Universe 5 - [Anthology] Read online

  Well, go along with it. “Yep. Going to leave all my millions to the home for retired tomcats.” But he’d have to kill this for later, or else change banks. Or some next-time, off-guard, it could be bad. Maybe that’s why he dropped the records … wait and see.

  Leta Travers led him to the aseptic dungeon, where their two keys together opened Box 1028. Saying the usual polite things, she left him to its contents.

  The envelope was on top. He didn’t like the label: This Is Your Life with his signature below. That was show-off stuff. Or dumbhead drunk. He’d brought a pen; with it, he scribbled the designation into garble. He thought, then wrote: Superannuated; For Reference Only. He repeated the phrase subvocally, to fix it in his mind.

  He unfolded the envelope’s contents and was impressed. There were two major parts, plus some side-trivia he could study later. The last looked interesting, but it had waited and could wait awhile longer.

  First was an expanded version of the card in his wallet: a chronology of his consciousness, more exactly dated than he could verify from memory. Somehow, later, he’d checked these things more closely. He couldn’t imagine how to do it. Or maybe, along with the dumbhead labelling, he had taken to putting exact dates to inexact recalls. He didn’t like to think of his mind going so flyblown, and determined to watch against such tendencies.

  He skimmed without going deeply into memory. The list seemed accurate; he’d have to look more closely later. The second paper described his life from a different aspect: by time-years it showed the parts he’d had and what he’d known and guessed of what had gone between. At the back was a summary in chart form.

  Both parts went well past his own experience, as the card had done. He looked at the first and read, after the college section: ‘February 6, 1987, through March 4, 1992. Three years wonderful with Elaine and the others, then two so terrible as she died and afterward. She died November 10, 1990, and we are alone.”

  He could not read any more; he couldn’t make sense of it. Elaine – how could she die so soon? He was counting on her, someday, for a lot of good years: now and then, as it would happen. Suddenly he could see a reason for destroying records – he’d rather not know the end of Elaine. But obviously he hadn’t thought that way afterward, or the papers wouldn’t be here before him. Something else must happen, later, to change his mind.

  He knew Elaine from two times: first when their matured marriage was joined fully to that of Frank and Rhonda. Only two months then. And later, starting when they were six months married, he had the next year and a few months more. And she was the person he most wanted, most loved … and most missed.

  He couldn’t take any more of it, not yet. He needed to study and memorise the record, but not here, not now. Well, Judy wasn’t nosy; he could take it home. He put the envelope in a pocket. Everything else went back in the lock-box; he pushed it in to click its assurance of security. All right; time to go.

  At the counter he thanked Mrs. Travers. “And I’ve decided to leave my will alone from now on,” he said. “The retired tomcats will just have to do the best they can.”

  She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “Well, whatever you say, Mr. Garth.”

  “True,” he said, “it’s my nickel, isn’t it? Well, then … see you again, Mrs. Travers, and thank you.”

  He walked toward the door.

  The black-haired girl walked by as he came out to the sidewalk, and before he could think, he called to her. “Elaine!”

  She turned, frantically he tried to think of a non-incriminating excuse. But her eyes went wide, and her arms; she ran to him and he could not resist her embrace. “Larry! Oh, Larry!”

  “Uh – I guess I made a mistake,” he said. His mind churned uselessly. “Perfectly natural. I guess I do look like a lot of other people.”

  She shook her head, scattering the tears that leaked onto her lashes. “No mistake, Larry.” Her hands gripped his upper arms; he could feel the nails digging in. “Oh, think of it! You too, Larry! You too!”

  His mind literally reeled; he felt dizzy. He breathed deeply, and again, and a third time. “Yes,” he said. “Look. Elaine – let’s go someplace quiet and have a coffee or a drink or something. We’ve got to talk.”

  “Oh, yes! We have to talk – more than any other two people in the world.”

  They found a small bar, quiet and dimly lit, and sat at a corner table. Three men occupied adjacent stools at the bar; across the room a couple talked quietly. The bartender, scowling in concentration, mixed something in a tall glass.

  Larry looked at Elaine, ten years younger than he had ever seen her. She aged well, he thought; the little lines at the corners of her eyes hadn’t advanced much by the time they were married. The grey eyes themselves did not change, and the line of her chin was durable. The black hair was longer than he’d seen it; the few threads of grey were yet to appear. He could close his eyes and see the slim body under her bright dress; he felt desire, but remotely. More important now were things of the mind – of both their minds.

  The bartender was coming to their table. “Vermouth on the rocks?” Larry said. “You always like that.”

  “I do?” She laughed. “That’s right; I do, later. Well, perhaps this is where I begin to acquire the taste. All right.”

  He ordered the same. Both were silent while the drinks were brought. He started to raise his glass in a toast, but she didn’t wait.

  “How much have you had, Larry? Of us?”

  “I haven’t met you. Except now, of course. I had the last half of our first year and most of our second.” He showed her the envelope. “I have the dates here. And earlier I had a few weeks in the middle, in ‘85, when we were with Frank and Rhonda. I was pretty young; it really confused me at first.”

