“The cost,” Mr. Wayne mused, gripping his parcel tightly. “And ten years off my life! For the fulfillment of my secret desires...Really, I must give this some thought.”
“Think away,” Tompkins said indifferently.
All the way home Mr. Wayne thought about it. When his train reached Port Washington, Long Island, he was still thinking. And driving his car from the station to his home he was still thinking about Tompkins’ crafty old face, and worlds of probability, and the fulfillment of desire.
But when he stepped inside his house, those thoughts had to stop. Janet, his wife, wanted him to speak sharply to the maid, who had been drinking again. His son Tommy wanted help with the sloop, which was to be launched tomorrow. And his baby daughter wanted to tell about her day in kindergarten.
Mr. Wayne spoke pleasantly but firmly to the maid. He helped Tommy put the final coat of copper paint on the sloop’s bottom, and he listened to Peggy tell about her adventures in the playground.
Later, when the children were in bed and he and Janet were alone in their living room, she asked him if something were wrong.
“Wrong?”
“You seem to be worried about something,” Janet said. “Did you have a bad day at the office?”
“Oh, just the usual sort of thing...”
He certainly was not going to tell Janet, or anyone else, that he had taken the day off and gone to see Tompkins in his crazy old Store of the Worlds. Nor was he going to speak about the right every man should have, once in his lifetime, to fulfill his most secret desires. Janet, with her good common sense, would never understand that.
The next days at the office were extremely hectic. All of Wall Street was in a mild panic over events in the Middle East and in Asia, and stocks were reacting accordingly. Mr. Wayne settled down to work. He tried not to think of the fulfillment of desire at the cost of everything he possessed, with ten years of his life thrown in for good measure. It was crazy! Old Tompkins must be insane!
On weekends he went sailing with Tommy. The old sloop was behaving very well, taking practically no water through her bottom seams. Tommy wanted a new suit of racing sails, but Mr. Wayne sternly rejected that. Perhaps next year, if the market looked better. For now, the old sails would have to do.
Sometimes at night, after the children were asleep, he and Janet would go sailing. Long Island Sound was quiet then, and cool. Their boat glided past the blinking buoys, sailing toward the swollen yellow moon,
“I know something’s on your mind,” Janet said.
“Darling, please!”
“Is there something you’re keeping from me?”
“Nothing!”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Then put your arms around me. That’s right...”
And the sloop sailed itself for a while.
Desire and fulfillment...But autumn came, and the sloop had to be hauled. The stock market regained some stability, but Peggy caught the measles. Tommy wanted to know the differences between ordinary bombs, atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, cobalt bombs, and all the other kinds of bombs that were in the news. Mr. Wayne explained to the best of his ability. And the maid quit unexpectedly.
Secret desires were all very well. Perhaps he did want to kill someone, or live on a South Seas Island. But there were responsibilities to consider. He had two growing children, and a better wife than he deserved.
Perhaps around Christmas time...
But in midwinter there was a fire in the unoccupied guest bedroom due to defective wiring. The firemen put out the blaze without much damage, and no one was hurt. But it put any thought of Tompkins out of his mind for a while. First the bedroom had to be repaired, for Mr. Wayne was very proud of his gracious old home.
Business was still frantic and uncertain due to the international situation. Those Russians, those Arabs, those Greeks, those Chinese. The intercontinental missiles, the atom bombs, the sputniks...Mr. Wayne spent long days at the office, and sometimes evenings, too. Tommy caught the mumps. A part of the roof had to be reshingled. And then already it was time to consider the spring launching of the sloop.
A year had passed, and he’d had very little time to think of secret desires. But perhaps next year. In the meantime—
“Well?” said Tompkins. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite all right,” Mr. Wayne said. He got up from the chair and rubbed his forehead.
“Do you want a refund?” Tompkins asked.
“No. The experience was quite satisfactory.”
“They always are,” Tompkins said, winking lewdly at the parrot. “Well, what was yours?”
“A world of the recent past,” Mr. Wayne said.
“A lot of them are. Did you find out about your secret desire? Was it murder? Or a South Seas Island?”
“I’d rather not discuss it,” Mr. Wayne said, pleasantly but firmly.
“A lot of people won’t discuss it with me,” Tompkins said sulkily. “I’ll be damned if I know why.”
“Because—well, I think the world of one’s secret desire feels sacred, somehow. No offense...Do you think you’ll ever be able to make it permanent? The world of one’s choice, I mean?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders. “I’m trying. If I succeed, you’ll hear about it. Everyone will.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Mr. Wayne undid his parcel and laid its contents on the table. The parcel contained a pair of army boots, a knife, two coils of copper wire, and three small cans of corned beef.
Tompkins’ eyes glittered for a moment. “Quite satisfactory,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Goodbye,” said Mr. Wayne. “And thank you.”
Mr. Wayne left the ship and hurried down to the end of the lane of gray rubble. Beyond it, as far as he could see, lay flat fields of rubble, brown and gray and black. Those fields, stretching to every horizon, were made of the twisted corpses of cities, the shattered remnants of trees, and the fine white ash that once was human flesh and bone.
“Well,” Mr. Wayne said to himself, “at least we gave as good as we got.”
That year in the past had cost him everything he owned, and ten years of his life thrown in for good measure. Had it been a dream? It was still worth it! But now he had to put away all thought of Janet and the children. That was finished, unless Tompkins perfected his process. Now he had to think about his own survival.
With the aid of his wrist geiger he found a deactivated lane through the rubble. He’d better get back to the shelter before dark, before the rats came out. If he didn’t hurry he’d miss the evening potato ration.
SEVENTH VICTIM
Stanton Frelaine sat at his desk, trying to look as busy as an executive should at nine-thirty in the morning. It was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate on the advertisement he had written the previous night, couldn’t think about business. All he could do was wait until the mail came.
He had been expecting his notification for two weeks now. The government was behind schedule, as usual.
The glass door of his office was marked Morger and Frelaine, Clothiers. It opened, and E.J. Morger walked in, limping slightly from his old gunshot wound. His shoulders were bent; but at the age of seventy-three, he wasn’t worrying much about his posture.
“Well, Stan?” Morger asked. “What about that ad?”
Frelaine had joined Morger sixteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven. Together they had built Protec-Clothes into a million-dollar concern.
“I suppose you can run it,” Frelaine said, handing the slip of paper to Morger. If only the mail would come earlier, he thought.
“‘Do you own a Protec-Suit?’” Morger read aloud, holding the paper close to his eyes. “‘The finest tailoring in the world has gone into Morger and Frelaine’s Protec-Suit, to make it the leader in men’s fashions.’”