Bob Shaw - The Two Timers

Kate Breton kept her eyes closed until John had left the room; then, without getting up, she made walking movements with her legs until the sheets were a crumpled mound at the foot of the bed, and she was lying naked, paralleling the grayed white plane of the ceiling. She lay still for a moment, wondering if John was in the shower or if he had gone downstairs. He might come back into the room and see her lying in self-conscious nudity, but that would be a non-event. (“Anthropologically speaking, you’re not quite right,” he had said reflectively, only a month earlier. “The female is characterized by conical things — and yours are cylindrical.”)

Jack Breton would not have said anything like that, Kate thought, remembering the thin, shabby figure with the eyes of a latter day Swinburne. The man projected emotion with silent-screen intensity, but — although she had mentally disassociated herself — she had felt the responses begin within her, pervasive and unstoppable. Jack Breton was almost the archetype of the Romance hero, sacrificing his life to an unattainable vision. And behind that pain-shadowed face was something which had driven him to challenge and conquer Time itself, for the sake of her, Kate Breton. I have become unique, she thought gratefully.

The feeling of excitement centering around her like an emotional cyclone grew even stronger, triggering slow undulations in her torso: Kate got up and stared at herself with speculative eyes in the long mirror.

Jack Breton stood at the window of the guest bedroom, gazing out at a world dressed in its morning grays. The Time B world. It occurred to him that there must be visible differences in the two time-streams, apart from the vital one of Kate’s existence. In this world a psychopathic killer had died in strange circumstances, which would have altered some things — especially for the future victims he never got around to. There was also the fact that in the Time B world the Breton engineering consultancy had prospered in John Bretons hands, giving him the chance to influence events in possibly significant ways. Jack reminded himself to watch out for differences and get used to them quickly, so that he could step into John Breton’s shoes with as little fuss as possible.

He frowned at the dark, stolid beeches in the back garden as he considered the disposal of the body. Apart from the purely mechanical problem, there was the more delicate question of Kate’s reaction. If she ever suspected, for even an instant, that he had murdered John it would be the end. She would have to believe that John had agreed to vanish from her life, or — if that could not be arranged — that he had died in an accident.

Jack’s eyes suddenly focused on a small silvery dome which could be seen beyond the line of beech trees. So John had got around to building a proper observatory in the garden — that was a thing he had always wanted to do and had never managed to find the time. His other self had done it, though. His other self had gone on ahead with Kate and done lots of things.

Feeling cold and lonely, Jack Breton stood at the window a moment longer, then became aware of movement in other parts of the house. There was a faint smell of coffee and frying ham in the air. He went out of the bedroom, down the long stairs and into the kitchen. Although it was very early, Kate was fully dressed and groomed, wearing a brushed wool café-au-lait sweater and white skirt. She was laying plates on the kitchen table as Jack came through the door. The sight of her stilled his heart, then sent it into a series of great, lumping spasms.

“Good morning, Kate,” he said. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Oh… hello. No, thanks.” He saw tinges of pink appear over her cheekbones.

“But you shouldn’t have to spend your time on housework,” he said with mock gallantry.

“You can set your mind at ease on that score,” John Breton said from near the window, and Jack suddenly became aware of his dressing-gowned appearance. “We have a cook-housekeeper who acts as a bulwark between Kate and the necessities of domestic life. What time does Mrs. Fitz get here, anyway?”

“She won’t be coming,” Kate answered tartly. “I called and told her we wouldn’t need her for a few days.”

John appeared not to hear. He was leaning on the window ledge with his ear close to a radio, apparently waiting for something. Jack ignored him and turned back to Kate.

“There you are!” He smiled. “You wouldn’t have to do it if I wasn’t here. I’m entitled to help.”

“It’s all ready. Please sit down.”

Kate’s eyes met his briefly and he almost reached out to take what was his. Instead, he sat compliantly at the table while all his instincts protested their frustration. The exhaustion of the previous night had lifted, and once again his mind was filled with the wonder of Kate’s existence. She was alive, warm, real; in the aura of her emotional significance more miraculous than all the starry infinities of the Time B universe…

John Breton’s fingers suddenly spun the volume control on the radio and the voice of a newscaster washed through the kitchen, causing Kate to frown at him.

“Do we need that radio so loud?”

“Keep quiet a minute.”

“I don’t see why — “

“Just keep quiet!” John twisted the control to its limit and the announcer’s voice boomed out, rippled with electronic distortions.

“… now continuing in the eastern hemisphere. A spokesman for the Mount Palomar observatory said the meteor display was already the most brilliant in history, and was showing no signs of slackening off. Televised reports from Tokyo — where the meteor display is now at its height — will be available on major networks as soon as the malfunctioning of the communications satellites, which developed a few hours ago, has been corrected.

“Mr. C.J. Oxtoby, president of Ustel — the major satellite operating agency — has denied an early report that the Courier satellites were drifting out of the synchronous orbit. Another possible explanation for the communications failure of last night — which have already led to the filing of massive compensation claims by a number of civil users — is that the satellites have suffered meteor damage.

“And now, on the local scene, fierce objections to the one-way street system proposed…”

John Breton turned the radio off.

“The world still goes on,” he said with a hint of challenge in his voice, somehow excusing himself for not having had anything important to say on the subject of the John-Kate-Jack triangle. Jack briefly wondered to whom the apology was addressed.

“Of course it does. The world does still go on. Have some breakfast and don’t think about it too much.” Jack felt a macrocosmic amusement at his other self’s preoccupation with trivia.

“I don’t like those meteors,” John said as he sat down. “Yesterday was one hell of a day. A gravimetric survey goes haywire, the Palfreys arrive, I drink a ruinous quantity of Scotch I don’t even want, I take the longest trip for years, even the sky starts to play tricks, and then…”

“To cap it all, I show up,” Jack completed. “I know it’s tough on you, but don’t forget I have every right to be here. We settled all that last night.”

“ You settled it,” John muttered ungraciously. “I don’t see how I can even talk this thing over with Kate while you’re hanging around us.

“What is there to talk over?” Jack Breton ate steadily as he spoke, enjoying himself.

John’s fork clattered to his plate. He sat with hunched shoulders for a moment, looking down at it, then raised his eyes to Kate in a level stare of disgust.

“Well, how about it? Have you weighed up our various merits and demerits yet?”