  She nodded. “I should have known then. I’ve had that part too, and suddenly you seemed withdrawn, you wouldn’t talk. Then, gradually, you came out of it.”

  “How much have you had, Elaine? I mean – how much do we have left, together? Not too long from now I get the last –” Good Lord! What was he saying? “Elaine – have you had, uh, your death yet?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It wasn’t as bad as it probably seemed. I looked awful and smelled awful, toward the end, I know. And made noises from the pain. But that was just my body. Inside, except for seeing how all of you hurt for me, I was pretty much at peace; the pain was out there someplace where I hardly felt it.

  “Poor Larry! I gave you a bad time, didn’t I?”

  “I haven’t had that time yet. I’ll be having it pretty soon, though.”

  “You’ll what? How can you know that?” Her face seemed to crumple. “Oh! We’re not the same, after all?”

  He took her hand. “Yes, we are. It’s – I keep records, or I will. And I found them, written in the time just before now.” He showed her the lists from the envelope. “Here – you can see what I’ve had, up to here, and what I’ll be having up through the time that ended a couple of days ago.”

  She recovered quickly and studied his life-records with obvious fascination. “But this is marvellous! I never thought of doing it; I don’t know why. It’s obvious, when you think about it. Stupid me!”

  “Stupid me too, Elaine,” he said. He sipped his drink. The ice had melted; the taste was watery. “I didn’t think of it either, until I saw it on paper.”

  “But that means you did it because you’d done it.” She grasped the circularity of the process instantly – which was more than he had done.

  “Larry, do you mind if I mark on this – the chart here – a little bit? In pencil? I want to see how much we have left together.” Quickly she drew neat lines. “Both knowing; won’t that be – what’s a bigger word than ‘wonderful’?”

  “Whatever it is, it fits.” Impatience gripped him. “Well, how does it look?”

  “Better than I expected, but not as good as I’d like. Damn! I’ve met you and you haven’t met me. Then here, late in 1980, we overlap; we’ve both had a couple of mon
ths there. And you’ve had most of 1981 and a little of ‘85, and I’ve had nearly all of ‘85 and all of the last three years. Oh, dammit! See here? Out of our ten years, one or the other of us has already had nearly six. Not knowing. Not knowing, Larry!” She wiped her eyes and gulped from her glass.

  “Yes, Elaine; I feel the same way. But what’s lived is lived; we can’t change it.”

  “Can’t we?” She raised her face to him, shaking back the hair that had fallen forward. “What if – what if the next time you’ve had and I haven’t, I just tell you? Or the other way around? Why not, Larry? Why the hell not?”

  He shook his head, not negating her but stalling. The idea had come to him too, and the implications rocked him. Not her, though – God, how he loved that bold mind! But he needed time to think.

  “I’m not sure, Elaine. What would happen? We were there, you see, and we didn’t tell, either of us, our selves who remembered sitting here right now. Why didn’t we?” He was still holding her hand; he squeezed it once and let go. “Was it because of something we decided in the next few minutes? Or hours, or days? We’ve got to think, Elaine. We’ve got to think in ways no one’s ever had to think before.”

  She smiled. “You’re sure of that? There are two of us. Maybe there are others.”

  “Maybe. I’ve watched, and never – what are the odds against recognition? If I hadn’t been off-guard, you know, I’d never have given myself away.”

  “But I’m so glad you did. Aren’t you?”

  “Of course, Elaine. Christ, yes! I mean, even if it’s only the four years …”

  “But maybe we could have more. The overlap – you see? – the parts we’ve both had, where neither of us knows about the other – there’s not much of it.”

  “No, there isn’t.” He signalled the bartender, holding up a glass and extending two fingers of the hand that raised it. “Elaine, we don’t have to decide this right away. Put it on the back burner and let it simmer. Let’s talk about us. For instance, how old are you?”

  She laughed. “I thought your memory was better than that. I’m two years and five days younger than you are.”

  It was his turn to chuckle. “I don’t mean body-years. How old in consciousness-years?”

  “Oh. I call them life-years. About twenty-four, I think, give or take a couple. And you?”

  “Close to forty; I can’t be exact about it either.”

  The bartender brought filled glasses, collected his money and went back to the bar, all silently.

  “Getting old and cautious, are you, Larry? No, I don’t mean that. We learn to be cautious; we have to. It’s just that this – not to be alone with the way I live – I’ll take any risk. Any risk at all, Larry.” She sipped vermouth; the ice clinked as her hand shook slightly. “But yes, let’s talk about us.”

  “You asked about my death,” she said. “Have you had yours? Or what’s the oldest you’ve been?”

  “I had it, and I don’t know; I was senile. You’re all right on the inside, but you can’t keep track for very long. But I was damned old; I know that. Because I was seventy for a while once, and still in pretty good shape.”

  “And I died at fifty-three. God damn it, Larry!”

