There was consternation at the offices of the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation, and confusion, and dismay, and a swift telephoning of underwriters, when two Everett Bartholds walked in, with identical nervous little smiles.
“First case of its kind in fifteen years,” said Mr. Gryns. “Oh, Lord! You will submit, of course, to a full examination?”
“Of course,” said Barthold.
“Of course,” said Barthold.
The doctors poked and probed them. They found differences, which they carefully listed with long Latin terms. But all the differences were within the normal variation range for temporal identicals and no amount of juggling on paper could change that. So the company psychiatrists took over.
Both men responded to all questions with careful slowness. Bairthre kept his wits about him and his nerve intact. Using his hynoed knowledge of Barthold, he answered the questions slowly but well, exactly as did Barthold.
Inter-Temporal engineers checked the time clock in the Flipper. They dismantled it and put it back together again. They examined the controls, set for Present, 1912, 1869, 1676, and 1595. 662 had also been punched—illegally—but the time clock showed that it had not been activated. Barthold explained that he had hit the control accidentally and thought it best to leave it alone.
It was suspicious, but not actionable.
A lot of power had been used, the engineers pointed out. But the time clock showed stops only to 1595. They brought the time clock back to the lab for further investigation.
The engineers then went over the interior of the Flipper inch by inch, but could find nothing incriminating. Barthold had taken the precaution of throwing the brown suitcase and its contents into the English Channel before leaving the year 662.
Mr. Gryns offered a settlement, which the two Bartholds turned down. He offered two more, which were refused. And, finally, he admitted defeat.
The last conference was held in Gryns’s office. The two Bartholds sat on either side of Gryns’s desk, looking slightly bored with the entire business. Gryns looked like a man whose neat and predictable world has been irrevocably upset.
“I just can’t understand it,” he said. “In the years you traveled in, sirs, the odds against a time flaw are something like a million to one!”
“I guess we’re that one,” said Barthold, and Bairthre nodded.
“But somehow it just doesn’t seem—well, what’s done is done. Have you gentlemen decided the question of your coexistence?”
Barthold handed Gryns the paper that Bairthre had signed in 662. “He is going to leave, immediately upon receipt of his compensation.”
“Is this satisfactory to you, sir?” Gryns asked Bairthre.
“Sure,” said Bairthre. “I don’t like it here anyhow.”
“Sir?”
“I mean,” Bairthre said hastily, “what I mean is, I’ve always wanted to get away, you know, secret desire, live in some quiet spot, nature, simple people, all that ...“
“I see,” Mr. Gryns said dubiously. “And do you feel that way, sir?” he asked, turning to Barthold.
“Certainly,” Barthold asserted. “I have the same secret desires he has. But one of us has to stay—sense of duty, you know—and I’ve agreed to remain.”
“I see,” Gryns said. But his tone made it clear that he didn’t see at all. “Hah. Well. Your checks are being processed now, gentlemen. A purely mechanical procedure. They can be picked up tomorrow morning—always assuming that no proofs of fraud are presented to us before then.”
The atmosphere was suddenly icy. The two Bartholds said good-by to Mr. Gryns and left very quickly.
They rode the elevator down in silence. Outside the building, Bairthre said, “Sorry about that slip about not liking it here.”
“Shut up!”
“Huh?”
Barthold seized Bairthre by the arm and dragged him into an automatic heli, taking care not to choose the first empty one he saw.
He punched for Westchester, then looked back to see if they were being followed. When he was certain they were not, he checked the interior of the heli for camera or recording devices. At last he turned to speak to Bairthre.
“You utter damned fool! That boner could have cost us a fortune!”
“I’ve been doing the best I can,” Bairthre said sullenly. “What’s wrong now? Oh, you mean they suspect.”
“That’s what’s wrong! Gryns is undoubtedly having us followed. If they can find anything—anything at all to upset our claim—it could mean the Prison Planetoid.”
“We’ll have to watch our steps,” said Bairthre soberly.
“I’m glad you realize it,” Barthold said.
They dined quietly in a Westchester restaurant and had several drinks. This put them in a better frame of mind. They were feeling almost happy when they returned to Barthold’s house and sent the heli back to the city.
“We will sit and play cards tonight,” said Barthold, “and talk, and drink coffee, and behave as though we both were Barthold. In the morning, I’ll go collect our checks.”
“Good enough,” Bairthre agreed. “I’ll be glad to get back. I don’t see how you can stand it with iron and stone all around you. Ireland, man! A king in Ireland, that’s what I’ll be!”
“Don’t talk about it now.” Barthold opened the door and they entered.
“Good evening, dear,” Mavis said, looking at a point exactly midway between them.
“I thought you said you knew me,” Barthold commented sourly.
“Of course I do, darling,” Mavis said, turning to him with a bright smile. “I just didn’t want to insult poor Mr. Bairthre.”
“Thank you, kind lady,” said Bairthre. “Perhaps I’ll sing you another song of ancient Ireland later.”
“That would be lovely, I’m sure,” Mavis said. “A man telephoned you, dear. He’ll call later. Honey, I’ve been looking at ads for scart fur. The Polar Martian Scart is a bit more expensive than plain Canal Martian Scart, but—”
“A man called?” Barthold asked. “Who?”
“He didn’t say. Anyhow, it wears much better and the fur has that iridescent sheen that only—”
“Mavis! What did he want?”
“It was something about the double indemnity claim,” she said. “But that’s all settled, isn’t it?”
“It is not settled until I have the check in my hand,” Barthold told her. “Now tell me exactly what he said.”
“Well, he told me he was calling about your so-called claim on the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation—”
“’So-called?’ Did he say ‘so-called’?”
“Those were his exact words. So-called claim on the Inter-Temporal Insurance Corporation. He said he had to speak to you immediately, before morning.”
Barthold’s face had turned gray. “Did he say he’d phone back?”
“He said he’d call in person.”
“What is it?” Bairthre asked. “What does it mean? Of course—an insurance investigator!”
“That’s right,” Barthold said. “He must have found something.”
“But what?”
“How should I know? Let me think!”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. The three Bartholds looked at each other dumbly.
The doorbell rang again. “Open up, Barthold!” a voice called. “Don’t try to duck me!”
“Can we kill him?” Bairthre asked.
“Too complicated,” said Barthold, after a little thought. “Come on! Out the back way!”
“But why?”
“The Flipper’s parked there. We’re going into the past! Don’t you see? If he had proof, he’d have given it to the insurance people already. So he only suspects. He probably thinks he can trip us up with questions. If we can keep away from him until morning, we’re safe!”
“What about me?” Mavis quavered.