,” he said.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Belinda was saying. “There was a patch of oil—”
“Bud, if you want a witness,” said the other voice, the voice Gene wished would go away, “I’m your man. Dames like this one—”
“I’m all right,” Gene insisted. “Go and deliver that message.”
“You’re badly shaken,” Belinda said. “My house is right here. Could you walk if I helped you?”
That was the last he remembered for a while. He had a vague idea the taxi-driver conquered his indignation sufficiently to help Belinda get him inside. Gene was thinking dazedly: This is new. This never happened before.
Previously she had driven him home. He’d never been taken into the house.
When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a sofa and Belinda was bathing his head with cold water. Apparently she had got rid of the taxi-driver.
“Lie still,” she said. “I’ll send for a doctor in a minute.”
He didn’t want a doctor. He wanted Belinda to go on caring for him.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll be all right soon.”
“I guess you will,” she said, sponging his head gently, “but we’d better make sure.”
“I’m allergic to doctors. And you’re doing a wonderful job.”
She smiled, that wonderful warm smile.
“All right,” she said. “I won’t excite the patient. Now I’ll have to go out and move the car. You stay where you are and don’t worry about anything. The accident was entirely my fault and I’ll have your car fixed right away.”
Gene felt dizzy again after she had gone. He had certainly had a much harder knock on the head than usual. That must have been because in his haste he hadn’t put the Buick in exactly the right place.
He marvelled at the way tiny differences created a whole new series of events. Already, only minutes after meeting Belinda for the first time, he was on a completely new track. He was in her house. This was better, much better.
Belinda was back. “Don’t move,” she said. She sat on the sofa in front of him, looked at the side of his head and a worried expression came into her eyes. “It’s bleeding again,” she said. “Sure you don’t want me to send for a doctor?”
“Quite sure,” said Gene. “I’ll be all right in a minute. My name’s Gene Player, by the way.”
“I’m Belinda Morton. Player . . . I wonder if I know a friend of yours. Do you know Harry Scott?”
“Yes,” said Gene.
“He’s talked about you,” said Belinda. “He’s a great friend of mine. As a matter of fact . . .”
She jumped up. “I must bathe your head again,” she said. And in a moment she was back with a sponge and cold water.
“I can’t say how sorry I am about this,” she said. “I braked too hard, skidded on a patch of oil, and—”
“Don’t keep apologizing,” said Gene. “I’m beginning to be very glad it happened.”
She laughed deliciously. Belinda was no Doreen. She was poised, assured.
“That’s the nicest compliment I ever had,” she said. “And you managed to say it as if you meant it.”
“I did mean it. It wouldn’t be a compliment if I didn’t. Let me apologize for a change. I’m afraid there’s some of my blood on your dress.”
She smiled. “As if that mattered.”
Gene realized then that he’d had a vague hope that when he met her, buttressed by Doreen’s love, he’d find he didn’t really care about Belinda after all, and could return happily to Doreen. It was no good. He was in love with Belinda all over again.
Once again, through the superficial things they were saying, he felt her warmth and kindness and sincerity, and he ached for her as always.
“Why are you allergic to doctors?” she asked.
“If you must have the truth, I’m not really. I’m just afraid he’d find out I was malingering and then I’d have no excuse to lie here and look at you.”
Belinda laughed again. There was some surprise in her laugh. Gene sounded as if he meant these things he was saying. But he couldn’t mean them. She’d never seen him before in her life.
“You sound to me like a very accomplished wolf,” she observed.
He sighed. “I guess if I said I’d fallen in love with you at first sight I’d merely confirm your opinion?”
“You certainly would.”
“Then I’d better not say it.” She was frowning now. “Don’t do it, Mr. Player,” she said. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t say so earnestly things you don’t mean. I’m old-fashioned. I like truth. I like to believe I know the truth when I hear it. It bothers me to hear anybody lying so convincingly.”
“Isn’t there a simpler explanation?”
“What?”
“That I am telling the truth. That I am in love with you—Belinda.”
She was at a loss, a rare occurrence. She remembered the blood on her dress and seized on it as an excuse to do something. “Excuse me while I change my dress,” she said. “Don’t move.”
“Do you really think I would?”
With a last quizzical glance, she was gone.
Gene knew he was gambling wildly. He might be throwing away an excellent chance; on the other hand, everything else had failed . . .
The telephone on the table beside him buzzed. He picked it up.
“Belinda?” said a voice he knew well.
“No—guess who,” he retorted.
There was a surprised pause. “Gene Player,” said Harry’s voice. “I didn’t know you knew Belinda.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“Well, I do,” said Gene.
“Is she back? I guess she must be or you wouldn’t be there. Can I speak to her?”