  “Elaine!” What could he say? “Sometimes quality counts more than quantity.”

  She made a disgusted grimace and a half-snort. “Some quality! Do you remember any of my life history? Well, I’m with my first husband, Joe Marshall, and he’s just making a start on drinking himself to death. It takes him fifteen years, as I recall. Oh, I can’t complain about my childhood, or college, or even the first five years of the marriage, what I’ve had of it. But I’ve also had four of the next eight, before the divorce. In three times, separated and out of sequence. No, Larry. When it comes to quality, it’s all in the times with you. With you and our other two.”

  “Those were good times for me too,” he said. “But you know something? I tried to feel alike to everybody, the way we were supposed to. And I was with all three of you before the time you and I were alone earlier, but I felt more yours than Rhonda’s, anyway.” He paused and drank. “I wonder if somehow the body gives feedback, under our conscious memory.”

  Her mind looked at him from somewhere far behind her eyes. “I don’t know. Sometimes there are hunches … feelings …” She shook her head and smiled. “Larry, how is it with you now?”

  “Mixed up, for one thing. I’ve probably told you, maybe in some time you’ve had and I haven’t, about my first two marriages – what I knew of them. Well, you can see here on this diagram – I woke up today between wives.”

  “Today? You’re just beginning a time today?”

  “Yes. Judy’s living with me; we get married in about six weeks.”

  “Judy? She’s the lush, isn’t she?”

  “Not now, and not two years from now. Maybe I’d had only the bad end of it when I told you about her – yes, that’s right. Someday I’ll find out what happened, I expect. I just hope it isn’t my fault. But it probably is …”

  “You can’t afford to think like that. You didn’t ask to be born zigzag, any more than I did. If we can take it, why can’t they?”

  “Can we take it, Elaine?”

  “We’re doing it, aren’t we?” She looked at her watch. “Oh, I have to go! Joe – my husband – I’m an hour late! He’ll be drunk again if I don’t hurry.”

  “Yes. All right. When can we see each other?”

  “I don’t know yet, but we will. We have things to settle, you and I. You’re in the phone book?” He nodded. “I’ll call.”

  She stood, and he with her. She started to move away, but he took her arm. “Just a minute, Elaine. It’s been a long time.” They kissed long, before they moved apart and walked out.

  “I go this way,” she said. “It’s only a few blocks. Don’t come with me.”

  He stood looking after her, at the grace of her walk. After a few steps, she turned. “I’ll call you tonight,” she said. “We can meet tomorrow, if I’m still here. Still now, I mean.”

  “Well, you have to be, is all.” They smiled and waved; then he turned and walked to the parking lot.

  When he unlocked his apartment door, he almost knocked Judy off the ladder; she nearly dropped the picture she was hanging. “Oh, it’s you!” she said. “Here, catch this.” Off-balance, she leaned to hand him the picture. Her hair was hanging loose, brushed smooth, and her robe was open. She descended, and closed the robe before she turned to face him.

  “Have you had lunch, Larry? I waited awhile, but then I got hungry and had mine. I’ll do yours if you want, though why I should when you’re so late …”

  He started to say he wasn’t hungry, then realised he was; he’d missed lunch. “Go ahead with what you’re doing, Judy; I’ll make a sandwich. My own fault; I got hung up.” From the refrigerator he took bread, meat to slice, pickles and a jar of mustard. “When we’re both done, let’s have a beer and chat some.”

  She went back to her task, picture in one hand, hammer in the other and tacks silencing her mouth. Climbing a ladder, he thought, does a lot for a good round butt.

  He knew what he wanted to talk about. A trip out of town, a fictitious assignment. A pre-honeymoon, by about ten years, with Elaine.

  Keeping cover was one thing; he’d always had to do that. Lying was something else, he found, as he and Judy talked, sipping beer from bottles as though it were champagne from frosted goblets. The beer went well, after his sandwich.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said, “but I may need to cut out for the last of this week and the weekend.” He knew his slang had to be a little out of date, one way or the other, but always there was some leeway in speech patterns. “Let you know for sure, soon as I can.”

  “Sure, Larry. I wish I could go with you, but you know I’m tied this weekend.”

  “Sure.” He hadn’t known it, but it helped. “Next time, maybe.”

  She was vital and desirable, Judy. Mobile mouth, bright hai
r, lithe body carrying no more than five excess pounds, all nicely hidden. No genius, but a good mind and compatible nature. And in bed, like a mink with its tail on fire. So why could he not cleave to her? Because she was of the other species, the one that lived along a single line and knew nothing else.

  And was that the reason she would become a fat, surly drunk? He wished he knew, and that it didn’t have to happen.

  Dinner wasn’t much to brag about. “Leftovers Supreme,” said Judy; her grin was wry. They were drinking coffee when the phone rang.

  It was Elaine; he put her on ‘Hold’. “Business stuff,” he said to Judy. “I’ll take it in the other room so you can read your book.” Again it hurt to lie; Judy didn’t deserve lies.