"But how do amnesia and prophetic dreams tie together?" I asked.
"They are basically the same phenomenon," Golfin said, "with one
important difference. In amnesia the conscious mind jumps over a period
of time and stays there, going on in normal fashion. In prophetic
dreams it does the same, _except that it returns to its starting
point_."
I glanced at Sarah Fish. She was listening intently. It occurred to me
that she hadn't heard any of this before either. She was the congenial
type. Undoubtedly when Golfin had sprung this murder business on her
she hadn't asked questions.
"Now do you see what I'm getting at?" Golfin said. "The mechanism must
be the same in both instances. An underlying mechanism. In amnesia a
person may suffer a brain injury, or a person may be under a terrific
compulsion to escape the present. In either case the person jumps over
a period of days or years in, seemingly, an instant--and refuses to
return. In prophetic dreams the person jumps into the future to an
instant when something crucial is taking place, and returns to the
present with memory of it."
I looked at my own watch and said, "Any other time I would like to
listen, but what are you driving at?"
* * * * *
He frowned and glanced at his watch. "Forty-one minutes," he said.
"This is what I'm driving at. If I could discover the mechanism by
which the mind leaps into the future, and returns, I would have a
means of doing that myself. I could, possibly, go to tomorrow and
buy a newspaper and see what it says, and return to today with that
knowledge."
"I see now!" Sarah Fish said, quivering with excitement. "That's how
you learned that Mr. Smith is to be murdered!"
"So you did discover a way?" I said.
"I did. That's why I'm here. For some time now I have been going into
the future at will, and also into the past. I've learned how to control
it, the length of time I stay there, and just how far into the future
or the past I go."
"It sounds good," I admitted. "How could you change things?"
He glanced at his watch worriedly. "We haven't much time," he said.
"A little over half an hour. What I want to do is this. I have the
instruments with me to send you into the future to the moment you
are dying. I want you to go there and see if you don't know then
who killed you, and how. You will return to the present moment with
that knowledge, and be able to avoid death. At least--" He smiled
encouragingly. "At least I hope you will."
"And if I don't?"
He shrugged. "This is my first serious attempt to change the past.
Sooner or later I will succeed." He had reached into his breast pocket
again. Now he brought out something like a fat fountain pen.
"I don't know," I said uneasily. "You sure this doesn't hurt?"
He unscrewed the end of the thing. There was a short hollow needle on
it, with what looked like a trigger that had swung out into position
against the side.
"I've used it on myself many times," he said. He started toward me.
"Wait a minute," I said, backing up a step and holding up my hand.
"This is going to take me up to the instant I'm dying?"
"That's right," he said, "and I want you to try, in that single instant
you are there, to find out who did it. Think where you were when it
happened, and who might have done it."
"You sure it won't kill me?" I asked.
He took another step toward me. "Of course not," he said.
"Wait a minute," I said, backing up against a bookcase to get away from
him. "Why didn't you go farther ahead in time and read in the papers
who did it? Wouldn't that have been the best way?"
For a brief instant his eyes flashed with what seemed to me to be
madness. I thought of the three dollar bill. The guy was crazy. It
had to be that. He'd been using the stuff on himself. Whatever it was
it had affected his mind. He imagined he could send his mind into the
future. Or maybe--
I remembered suddenly why I was here. I had followed Golfin in the
hopes of getting one of those three dollar bills. That made it a
vicious circle. Sure. It was _he_ who was going to murder me, if
anyone was. Those other people didn't know me. And he said I was going
to be poisoned by venom on a pin or needle--_or was it going to be a
hypodermic needle_?
"Don't be afraid, Mr. Smith," Golfin purred. "It's the only hope of
saving your life. Your murder was never solved."
"Oh, it is, is it?" I gritted. I snaked out with my hand and wrapped
my fingers around the wrist of the hand that held the needle. "Give me
that thing," I said.
He struggled. He had a lot of strength for a little man. He pivoted
around and tried to pull his wrist free. With his other hand he tried
to get hold of the needle. I kept shaking his wrist to keep him from
doing it.
Then I remembered his expensive billfold. It probably had the three
dollar bills in it. I simply reached into his breast pocket and
appropriated it. He didn't know it was gone.
A second later, with a loud grunt, he twisted violently in a last
effort to get free. I heard a sharp snap, and at the same time I felt a
sharp pain stab into me.
It was in the small of my back on the right side. _The small of my back
on the right side!_
I let go of his wrist. He was just starting to jerk again, and my
letting go made him stagger backwards and fall against the bookcase on
the far wall. He didn't even know his gadget had gone off!
I did, though. And a strange fatalism was seeping into me, like the
emotional effect of a drug. A numbness was beginning to make itself
felt along my right side.
Sarah Fish was staring at me, her eyes large and round. Not like a fish
though. Too human, too full of concern and sympathy. Maybe she had seen
the needle stick me....
Funny ... Golfin came here convinced in his own insane way that he was
going to prevent a murder. If he hadn't come, I wouldn't have come
either. And if he hadn't come, there wouldn't have been a corpse....
* * * * *
I looked around until I found the door, and headed toward it. My right
leg dragged a little as I walked. And I didn't need to go into the
future to know what was going to happen. I would make it to the door.
Sure. I would open it, and walk through the crowd outside toward the
front door. Before I got there I would die. Golfin would never know,
maybe, that it was his drug that had killed me. Sarah Fish, convinced
by the way it happened that Golfin had been right, would insist to the
police that I was okay when I left her.
I could stop right where I was and die in this room. My hand gripped
the doorknob and twisted, and the door opened. And I knew I wasn't
going to stay in this room. I was going to try to get to the front door.
My whole right side was numb now. I had to walk slowly. Even then I
wasn't sure of my next step. And with each step the massive front door
seemed farther away.
_I wasn't going to make it._
I bumped into someone--or someone bumped into me. I jerked my head
around with a snarl starting on my lips. It was George Wile.
"Sorry old boy," he apologized. "I didn't see you."
I blinked at him, an idea forming. Maybe if I could change
something--any little thing--I could save myself. What could I change?
I didn't know, because I didn't know whether even the change I might
make would be part of the future. Still....
"'Sall right, ol' boy," I said, bumping against him. And my hands moved
fast. My own wallet went into his pocket, and his went into mine.
I stepped back, grinning. I had at least done something to confuse the
issues. I would leave that puzzle behind me. It wouldn't fool anyone
though, because they would know who I was. Sarah Fish and Sam Golfin.
My heart was starting to pound painfully. Panic flooded into me. I had
to reach that front door. I had to! It was already open, and people
were going through it, leaving the party. The distinguished appearing
man was standing there shaking hands with them as they left.
Where was I supposed to drop dead? I wished I had asked Golfin that. I
took another step, and another. And, unbelieving, I was at the door.
"Glad you could be here," the distinguished appearing man said,
gripping my hand and letting it go.
He had turned to the next person, and I was standing there, my heart
pounding, expecting to drop. Somebody pushed against me gently and
said, "Pardon me." I put my hand on the door frame and put one foot
over the threshold. I was still standing.
I let go the door frame and put the other foot over the threshold. I
was standing on the porch. I sucked in a breath. It was too good to be
true. There was a catch to it somewhere. But--
I took another step. Eager haste possessed me. I took quick steps off
the porch. I was on the sidewalk. I was still alive!
And somewhere I had lost the numbness in my side.
Around me people were getting in their cars, the doors slamming shut
softly. I glanced over my shoulder. More people were coming out of the
house.
I waited for no more. Almost running, I went the two blocks to the stop
sign and turned toward the drugstore.
"Made it," I said under my voice as I pushed open the door and went in.
I slid into the same seat I had occupied before. The same counter girl
took my order for coffee. "Black this time," I said. "And where's my
paper?"
My heart wasn't pounding any more. I was still shaky, but there wasn't
a chance of my dying. Not a chance. I grinned to myself.
My coffee came. Also a paper. I sipped the coffee and tried to get
interested in the paper. But I kept going back to what had happened.
Then I heard the sound of police sirens. They approached until they
were just outside. I looked out and saw the police cars turn the
corner, going in the direction of the house where I had been.
So someone had died after all!
* * * * *
I reached under my coat and touched the spot where the needle had
struck me. It was a little sore, but not enough to bother me.
Who had been killed? George Wile? Suddenly I remembered the exchange
of wallets I had made. I reached into my hip pocket and took out his
wallet.
I looked in the money compartment and saw I had enriched myself by
twenty dollars. Grinning, I looked in another pocket of the wallet.
There was a package of needles. My grin wiped off. They were ordinary
sewing needles. But the pointed ends were covered with what seemed to
be gray paint.
The counter girl was at the far end scrubbing the counter. The baldish
cashier was on the other side of the store behind a counter, waiting on
a man and a woman. I took Golfin's billfold and quickly thumbed through
it.
There were several of the three dollar bills. There were two ones. And
there were five twenty dollar bills. I shoved all the money into my
pocket except one of the three dollar bills.
I made sure no one was looking my way, and dropped Golfin's billfold
on the floor, kicking it under the counter behind me in the center
aisle where it wouldn't be found unless the janitor swept under there.
I decided to do the same with Wile's. After all, if Sam Golfin were
right, and there was a murder, I didn't want a couple of strange
wallets on me. Nor those coated needles.
I looked at the three dollar bill in my hand. It was like that other
one. Picture of Truman on it, atomic mushroom on the other side, with
the atom superimposed. I squinted at the fine print. _Series of 1958._
That made me frown. Why would someone bother to change the date on
phony money? And it was too nice a job of engraving for such a thing
too.
I thought of one of the tests for good money. I rubbed the three dollar
bill against the margin of the newspaper. Some of the ink came off.
The wild theory Golfin had fed me was tame compared to what I was
beginning to suspect. I took out the rest of his money and picked out a
twenty dollar bill. Putting the rest back in my pocket, I studied the
twenty. I rubbed it against the margin of the newspaper. Ink came off.
It was genuine money.