“Not just at the moment. Shall I ask her to call you back, Harry?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter.” The tone was faintly huffy. “If she’s forgotten she was supposed to be meeting me—”
“Oh, was she? I didn’t know about that. She hasn’t said anything about it to me.”
“She wouldn’t.” And this time Harry’s tone was decidedly huffy.
“Well, never mind. Be seeing you.”
Gene’s heart was pounding again. A real turning point! The way it had gone before was that Belinda had caused a minor accident, met Gene, taken him home, and gone on to meet Harry. Harry had been affectionate after her long stay in Canada, and Gene hadn’t yet registered on Belinda’s life. By the time Gene had seen her again five days later, it was too late.
Gene wondered what to say when she came back. Not mention the call? But later Harry would say he had called and spoken to Gene.
He had no more time to think, for Belinda was back, in a flowered-silk negligee. For a couple of seconds Gene gaped at her. She just wasn’t the sort of girl to entertain strangers in a negligee.
“Did I hear the phone?” she said.
So that was it. She’d heard the phone and slipped on a wrap.
“Yes—Harry Scott,” Gene said. “He said something about it didn’t matter.”
“Oh.”
“Harry isn’t a rival, is he?” Gene demanded.
She stared at him, then laughed helplessly. “I never met anybody like you. You lie on my sofa bleeding and making violent love to me five minutes after I smash your car and knock a hole in your head.”
“Sit down and smooth my fevered brow,” said Gene.
She did so. Her wrap fell open and she didn’t seem to mind. Not that she was anything like indecent underneath—she wore a slip which would have been a respectable dress in any other year but 1975. Nevertheless, she wasn’t exactly discouraging him.
“Is he?” Gene asked.
“Is who what?”
“Is Harry a rival?”
She laughed again. “Not exactly. He’s just a friend. And if he didn’t really care whether we went out today or not, probably not as close a friend as I thought.”
She didn’t seem to care about that, either.
And Gene knew that he’d won.
Not over weeks, months, years, as he’d expected. Not with a tremendous effort. Not by brilliant planning, passionate love-making, tender love letters.
Simply by hitting his head a little harder and telling Belinda honestly that he loved her, before Harry had a chance to tell her the same thing.
He hadn’t won Belinda yet, but he’d won the chance to win Belinda. Something he’d never had before.
He wasn’t up against an immutable.
But now there was something to clear up, before it became important. “Look, Belinda,” he said. “I took that call from Harry just now. I don’t want . . . you said you didn’t like people who lied. I don’t want you ever to think I lied. He only said it didn’t matter after I gave him the idea that I was in love with you myself. That wasn’t a lie.”
She was staring steadily at him. “No,” she said. “I don’t think it was.”
He sat up. The room swam as he did so, but then he caught Belinda’s shoulders and was all right. Direct action had taken him a long way already. It didn’t seem that it would let him down now.
He kissed her.
As he did so the doorbell rang.
They could have ignored it, but Gene drew back involuntarily, thinking of Harry, and by the time he realized it couldn’t be Harry, because Harry hadn’t had time to be at the door even if he phoned from the nearest callbox, it was too late.
Belinda got up and went out.
Five seconds later a whirlwind burst in. It was female and it was crying. It threw itself across Gene’s legs, crying now with relief, because he was not badly hurt.
It was, naturally, Doreen.
“I got your message,” she said. “The man who brought it said you’d been hurt. Oh, Gene, I hope nothing like that ever happens to me again. I know what we agreed. But I can’t help it, I love you.”
Over her blonde head Gene saw Belinda come back into the room. She was surprised, a little hurt. Only very slightly hurt, because she couldn’t possibly be in love with him yet.
Gene knew he could still have Belinda. A few kind words to Doreen, to show that she had never been anything important to him, and she would control herself with an enormous effort and go. He could tell Belinda the truth about Doreen, and she would believe him, because it would be the truth.
His gaze met Belinda’s over Doreen’s golden head, and he saw Belinda halt suddenly and stare. She was staring at his eyes, and her own were softening.
Only then did he realize his own eyes were full of tears, and why.
He couldn’t do it. He had lost Belinda again. He still loved her, would always love her. But he loved Doreen too, and knew it had to be she, not Belinda.
Belinda wouldn’t believe what he wanted to tell her about Doreen, because it wouldn’t be the truth.
He was up against an immutable.
He folded Doreen in his arms. “And you know what?” he said to her. “I love you. Always. Forever.” He raised his eyes again to Belinda, who was still looking tender and puzzled. “And that’s final,” he added.
PRODUCTION PROBLEM
Robert F. Young
“THE MAN FROM TIMESEARCH, Inc. is here, sir.”
“Show him in,” Bridgemaker told the robutler.
The man from TimeSearch halted just within the doorway. Nervously he shifted the oblong package he was carrying from one band to the other. “Good morning, Honorable Bridgemaker.”
