A stranger with a purple nose paused and said, “ ’Smatter, Mac?”
“Nothing,” Bill groaned. “Just everything.”
The stranger hesitated. “Ain’t I seen you someplace before?”
“No,” said Bill hurriedly. “You were going to, but you haven’t. I changed my mind.”
The stranger walked away shaking his head and muttering how the ponies could get a guy.
Not till Bill was back in his roadster did he take the corncob from his mouth and glare at it. “All right!” he barked. “What was wrong this time? Why did I get on a merry-go-round again? I didn’t try to change the future!”
Snulbug popped his head out and yawned a tuskful yawn. “I warn him, I explain it, I warn him again, now he wants I should explain it all over.”
“But what did I do?”
“What did he do? You changed the odds, you dope. That much folding money on a long shot at a parimutuel track, and the odds change. It wouldn’t have paid off at twenty to one, the way it said in the paper.”
“Nuts,” Bill muttered. “And I suppose that applies to anything? If I study the stock market in this paper and try to invest my $500 according to tomorrow’s market—”
“Same thing. The quotations wouldn’t be quite the same if you started in playing. I warned you. You’re stuck,” said Snulbug. “You’re stymied. It’s no use.” He sounded almost cheerful.
“Isn’t it?” Bill mused. “Now look, Snulbug. Me, I’m a great believer in Man. This universe doesn’t hold a problem that Man can’t eventually solve. And I’m no dumber than the average.”
“That’s saying a lot, that is,” Snulbug sneered. “People—”
“I’ve got a responsibility now. It’s more than just my $10,000. I’ve got to redeem the honor of Man. You say this is the insoluble problem. I say there is no insoluble problem.”
“I say you talk a lot.”
Bill’s mind was racing furiously. How can a man take advantage of the future without in any smallest way altering that future? There must be an answer somewhere, and a man who devised the Hitchens Embolus Diagnosis could certainly crack a little nut like this. Man cannot refuse a challenge.
Unthinking, he reached for his tobacco pouch and tapped out his pipe on the sole of his foot. There was a microscopic thud as Snulbug crashed onto the floor of the car.
Bill looked down half-smiling. The tiny demon’s tail was lashing madly, and every separate snake stood on end. “This is too much!” Snulbug screamed. “Dumb gags aren’t enough, insults aren’t enough, I should get thrown around like a damned soul. This is the last straw. Give me my dismissal!”
Bill snapped his fingers gleefully. “Dismissal!” he cried. “I’ve got it, Snully. Were all set.”
Snulbug looked up puzzled and slowly let his snakes droop more amicably. “It won’t work,” he said, with an omnisciently sad shake of his serpentine head.
It was the dashing act again that carried Bill through the Choatsby Laboratories, where he had been employed so recently, and on up to the very anteroom of old R. C.’s office.
But where you can do battle with a bull-necked guard, there is not a thing you can oppose against the brisk competence of a young lady who says, “I shall find out if Mr. Choatsby will see you.” There was nothing to do but wait.
“And what’s the brilliant idea this time?” Snulbug obviously feared the worst. “R. C.’s nuts,” said Bill. “He’s an astrologer and a pyramidologist and a British Israelite—American Branch Reformed—and Heaven knows what else. He . . . why, he’ll even believe in you.”
“That’s more than I do,” said Snulbug. “It’s a waste of energy.”
“He’ll buy this paper. He’ll pay anything for it. There’s nothing he loves more than futzing around with the occult. He’ll never be able to resist a good solid slice of the future, with illusions of a fortune thrown in.”
“You better hurry, then.”
“Why such a rush? It’s only 2:30 now. Lots of time. And while that girl’s gone there’s nothing for us to do but cool our heels.”
“You might at least,” said Snulbug, “warm the heel of your pipe.”
The girl returned at last. “Mr. Choatsby will see you.”
Reuben Choatsby overflowed the outsize chair behind his desk. His little face, like a baby’s head balanced on a giant suet pudding, beamed as Bill entered. “Changed your mind, eh?” His words came in sudden soft blobs, like the abrupt glugs of pouring syrup. “Good. Need you in K-39. Lab’s not the same since you left.”
Bill groped for the exactly right words. “That’s not it, R. C. I’m on my own now and I’m doing all right.”
The baby face soured. “Damned cheek. Competitor of mine, eh? What you want now? Waste my time?”
“Not at all.” With a pretty shaky assumption of confidence, Bill perched on the edge of the desk. “R. C.,” he said, slowly and impressively, “what would you give for a glimpse into the future?”
Mr. Choatsby glugged vigorously. “Ribbing me? Get out of here! Have you thrown out— Hold on! You’re the one—Used to read queer books. Had a grimoire here once.” The baby face grew earnest. “What d’you mean?”
“Just what I said, R. C. What would you give for a glimpse into the future?” Mr. Choatsby hesitated. “How? Time travel? Pyramid? You figured out the King’s Chamber?”
“Much simpler than that. I have here”—he took it out of his pocket and folded it so that only the name and the date line were visible—“tomorrow’s newspaper.” Mr. Choatsby grabbed. “Let me see.”
“Uh-uh. Naughty. You’ll see after we discuss terms. But there it is.”
“Trick. Had some printer fake it. Don’t believe it.”
“All right. I never expected you, R. C., to descend to such unenlightened skepticism. But if that’s all the faith you have—” Bill stuffed the paper back in his pocket and started for the door.
“Wait!” Mr. Choatsby lowered his voice. “How’d you do it? Sell your soul?”
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“How? Spells? Cantrips? Incantations? Prove it to me. Show me it’s real. Then we’ll talk terms.”
Bill walked casually to the desk and emptied his pipe
