_Your name is Merton and you find that all you have to do is
reach into your safe to get money. The more you take, the more you
find. And just when Quiggs has cut your future down to nothing.
A wonderful discovery! Or is it? Of course it is. You'll be the
richest man in the world. But will you?_
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic October 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Peter Merton sat at his desk after the District Attorney's men left,
and put his head in his hands. He was still sitting that way when Miss
Irene Simmons came in.
"Here's the rest of the morning's mail, Mr. Merton," she said.
Merton didn't even look up. He was a young, good looking man in his
late twenties, the type known as a "rising young executive"--possibly
because that's exactly what he was. But he did not look young this
morning. His interview with the D.A. had added years to his appearance.
He felt old and haggard.
"Just put them on the desk," he said. His voice sounded tired.
She put the letters on the desk, but when she didn't leave immediately,
Peter Merton looked up.
Irene Simmons was an average-sized girl with golden-brown hair, large
blue eyes, a full, red mouth, and a lush figure. She looked as though
she ought to be working as a bathing-suit model instead of as the
private secretary to a vice-president of Crabley & Co.
"Does it look pretty bad, Mr. Merton?" she asked.
"It looks horrible," he said bleakly. "The D.A. said that since Quiggs
has had four days to get away, the money is probably in South America
by now." He put his hand over his eyes. "If only I hadn't been such
a fool! Why did I put the money in my office safe instead of in the
company vault? Fifty thousand dollars! The insurance company won't pay,
because the policy says that cash has to be kept in the vault.
"But how was I to know that Quiggs would come sneaking in here during
Christmas vacation and take it out of my safe? He's been working for
the company for years; who would have thought it?"
"Frankly, Mr. Merton, I think he was jealous because you were made a
vice-president instead of him," Irene said firmly. "I think he wanted
to ruin you."
"Well, he certainly has," Peter said sadly. "Old Man Crabley says that
putting the money in my safe was criminal negligence. He says he wants
me to pay it back or he'll see that I'm blackballed by every company in
the business--after he fires me."
* * * * *
"I--I'm very sorry, Mr. Merton. I'm sure you'll think of something. The
police may catch him, after all."
"Thank you, Miss Simmons. I hope so," Peter said. But his voice didn't
hold much hope.
As the girl left the room, Peter absently watched the swaying of her
hips as she walked, but he was too upset to appreciate the view fully.
He had a serious problem to consider.
He thought over what she had said. So Quiggs had been jealous, eh? That
probably explained the fact that he had left a five-dollar-bill in the
safe. With his odd sense of humor, Quiggs had probably thought it very
funny to leave a five note in place of the fifty thousand he had taken.
There was no doubt that it was Quiggs; the police were certain of the
guilty person. Quiggs had been seen coming into the office on the
Thursday night before Christmas vacation and had left only half an
hour later. He had evidently taken the money out and replaced it with
a bundle of wrapped paper. Some hours later, he had checked out of his
apartment, and all trace of him had been lost.
Peter looked up at the Watteau print which concealed the heavy steel
door of the wall safe. Five dollars lay behind it, all that was left
of fifty thousand. He got up, walked over to the safe, twisted the
combination, and pulled the door open. He reached in, took out the
bill, and looked at it. And looked again, with wide eyes.
Because it wasn't a five-dollar-bill, at all.
It was a thin sheet of paper-like plastic, folded up to about the same
size as a banknote.
Puzzled, Peter looked into the safe again. Nothing. He thrust his hand
in and felt around. Still nothing. Except for the sheet of stuff he
held in his hand, the safe was as empty as a church on Monday.
Unfolding the folded sheet, Peter saw that it was covered with print.
The characters were oddly shaped, and the phraseology was queer, but it
was unmistakably English.
Peter Merton sat on the edge of his desk and began to read.
_Honorable Mister, Miss, or Missus_:
_To whoever you are in the Twentieth Century, we of the
Thirtieth Century send greetings. We hope this epistle will be
understandable; our knowledge of the language of English is maybe
not as good as might be. Our studies of your time are somewhat
hampered by lack of records, and it for this reason is that we
contact you._
_In order for the Time Transfer Field to work, it must be entirely
surrounded by thick metal. Also a piece of similar material must be
in place so that transfer can be effected, in accordance with the
Vorish Equations._
_If you wish to co-operate in this history-seeking venture, please
place a note to such effect in your metal box._
_Rolath Guelph_
_Terrestrial Bureau of Historical Investigation_
Peter frowned and read the thing again. Who would write such silliness?
Could it be another joke by Quiggs? No, it couldn't be; he, Peter
Merton, had put that five-dollar-bill back into the safe, and he hadn't
left the room while it was in there.
He looked up at the open safe. It was still empty. Well, by golly, he'd
see whether this was a hoax or not.
He pulled his gold-plated desk pen out of its crystal holder, took a
piece of office stationery, and wrote:
_Dear Mr. Guelph_:
_I'm very much interested in your proposition, but I would like to
have you explain a little bit more about it._
_Very truly yours,