“This is a hold-up,” he announced ritually. “Fill the bag up with used bills and nobody’s gonna get hurt.” He slung his duffle over the wrought iron grille, gestured threateningly with the plastic gun and noted with approval that the clerks were anxious to be helpful. All four began cramming the bag with money, and one even went as far as going into the strong room for extra supplies.
Abe waited as long as he dared, but was prudent enough to realise that he had to get clear of the bank before jumping into the alternative timestream. Popping up in the same bank in alpha time with a sack full of loot and a gun in his hand could get him in big trouble. He might get shot before anybody noticed he had not committed a robbery.
“That’s enough,” he snapped, as forcefully as was possible through the moist wool of his collar. He took back the now-bulging duffle, walked quickly to the door and slipped out into the porch. His car was waiting across the avenue and the traffic lanes were clear. Slinging the bag over his shoulder. Abe loped across the sidewalk—just as a blue uniform appeared on his right.
“Hold it right there, fella,” the guard called in a startled voice, as he clawed for his revolver.
Goodbye, Abe thought smugly. It was nice knowing you.
He pressed the switch on the metal belt.
Something hit Abe a solid blow on the ribs, knocking him off course, and he ran straight into a concrete lamp standard. As he fell to the ground, winded, Abe realised he had made the transfer to alpha time successfully but had collided with a man already there. Both men were lying in a helpless, gasping heap outside the bank.
“You stupid …’ Abe’s voice faded away as he saw that the man he had bumped into was wearing a blue roll-neck sweater with the collar pulled up over his face, and was holding a plastic Luger in one hand and a duffle bag in the other. He had run into himself!
“You stupid …’ The other Abe’s voice faded away, too, and his eyes widened as they peered over the rim of his woollen collar.
“Hold it right there, you two,” the guard called in a startled voice from further along the avenue, as he clawed for his revolver.
Abe reached for the switch on his buckle, but the belt had ceased vibrating and a wisp of acrid smoke was curling up from it. In any case, he remembered morosely, there was a guard with a drawn gun looking for him in the timestream he had just left.
‘But where did you come from?” the other Abe demanded angrily, through the bars of his adjoining cell. “Why did you have to show up and spoil things after I spent weeks casing that bank?”
“That’s the trouble,” Abe told him. “The professor tried to warn me that my other self might be doing the same thing as I was. Our two world-lines weren’t sufficiently divergent for me to capitalise on the … whaddayacallit.” He returned his gaze to the newspaper which had been passed in to him by a friendly cop. The headlines read:
BANK ROBBERY ATTEMPT BY IDENTICAL TWINS
Recovered Money Twice As Much As Was Stolen,
Says Baffled Bank Official
“I still don’t get it,” the other Abe grumbled.
“It’s all to do with the Doctrine of Infinite Redundancy,” Abe replied. “Too deep for a crumb like you.”
He turned his face to the wall and tried to go to sleep.
Communication
There was one truly creative phase in the weekly routine of Hank Ripley’s job, and he liked to take care of it on Friday nights around nine o’clock.
By then he had three or four drinks under his belt and could feel the weekend—two days’ therapeutic idleness—opening up for him; yet he was still sufficiently in touch with his work to recall the week in detail. His skill in selecting amount and type of detail to put into his weekly report was, in Ripley’s estimation, the principal reason he remained in salaried employment. For over two years the area office in Vancouver had received, and apparently was mollified by, accounts of computer sales he was about to make, was planning to negotiate, or had just lost because of some inherent incompatibility between the Logicon 20/30 series and the customer’s specification. The reports were not entirely fictional—he never mentioned a prospect’s name unless he had actually called him—but they were designed to disguise the fact that Hank Ripley’s aptitude for selling computers was virtually nonexistent.
It was a few minutes before nine when he opened his portable typewriter and set it on the table, flanked by a pack of cigarettes and a glass of Four Roses. He was staring at the ceiling, awaiting inspiration, when the doorbell rang. No friends were expected to call, so he decided to ignore the bell—the report was too important to let slide. There were times when he felt guilty about having the worst record in the whole Canadian organisation, but consoled himself by reflecting on the amount of priceless ingenuity he put into his reports. Any bright boy in Vancouver who took the trouble to study Ripley’s file would find dozens of case histories, packed with verisimilitude, showing ways in which Logicon hardware or software could fail to meet a client’s requirements. The same bright boy might wonder why such a large number of quirkish businesses should flourish in one corner of Alberta, but the lesson was there to be learned just the same.
Ripley’s mind was gathering varicoloured threads of imagination when the bell gave another, and more prolonged, peal. Hissing with annoyance, he opened the door and found himself facing a man of about fifty who was wearing a lustrous business suit and carrying a softly gleaming briefcase. The stranger had a swarthy complexion and brown eyes with grey rings of cholesterol around the pupils.
“Mr. Ripley?” he said. “Pardon me for interrupting your evening.”
“Insurance?” Ripley pushed the door hastily. “I’m covered, and I’m busy.”
“No—I’m not an insurance salesman.”
“Oh, well, I’m a firm believer in my own religion,” Ripley lied. “I can’t be converted, so there’s no point in prolonging …’
“You don’t understand.” The stranger smiled easily. “I want to buy a computer.”
“You want …’ Ripley opened the door like an automaton and ushered the man in. Suppressing a feeling of unreality, he examined the visitor from the rear and noted how his dark suit drooped expensively at the shoulders, and the way his black hair curled slightly over his collar. Ripley had a theory that all wealthy and powerful men had black curly hair on the backs of their necks. He began to feel lucky, which was an unusual sensation for him.
“My name is Mervyn Parr,” The visitor dropped his case on to a chair and surveyed Ripley’s unimpressive apartment with a curious appearance of satisfaction.
“It’s a pleasure to …’ Ripley floundered. “Have a seat. Have a drink.”
“I never touch alcohol,” Parr said benignly, seating himself. ‘But please have one yourself.”
“No thanks.” Ripley lifted his glass as he spoke, realised what he was doing, and set it down again. He took a cigarette and puffed it into anxious life …
Parr viewed the performance indulgently. “I expect you’re wondering why I called with you like this?”
“No! No! Well … yes. I would have been delighted to call at your office and make the Logicon presentation during business hours. Not that I’m objecting, mind …’
“My office is in Red Deer.”
“Oh.” Ripley felt his luck desert him. “That’s north of Calgary, isn’t it? You should be talking to our rep for central Alberta.”
“I don’t want to talk to your rep for central Alberta, Mr. Ripley. I want to buy a computer from you.” Parr’s voice had a resonant quality which Ripley found vaguely reminiscent of something out of his childhood.