Gryns was a large, affable man. He read quickly through Barthold’s application, nodding to himself.
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Everything seems to be in order. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” Barthold asked, his heart suddenly pounding.
“The question of additional coverage. Would you be interested in fire and theft? Liability? Accident and health? We insure against everything from a musket ball to such trivial but annoying afflictions as the very definitely common cold.”
“Oh,” said Barthold, his pulse rate subsiding to normal. “No, thank you. At present, I am concerned only with a life insurance policy. My business requires me to travel through time. I wish adequate protection for my wife.”
“Of course, sir, absolutely,” Gryns said. “Then I believe everything is in order. Do you understand the various conditions that apply to this policy?”
“I think I do,” replied Barthold, who had spent months studying the Inter-Temporal standard form.
“The policy runs for the life of the assured,” said Mr. Gryns. “And the duration of that life is measured only in subjective physiological time. The policy protects you over a distance of one thousand years on either side of the Present. But no further. The risks are too great.”
“I wouldn’t dream of going any further,” Barthold said.
“And the policy contains the usual double indemnity clause. Do you understand its function and conditions?”
“I believe so,” answered Barthold, who knew it word for word.
“All is in order, then. Sign right here. And here. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Barthold. And he really meant it.
Barthold returned to his office. He was sales manager for the Alpro Manufacturing Company (Toys for All the Ages). He announced his intention to leave at once on a sales tour of the Past.
“Our sales in time are simply not what they should be,” he said. “I’m going back there myself and take a personal hand in the selling.”
“Marvelous!” cried Mr. Carlisle, the president of Alpro. “I’ve been hoping for this for a long time, Everett.”
“I know you have, Mr. Carlisle. Well, sir, I came to the decision just recently. Go back there yourself, I decided, and find out what’s going on. Went out and made my preparations, and now I’m ready to leave.”
Mr. Carlisle patted him on the shoulder. “You’re the best salesman Alpro ever had, Everett. I’m very glad you decided to go.”
“I am, too, Mr. Carlisle.”
“Give ’em hell! And by the way—” Mr. Carlisle grinned slyly—”I’ve got an address in Kansas City, 1895, that you might be interested in. They just don’t build ’em that way any more. And in San Francisco, 1840, I know a—”
“No, thank you, sir,” Barthold said.
“Strictly business, eh, Everett?”
“Yes, sir,” Barthold said, with a virtuous smile. “Strictly business.”
Everything was in order now. Barthold went home and packed and gave his wife her last instructions.
“Remember,” he told her, “when the time comes, act surprised, but don’t simulate a nervous breakdown. Be confused, not psychotic.”
“I know,” she said. “Do you think I’m stupid or something?”
“No, dear. It’s just that you do have a tendency to wring every bit of emotion out of situations. Too little would be wrong. So would too much.”
“Honey,” said Mrs. Barthold in a very small voice.
“Yes?”
“Do you suppose I could buy one little ruumstone now? Just one to sort of keep me company until—”
“No! Do you want to give the whole thing away? Damn it all, Mavis—”
“All right. I was only asking. Good luck, darling.”
“Thank you, darling.”
They kissed.
And Barthold left.
He reclaimed his brown suitcase from the public storage box. Then he took a heli to the main showroom of Temporal Motors. After due consideration, he bought a Class A Unlimited Flipper and paid for it in cash.
“You’ll never regret this, sir,” said the salesman, removing the price tag from the glittering machine. “Plenty of power in this baby! Double impeller. Full control in all years. No chance of being caught in stasis in a Fipper.”
“Fine,” Barthold said. “I’ll just get in and—”
“Let me help you with those suitcases, sir. You understand that there is a federal tax based upon your temporal mileage?”
“I know,” Barthold said, carefully stowing his brown suitcase in the back of the Flipper. “Thanks a lot. I’ll just get in and—”
“Right, sir. The time clock is set at zero and will record your jumps. Here is a list of time zones proscribed by the government. Another list is pasted to the dashboard. They include all major war and disaster areas, as well as Paradox Points. There is a federal penalty for entering a proscribed area. Any such entry will show on the time clock.”
“I know all this.” Barthold suddenly was very nervous. The salesman couldn’t suspect, of course. But why was he going on gabbling so about breaches of the law?
“I am required to tell you the regulations,” the salesman said cheerfully. “Now, sir, in addition, there is a thousand-year limit on time jumps. No one is allowed beyond that, except with written permission from the State Department.”
“A very proper precaution,” Barthold said, “and one which my insurance company has already advised me of.”
“Then that takes care of everything. Pleasant journey, sir! You’ll find your Flipper the perfect vehicle for business or pleasure. Whether your destination is the rocky roads of Mexico, 1932, or the damp tropics of Canada, 2308, your Flipper will see you through.”
Barthold smiled woodenly, shook the salesman’s hand, and entered the Flipper. He closed the door, adjusted his safety belt, started the motor. Leaning forward, teeth set, he calibrated his jump.
Then he punched the send-off switch.
A gray nothingness surrounded him. Barthold had a moment of absolute panic. He fought it down and experienced a thrill of fierce elation.
At last, he was on his way to fortune!
Impenetrable grayness surrounded the Flipper like a faint and endless fog. Barthold thought of the years slipping by, formless and without end, gray world, gray universe ...
But there was no time for philosophical thoughts. Barthold unlocked the small brown suitcase and removed a sheaf of typed papers. The papers, gathered for him by a temporal investigation agency, contained a complete history of the Barthold family, down to its earliest origins.
He had spent a long time studying that history. His plans required a Barthold. But not just any Barthold. He needed a male Barthold, thirty-eight years old, unmarried, out of touch with his family, with no close friends and no important job. If possible, with no job at all.
He needed a Barthold, who, if he suddenly vanished, would never be missed, never searched for.
With those specifications, Barthold had been able to cut thousands of Bartholds out of his list. Most male Bartholds were married by the age of thirty-eight. Some hadn’t lived that long. Others, single and unattached at thirty-eight, had good friends and strong family ties. Some, out of contact with family and friends, were men whose disappearance would be investigated.
After a good deal of culling, Barthold was left with a mere handful. These he would check, in the hope of finding one who suited all his requirements ...
If such a man existed, he thought, and quickly banished the thought from his mind.
After a while, the grayness dissolved. He looked out and saw that he was on a cobblestone street. An odd, high-sided automobile chugged past him, driven by a man in a straw hat.
He was in New York, 1912.