The Two Timers

balance for the both of them at the same time, but he found himself in danger of a serious falL He released his grip on John, letting him jar his way helplessly down the remaining steps. John hit the concrete floor of the basement with a solid thud and lay without moving. One of his black slip-on shoes was still missing.

Jack Breton stepped over him and went to a workbench at one side on which some engine parts were sitting. He opened the bench’s long drawer and found what be was looking for — a spool of fishing line. The label confirmed that the line was of the recently developed locked-molecule variety which looked like finest sewing thread and had a breaking strain measured in thousands of pounds. He cut off two lengths, employing the special pressure-guillotine provided on the spool, and used one piece to tie John’s wrists together behind his back. The other, longer piece he worked through one of the ceiling joists, tied it securely and bound the other end around John’s arm, above the elbow. He dropped the spool in his pocket to eliminate any chance of John getting hold of it later and escaping.

“What are you doing to me?” John’s voice was blurred, but it had a kind of tired reasonableness. It came just as Jack was clamping the final knot.

“I’m tying you up so you won’t be any trouble.”

“I guessed that. But why did you bring me here? Why am I not dead?” In his drugged, dazed condition, John sounded only mildly interested.

“Convery came around today — twice. I got worried about him.”

“I don’t blame you.” John tried to laugh. “Especially if he came twice — he never did that before, not even when he was trying to pin Spiedel’s death on me. He has read your soul. Convery reads souls, you know…” John broke off to retch, turning his face to the dusty floor, and Jack felt a sudden dismay. An idea was half-formed in his mind. He went upstairs, out to the car and brought in the two cases full of John’s clothes. John was still lying on his side, but he was conscious, his eyes watchful.

“Why the cases?”

“You’ve just walked out of your marriage.”

“You think she’ll believe it?”

“She’ll believe it when you don’t come back.”

“I see.” John lapsed into silence for a moment. “You’re going to keep me here till you’re sure you’re in the clear with Convery, and then…”

“That’s right.” Jack set the cases down. “And then…”

“That’s great,” John said bitterly. “That’s bloody great. You know you’re a maniac, don’t you?”

“I’ve already explained my position. I gave you nine years of life.”

“You gave me nothing. It happened as a… as a byproduct of your own schemes.”

“It happened just the same.”

“If you think that reconciles me to the prospect of being murdered — it proves you’re a maniac.” John closed his eyes momentarily. “You’re a sick man, Jack. And you’re wasting your time.”

“Why?”

“The only reason you got a toehold with Kate and me was that we were ripe for somebody like you to come along. But Kate’ll see through you any day — and when that happens she’ll run. She’ll run hard, Jack.”

Jack stared down at his other self. “You’re trying to talk your way out of this. It won’t work. This isn’t one of your old movies.

“I know. I know it’s real. Remember the way Granddad Breton looked that morning I… we… found him in bed?”

Jack nodded. Involuntary propulsion of the eyeballs, they had called it. He had been eight years old at the time, and the technical jargon had not been much comfort.

“I remember.”

“That morning, I decided never to die.”

“I know. Do you think I don’t know?” Jack took a deep breath. “Listen, why don’t you cut out?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I let you go — would you take off? Would you vanish altogether and leave Kate and me alone?” Having uttered the words, Jack felt an overwhelming surge of benevolence towards his other self. This was the way to handle the situation — surely John would gladly accept life elsewhere in preference to death here in this basement. He watched John’s reactions carefully.

“Of course I would.” John’s eyes became alive. “I’d go anywhere — I’m not stupid.”

“Well, then.”

The two men looked into each other’s faces and Jack Breton felt something very strange take place inside his head. His mind and John Breton’s mind touched. The contact was fleeting and feather- light, yet frightening. It was the first time anything remotely like it had ever happened to him, but he understood it with perfect certitude. He understood, too, that John had been lying to him when he said he was prepared to bow out.

“I suppose we were naturals for this telepathy thing that seems to be going around,” John said quietly. “Our brains must be practically identical, after all.”

“I’m sorry.

“I’m not. I’m almost grateful to you, in fact. I didn’t realize how much Kate meant to me, but now I know — and it’s too much to let me walk out and leave her to someone like you.

“Even if the alternative is dying.”

“Even if the alternative is dying.” John Breton managed to smile as he spoke.

“So be it,” Jack said flatly. “So be it.”

“You weren’t going to let me go, anyway.”

“I…”

“Telepathy is a two-way thing, Jack. A moment ago I found out as much about you as you did about me. You’re convinced you couldn’t really take the risk of having me running around loose — and there’s something else.”

“Such as?” Jack Breton had an uneasy feeling that he was losing the initiative in a conversation in which he ought to have been completely on top.

“At heart, you want to kill me. I represent your own guilt. You’re in the unique position of being able to pay the supreme penalty — by executing me — yet to live on.

“That, if I may coin a phrase, is double-talk.”

“It isn’t. I don’t know what you went through after Kate died in your time-stream, but it made you into a psychological cripple, Jack. When you’re faced with a problem you blind yourself to all solutions except the one which satisfies your own need to kill.”

“Nonsense.” Jack Breton began making sure the curtains on the basement’s small windows were well secured.

“You’ve demonstrated this already — by your own admission.” John was beginning to sound drowsy.

“Go on.”

“When you made that big trip back through time — there was no need for you to take a rifle and shoot Spiedel. You could have accomplished as much, or more, by going back to the scene of that stupid row I had with Kate when the car broke down. All you had to do was warn me.”

“I thought I had explained the limitations of chronomotive physics to you,” Jack replied. “There is no conscious selection of destination — the mind is drawn towards the key event, the turning point.”

“Precisely what I’m saying! I’m a victim of hemicrania sine dolore, too. I’ve seen the marching colored angles dozens of times in the last nine years, and I’ve made dozens of trips — always to the scene of the argument, because I knew that was where it started. That was where my guilt lay, but you couldn’t face that, Jack.

“You accepted it for a while, then — you told us about it the night you arrived at the house — you began to focus on the scene of the killing. You began to see the trees of the park projecting up through the traffic lanes. The reason was that the murder scene had a powerful attraction for you. It had Spiedel — a ready-made vehicle for the transference of your guilt; it was a moment of danger for Kate — in which there was no time to weigh up right and wrong. There was only time to kill…”

“You’re wrong,” Jack whispered.

“Face up to it, Jack — it’s your only chance. You and I were one man at that time, so I know what lay right at