Damon Knight: Beyond the Barrier

Naismith sat in silence, absorbing that. Then he said, “Off-hand, the idea is ridiculous. You say this Churan’s office is in Hollywood. The duplicator field has a range of only about five hundred feet.”

“But would you say it’s absolutely impossible?”

Naismith’s wide jaw knotted. “I couldn’t say that, of course.

Impractical, at least, in the present state of the art. What are you suggesting, that I somehow gimmicked that Hivert Duplicator to project one of my doppelgangers into a stranger’s office?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.” Wells’ pen made slow circles on the notepad. “But Naismith, tell me this: why should this fellow Churan lie about it?”

“I don’t know!” Naismith exploded. His hands clenched into powerful fists. “Wells, something’s going on that I don’t understand and don’t like. I’m completely in the dark now, but I promise you—”

He was interrupted by the brrr of the phone. Without looking away from Naismith, Wells reached over and touched the button. “Yes?”

The first words swung his head around. “Wells! Now see what’s happened!” It was Orvile’s shrill voice, and Naismith could see his white-haired head, grotesquely elongated in the visiphone. “He’s dead—horribly burned to death! And Naismith was the last man seen with him! My God, Wells!

Why don’t you—”

“Naismith is here in my office now,” Wells cut in. “Who’s dead? What are you talking about?”

“I’m telling you, Ramsdell! Ramsdell! My God, look here!”

Orvile’s paper-gray face withdrew, and after a moment the pickup tilted downward.

On the gray tile floor lay a plump body, sprawled like a hideously ruined doll. The head, chest and hands were nothing but shapeless masses of carbon.

“I’m sending the police!” Orvile’s voice shrilled. “Don’t let him get away! Don’t let him get away!”

With Orvile’s hysterical voice still ringing in his ears, Naismith turned: in two quick strides he was at the door.

“What?” said Wells, slow to react. He half rose from his chair. “Naismith, wait—”

Naismith did not reply. He slid the door open, whipped through, slammed it again behind him and was running down the walk. Blood raced warm in his arteries he felt no fear, only an intense and almost pleasurable anger.

In the instant before Orvile finished speaking, the whole problem had become transparently simple. The police had no evidence against him in Ramsdell’s death, and could not hold him; but they could, and would, delay him. And he was tiger-ishly convinced that his only safety now lay in striking back, as hard and as fast as he could.

At the foot of the hill, he caught a cruising municipal cab, and ordered the driver: “Hollywood. I’ll give you the address on the way.”

As the cab swung around and headed east on the Freeway, Naismith put a quarter into the phone slot and punched

“Directory, Hollywood.” The yellow transparency lighted up.

Naismith punched “C-H-U-R-A-N.”

The illuminated image jumped and blurred repeatedly; then it steadied on a page of fine print, slowly traveling past the scanner. Naismith punched the “Hold” button. There it was:

“M. Churan, Imprtr,” and an address on Sunset Boulevard.

Naismith glanced at his wristwatch: it was just four o’clock, and most California businessmen did not close their doors till four-thirty. There was still time.

“This is it, mister,” said the driver, reaching over to turn off the meter. Naismith paid him and got out. The building was a yellow-stone monstrosity dating from the previous century.

In the lobby, Churan’s name was on the ancient white-letter directory. Naismith took the elevator to the fifth floor. The office, behind a corrugated glass door with Churan’s name on it, was locked and silent.

Naismith rattled the door in a burst of anger. Raging, he banged the door back and forth in its quarter-inch of play, until the corridor rang with the sound.

The office next door opened and a pink young man stepped out, shirt-sleeved, with his necktie undone. “Here,” he said.

“Here, what’s the gas with you, son? Don’t go like that.”

Naismith stared at him. The young man looked surprised, flinched, and stepped back into the shelter of his doorway.

“Nothing personal, son,” he added.

“Do you know Churan?” Naismith demanded.

“Sure, I know him, son—to say what ho. But he’s gone, son—gone—zipped out half an hour ago. I saw him leave.”

Naismith stared at the locked door. He had been quick, but not quick enough. With an impatient surge, he put the full force of his arm and wrist against the doorknob: with a sharp, ringing snap, the latch broke and the door swung in.

“Hey,” said the pink young man, his jaw open. “Hey, now—”

Naismith strode into the reception room. There was nobody behind the desk, nobody in the inner office. Filing cabinets were standing open and empty; there was nothing in the desk drawers, nothing pinned to the wall. On one corner of the worn carpet, near the desk, there was a large, fresh ink-stain. There were some jagged pieces of glazed porcelain in the wastebasket, and a bedraggled bunch of yellow flowers.

Baffled, Naismith paused and sniffed the ah*. The office had an unmistakable atmosphere of vacancy; but to his sharpened senses there was a faint, jangling vibration in the room—yes, and a faint but distinct scent: something cold, musky and unpleasant.

When he left, the pink young man was still waiting in the corridor. Naismith said gently, “What do you know about Churan?”

“Well, son, I never spread the air with him. Just what ho in the morning, way I told you. But he’s a pro.”

“A what?”

“A professional, son. You know, show biz.” The pink young man pointed to his own open door, on which was lettered,

“REGAL THEATRICAL ENTERPRISES.”

Naismith scowled. “Churan is an actor?”

“Got to be, son. He never got any parts through me, but I can tell. This importing piece must be a sideline. You looking for him real bad?”

“How can you tell he’s an actor?”

“The makeup, son. Every time I see him, he’s made up for the cameras. You might not notice, stereo makeup looks so natural, but I can tell. Every time I see him, he’s got it on. Who should I tell him was asking?”

“Never mind,” said Naismith, suddenly depressed. He turned without another word and went away.

In his own doorway, in the act of withdrawing the key from the lock, he paused and stood still, listening. A prickle of uneasiness ran over his body. There was a smell in the air, a sickly, charred, greasy smell….

He went into the living room, through it to the bedroom. At first he saw nothing. Then, glancing at the floor behind the bed, he saw a woman’s foot and a thick ankle. The smell was overpoweringly strong.

Sickened, he went around the end of the bed. On the floor lay a body he at first could not recognize, although he knew who it must be. Mrs. Becker, who cleaned his apartment on Thursdays—she was the only one other than himself who had a key. She was dead. Dead, and horribly burned. The face, chest, arms and hands were one shapeless, blackened ruin.…

Naismith went numbly to the visiphone and vised the police.

They were there in less than ten minutes.

The cell door closed behind him with a sound of finality.

Naismith sank down on the narrow bunk, with his head in his hands. The police had interrogated him for three hours.

They had been very thorough; their questions had ranged from his private life, to his previous history and service record, his amnesia—how they had hammered at that!—to his work at the university, the duplication process, temporal energy, everything. They had even suggested the fantastic idea that he might have alibied himself in both killings by traveling in time.