Robert Silverberg - The Far Side of the Bell-Shaped Curve

Through a haze of fear and pain he heard the other saying, “This man is the proscribed aristocrat Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, enemy of the Republic, member of a family of tyrants. I denounce him for having used his privileges in the oppression of the people.”

“He will face the tribunal tonight,” said the one kneeling on Reichenbach.

Reichenbach said in a shocked voice, “What are you doing?”

The other crouched close to him and replied in English. “We have been duplicated, you see. Why do you think there are rules against entering a time where one is already present? There’s room for only one of us back in realtime, is that not so? So, then, how can we both return?”

Reichenbach said, with a gasp, “But that isn’t true!”

“Isn’t it? Are you sure? Do you really comprehend all the paradoxes?”

“Do you? How can you do this to me, when I—when I’m—”

“You disappoint me, not seeing these intricacies. I would have expected more from one of us. But you must have been too muddled by jealousy to think straight. Do you imagine I dare run the risk of letting you jaunt around on the loose? Which of us is to have Ilsabet, after all?”

Already Reichenbach felt the blade hurtling toward his neck.

“Wait—wait—” he cried. “Look at him! His face is mine! We are brothers, twins! If I’m an aristocrat, what is he? I denounce him too! Seize him and try him with me!”

“There is indeed a strange resemblance between you two,” said one of those holding Reichenbach.

The other smiled. “We have often been taken for brothers. But there is no kinship between us. He is the aristocrat Evrémonde, citizens. And I, I am only poor Sydney Carton, a person of no consequence or significance whatever, happy to have been of service to the people.” He bowed and walked away, and in a moment was gone.

Safe beside Ilsabet in Nero’s Rome, Reichenbach thought bitterly.

“Come. Up with him and bring him to trial,” someone called. “The tribunal has no time to waste these days.”