“It turned into a pyramid.”
“Maybe there’s geometric distortion, too. Or it might be a visual illusion. Perhaps we can get the exact focus. I doubt if things will really look different in the future — except that they’ll be smaller — but we’re using a window into the fourth dimension. We’re taking a pleat in time. It must be like looking through a prism. The alteration in size is real, but the shape and color are altered to our eyes by the fourth-dimensional prism.”
“The whole point, then is that my suitcase is in the future. Eh? But why did it disappear from the locker?”
“What about that little creature you squashed? Maybe he had pals. They wouldn’t be visible till they came into the very narrow focus of the whatchamacallit, but — figure it out. Sometimes in the future, in a hundred or a thousand or a million years, a suitcase suddenly appears out of thin air. One of our descendants investigates. You kill him. His pals come along and carry the suitcase away, out of range of the locker. In space it may be anywhere, and the time factor’s an unknown quantity. Now plus x. It’s a time locker. Well?”
“Hell!” Vanning exploded. “So that’s all you can tell me? I’m supposed to chalk it up to profit and loss.”
“Uh-huh. Unless you want to crawl into the locker yourself after the suitcase. God knows where you’d come out though. The composition of the air probably would have changed in a few thousand years. There might be other alterations too.”
“I’m not that crazy.”
So there he was. The bonds were gone, beyond hope of redemption. Vanning could resign himself to that loss, once he knew the securities wouldn’t fall into the hands of the police. But MacIlson was another matter, especially after a bullet spattered against the glassolex window of Vanning’s office.
An interview with MacIlson had proved unsatisfactory. The defaulter was convinced that Vanning was trying to bilk him. He was removed forcibly, yelling threats. He’d go to the police — he’d confess—
Let him. There’s no proof. The hell with him. But, for safety’s sake, Vanning slapped an injunction on his quondam client.
It didn’t land. MacIlson clipped the official on the jaw and fled. Now, Vanning suspected, he lurked in the dark corners, armed, and anxious to commit suicide. Obviously a manic-depressive type.
Vanning took a certain malicious pleasure in demanding a couple of plainclothes men to act as his guards. Legally, he was within his rights, since his life had been threatened. Until MacIlson was under sufficient restriction, Vanning would be protected. And he made sure that his guards were two of the best shots on the Manhattan force.
He also found out that they had been told to keep their eyes peeled for the missing bonds and the suedette suitcase. Vanning televised Counsel Hatton and grinned at the screen.
“Any luck yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“My watchdogs. Your spies. They won’t find the bonds, Hatton. Better call ’em off. Why make the poor devils do two jobs at once?”
“One job would be enough. Finding the evidence. If MacIlson drilled you, I wouldn’t be too unhappy.
“Well, I’ll see you in court,” Vanning said. “You’re prosecuting Watson, aren’t you?
“Yes. Are you waiving scop?”
“On the jurors? Sure. I’ve got this case in the bag.”
“That’s what you think,” Hatton said, and broke the beam.
Chuckling, Vanning donned his topcoat, collected the guards, and headed for court. There was no sign of MacIlson—
Vanning won the case, as he had expected. He returned to his offices, collected a few unimportant messages from the switchboard girl, and walked toward his private suite. As he opened the door, he saw the suedette suitcase on the carpet in one corner.
He stopped, hand frozen on the latch. Behind him he could hear the heavy footsteps of the guards. Over his shoulder, Vanning said, “Wait a minute,” and dodged into the office, slamming and locking the door behind him. He caught the tail of a surprised question.
The suitcase. There it was, unequivocally. And, quite as unequivocally, the two plainclothes men, after a very brief conference, were hammering on the door, trying to break it down.
Vanning turned green. He took a hesitant step forward and then saw the locker, in the corner to which he had moved it. The time locker—
That was it. If he shoved the suitcase in the locker, it would become unrecognizable. Even if itvanished again, that wouldn’t matter. What mattered was the vital importance of getting rid — immediately — of incriminating evidence.
The door rocked on its hinges. Vanning scuttled toward the suitcase and picked it up. From the corner of his eyes he saw movement.
In the air above him, a hand had appeared. It was the hand of a giant, with an immaculate cuff fading into emptiness. Its huge fingers were reaching down—
Vanning screamed and sprang away. He was too slow. The hand descended, and Vanning wriggled impotently against the palm.
The hand contracted into a fist. When it opened, what was left of Vanning dropped squashily to the carpet, which it stained.
The hand withdrew into nothingness. The door fell in and the plainclothes men stumbled over it as they entered.
It didn’t take long for Hatton and his cohorts to arrive. Still, there was little for them to do except clean up the mess. The suedette bag, containing twenty-five thousand credits in negotiable bonds, was carried off to a safer place. Vanning’s body was scraped up and removed to the morgue. Photographers flashed pictures, fingerprint experts insufflated their white powder, X-ray men worked busily. It was all done with swift efficiency, so that within an hour the office was empty and the door sealed.
Thus there were no spectators to witness the advent of a gigantic hand that appeared from nothingness, groped around as though searching for something, and presently vanished once more—
The only person who could have thrown light on the matter was Gallegher, and his remarks were directed to Monstro, in the solitude of his laboratory. All he said was: “So that’s why that workbench materialized for a few minutes here yesterday. Hm-m-m. Now plus x—and x equals about a week. Still, why not? It’s all relative. But — I never thought the universe was shrinking that fast!”
He relaxed on the couch and siphoned a double martini.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured after a while. “Whew! I guess. Vanning must have been the only guy who ever reached into the middle of next week and — killed himself! I think I’ll get tight.”
And he did.
The World is Mine
“Let me in!” shrilled the rabbity little creature outside the window. “Let me in! The world is mine!” Gallegher automatically rolled off his couch, reeling under the not unexpected gravity-pull of a colossal hangover, and gazed about in a bleary fashion. His laboratory, gloomy in gray morning light, swam into visibility around him. Two dynamos, decorated with tinsel, seemed to stare at him as though resentful of their festive garments. Why tinsel? Probably the result of those Tom-and-Jerries, Gallegher thought wanly. He must have decided that last night was Christmas Eve.
Brooding on the thought, he was recalled to himself by a repetition of the squeaky cry that had awakened him. Gallagher turned carefully, holding his head between steadying palms. A face, small, furry and fantastic, was regarding him steadfastly through the plexoglas of the nearest window.
It was not the sort of face to see after a drinking bout. The ears were huge, round and furry, the eyes enormous, and a pink button of a nose shivered and twitched. Again the creature cried: