The Man Who Folded Himself (7 page)

Abruptly, he was changing the subject. “Besides, there's another
advantage,” he pointed out. “With me along, you'll never be taken by surprise. Whatever we do, I'll have been through it before, so I'll know what to expect, and you'll be learning it at the hands of an expert guide. Whatever we do.”

“I've always wanted to try skydiving,” I offered.

He grinned. “Me too.” Suddenly he was serious again. “When you go, Dan, you have to take me. I'm your insurance so you can't be killed.”

“Huh?” I stared at him.

He repeated it. “When you're with me, you can't be killed. It's like the check this afternoon. If anything happens to the earlier one, the later one won't be there beside it—it won't exist. It's more than me just being able to warn you about things—my sitting here across from you is proof that you won't be killed before tomorrow night. And I know that nothing happens to me”—he thumped his chest to indicate which “me” he was talking about—“because I've got my memories. I've seen that nothing will happen to me tonight, so you're my insurance too.”

I thought about that.

He was right.

“Remember the automobile accident we didn't have last year?”

I shuddered. I'd had a blowout on the San Diego Freeway while traveling at seventy miles an hour. It had been the left front tire and I had skidded across three lanes and found myself facing the wrong way, with traffic rushing at me. And the motor had stalled. I just barely had time to restart the engine and pull off to the side. It had been fifteen minutes before my hands stopped trembling enough for me to attempt changing the tire. It was a mess. For weeks afterward I'd kept a piece of it on the dashboard to remind me how close a call I'd had. I still had nightmares about it: if traffic had been just a little bit heavier . . . the sickening swerve-skidbumpety-bump-screeeeeeech—

I figured I was living on borrowed time. I really should have been killed. Really. It was only a miracle that I hadn't been.

I realized my hand was shaking. I forced myself to take a sip of my drink. I looked at Don; he was as grim as I was. “There's too much to lose, isn't there?” he said.

I nodded. We shared the same memory. There was a lot we didn't have to say.

“Dan,” he said; his tone was intense, as intense as before. His eyes fixed me with a penetrating look. “We're going to be more than just identical twins. We can't help it. We're closer than brothers.”

I met his gaze, but the thought still frightened me.

I'm not sure I know how to be that close to anybody. Even myself.

We ate the rest of our dinner in silence, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. No, it was a peaceful one, relaxed.

I had to get used to the situation, and Don was letting me. He sat there and smiled a lot, and I got the feeling that he was simply enjoying my presence.

I had to learn how to relax, that was the problem. Other people had always unnerved me because I thought they were continually judging me. How do I look? What kind of a person do I seem? Is my voice firm enough? Am I really intelligent or just pedantic? Was that joke really funny, or am I making a fool of myself? I worried about the impression I was making. If I was shy, did they think I was being aloof and call me a snob? If I tried to be friendly, did they find me overbearing? I was always afraid that I was basically unlikable, so I wouldn't give anyone the chance to find out; or I tried too hard to be likable, and thereby proved that I wasn't.

And yet—

Here was this person, Don, sitting across from me . . . he wasn't unlikable at all. In fact, he was quite attractive. Handsome, even. His face was ruddy and tanned (well, that was the sun lamp in the bathroom, but it looked good); his eyes were clear, almost glowing (that must be from the tinted contact lenses); his hair was carefully styled (that was the hair stylist, of course)—he was everything I was always trying to be. His voice was firm, his manner was gentle, and he was in good physical condition. Perhaps I had been too hard in judging myself.

Yes, I liked the look of this person. He was capable, assured, and confident. He projected—likability. Friendliness.

And something else. There was that same kind of longing—no, maybe desperation was the word—in Don; that feeling of reach out, touch me, here I am, please that I so often felt in myself. Under his assurance was a hint of—helplessness?—need? And I could respond to that. I enjoyed his presence, but more than that, I sensed a feeling that he needed me. Yes, he needed to know that I liked him.

I realized I was smiling. It was nice to be needed, I decided. I was glowing, but not with the liquor. Not entirely. I was learning to love—no, I was learning to like myself. I was learning to relax with another person. No. I was learning to relax with myself. Maybe it was the same thing, actually.

We spent a lot of time drinking and thinking and just looking at each other. And giggling conspiratorially. Our communication was more than empathic. We didn't need words—he already knew what I was thinking. And I would know the rest, if I just waited. We simply enjoyed each other's existence.

After dinner we went to a nearby bar and played a few games of pool. It was one of the few things we could do that wouldn't be boring the second time around. Most kinds of spectator entertainment, like a movie or a show or a baseball game, wouldn't work two nights in a row, but participation activities would work just fine. Swimming, sailing, riding; I could learn from watching my own technique. (I wondered if I could get a poker game going—let's see, I'd need at least five of me. I doubted it would work, but it might be worth a try.)

We got home about eleven-thirty; we were holding each other up, we were that drunk. Don looked at me blearily. “Well, good night, Dan. I'll see you tomorrow—no, I'll see you the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to see Don and you have to see Dan—” He frowned at that, went over it again in his head, looked back to me. “Yeah, that's right.” He flipped open his belt buckle, set it, double-checked it, closed it, and vanished forward into time. The air gave a soft pop! as it rushed in to fill the space where he had been.

After he left I stumbled through the apartment, wondering what to do next—another trip through time? No. I decided not. I was too tired. First I'd get some sleep. If I could.

I paused to pick up the clothes that I'd scattered on the floor this afternoon when we'd changed for dinner; I realized I was picking up his clothes too—wait a minute, that meant that he'd left wearing some of my clothes.

I looked in the closet. Yes, the good sport jacket and slacks that he'd borrowed were missing. So was my red tie. But the sweater and slacks that he'd discarded were still there.

No, they weren't—they were in my hand! I blinked back and forth between the clothes I was holding and the clothes in the closet. They were the same! I'd lost a jacket and slacks, but I'd gained a sweater and a pair of pants identical to the ones I already owned. I had to figure this out.

Ah, I had it. The jacket and slacks he'd borrowed had traveled forward in time with him. They'd be waiting there for me when—no, that wasn't right. I'd be going back in time tomorrow—that is, I'd be coming back to today, where I'd put them on and take them forward with me. Right. They'd just be skipping forward a few hours.

And the sweater and the other pair of pants—the duplicated ones—obviously, that's what I'd be wearing tomorrow when I bounced back, leaving only one set in the future. The condition of having two of them was only temporary, like the condition of having two of me. It was just an illusion.

Or was it?

What would happen if I wore his sweater and slacks back through time? The sweater and slacks that he brought from the future would then be the clothes that I would leave in the past so that I could put them on when I went back to the past to leave them there for myself, ad infinitum . . . and meanwhile, my sweater and slacks would be hanging untouched in the closet.

Or would they?

What would happen tomorrow if I didn't wear either sweater or pair of slacks? But something else entirely? (But how could I? I'd already seen that I had worn them.) Would the pair that he brought
back cease to exist? Or would they remain—would I have somehow duplicated them?

There was only one way to find out . . .

I fell asleep thinking about it.

The morning was hot, with that crisp kind of unreality that characterizes the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley. I woke up to the sound of the air conditioner already beginning its day's work with an insistent pressing hum.

For a while I just stared at the ceiling. I'd had the strangest dream—

—but it wasn't a dream. I bounced out of bed in sudden fear. The timebelt glittered on the dresser where I had left it. I held it tightly, as if it might fade abruptly away. All the excitement of yesterday flooded back into me.

I remembered. The race track. The restaurant. Don. The check. It was sitting on the dresser too, right next to the belt—$57,600!

I opened the belt and checked the time. It was almost eleven. I'd have to hurry. Don would be arriving—no, I was Don now. Dan would be arriving in three hours.

I showered and shaved, pulled on a shirt and pants and headed for the car. I wanted to go to the bank and deposit the check and I had to pick up a newspaper—

Actually, I didn't need the newspaper at all, I could remember which horses had won without it, but there was a headline on the front page of the Daily News: FIVE-HORSE PARLAY WINS $57,600!

Huh—? I hadn't seen that before. But then, Don hadn't shown me the front page.

The story was a skimpy one and they'd misspelled my name; mostly it was about how much I had bet on each horse and how it had snowballed. Then there were some quotes from various track officials saying how pleased they were to have such a big winner (I'll bet!), because it helped publicize the sport (and probably attracted a lot of hopeful losers too.) Finally there was even a quote from me about what I was planning to do with the money: “I don't
know yet, I'm still too excited. Probably I'll take a vacation. I've always wanted to see the world. I'd like to invest some of it too, but I have to wait and see what's left after taxes.” Faked, of course. I hadn't spoken to any reporters at all; but apparently some editor had felt the story wouldn't be complete without a few words from the happy winner.

I was both pleased and annoyed. Pleased at being a “celebrity.” Annoyed that they were putting words into my mouth. Maybe today we'd do it differently.

Could we?

Suppose we didn't stop at $57,600—suppose we went after an eight-horse parlay. That would be worth almost $750,000! Hmm. I thought about it all during breakfast at the local coffee shop.