The drunk looked belligerent, but acceded when he saw that Bob (Joe) Wilson was about to beat him to it.
"Hello. Yes. Who is this?. Hello. Hello!"
"Who was that?" asked "Joe."
"Nothing. Some nut with a misplaced sense of humor." The telephone rang again. "There he is again." The drunk grabbed the phone before the others could reach it. "Listen, you butterfly-brained ape! I'm a busy man and this is not a public telephone. Huh? Oh, it's you, Genevieve―" Wilson paid little attention to the telephone conversation―he had heard it too many times before, and he had too much on his mind. His earliest persona was much too drunk to be reasonable, he realized; he must concentrate on some argument that would appeal to "Joe"―otherwise he was outnumbered. "―Huh? Oh, sure!" the call concluded. "Anyhow, I'll see you tonight. 'By."
Now was the time, thought Wilson, before this dumb yap can open his mouth. What would he say? What would sound convincing?
But the boiled edition spoke first. "Very well, Joe," he stated, "I'm ready to go if you are."
"Fine!" said "Joe." "Just step through. That's all there is to it."
This was getting out of hand, not the way he had planned it at all. "No, you don't!" he barked and jumped in front of the Gate. He would have to make them realize, and quickly.
But he got no chance to do so. The drunk cussed him out, then swung on him; his temper snapped. He knew with sudden fierce exultation that he had been wanting to take a punch at someone for some time. Who did they think they were to be taking chances with his future?
The drunk was clumsy; Wilson stepped under his guard and hit him hard in the face. It was a solid enough punch to have convinced a sober man, but his opponent shook his head and came back for more. "Joe" closed in. Wilson decided that he would have to put his original opponent away in a hurry, and give his attention to "Joe"―by far the more dangerous of the two.
A slight mix-up between the two allies gave him his chance. He stepped back, aimed carefully and landed a long jab with his left, one of the hardest blows he had ever struck in his life. It lifted his target right off his feet.
As the blow landed Wilson realized his orientation with respect to the Gate, knew with bitter certainty that he had again played through the scene to its inescapable climax.
He was alone with "Joe;" their companion had disappeared through the Gate.
His first impulse was the illogical but quite human and very common feeling of look- what-you-made-me-do. "Now you've done it!" he said angrily.
"Me?" "Joe" protested. "You knocked him through. I never laid a finger on him."
"Yes," Wilson was forced to admit. "But it's your fault," he added, "if you hadn't interfered, I wouldn't have had to do it."
'Me interfere? Why, you bald faced hypocrite, you butted in and tried to queer the pitch. Which reminds me―you owe me some explanations and I damn well mean to have them. What's the idea of―"
"Stow it," Wilson headed him off. He hated to be wrong and he hated still more to have to admit that he was wrong. It had been hopeless from the start, he now realized. He felt bowed down by the utter futility of it. "It's too late now. He's gone through."
"Too late for what?"
"Too late to put a stop to this chain of events." He was aware now that it always had been too late, regardless of what time it was, what year it was or how many times he came back and tried to stop it. He remembered having gone through the first time, he had seen himself asleep on the other side. Events would have to work out their weary way.
"Why should we?"
It was not worthwhile to explain, but he felt the need for self — justification. "Because," he said, "Diktor has played me―I mean has played you-us-for a dope, for a couple of dopes. Look, he told you that he was going to set you up as a big shot over there, didn't he?"
"Yes―"
"Well, that's a lot of malarkey. All he means to do is to get us so incredibly tangled up in this Gate thing that we'll never get straightened out again."
"Joe" looked at him sharply. "How do you know?"
Since it was largely hunch, he felt pressed for reasonable explanation. "Why go into it?" he evaded. "Why don't you just take my word for it?"
"Why should I?"
"Why should you? Why, you lunk, can't you see? I'm yourself, older and more experienced―you have to believe me." Aloud he answered, "If you can't take my word, whose word can you take?"
"Joe" grunted. "I'm from Missouri," he said. "I'll see for myself."
Wilson was suddenly aware that "Joe" was about to step through the Gate. "Where are you going?"
"Through! I'm going to look up Diktor and have it out with him."
"Don't!" Wilson pleaded. "Maybe we can break the chain even now." But the stubborn sulky look on the other's face made him realize how futile it was. He was still enmeshed in inevitability; it had to happen. "Go ahead," he shrugged. "It's your funeral. I wash my hands of you."
"Joe" paused at the Gate. "It is, eh? H-m-m-m―how can it be my funeral unless it's your funeral, too?"
Wilson stared speechlessly while "Joe" stepped through the Gate. Whose funeral? He had not thought of it in quite that way. He felt a sudden impulse to rush through the Gate, catch up with his alter ego and watch over him. The stupid fool might do anything. Suppose he got himself killed? Where would that leave Bob Wilson? Dead, of course.
Or would it? Could the death of a man thousands of years in the future kill him in the year 1952? He saw the absurdity of the situation suddenly, and felt very much relieved. "Joe's" actions could not endanger him; he remembered everything that "Joe" had done-was going to do. "Joe" would get into an argument with Diktor and, in due course of events, would come back through the Time Gate. No, had come back through the Time Gate. He was "Joe." It was hard to remember that.
Yes, he was "Joe." As well as the first guy. They would thread their courses, in and out and roundabout and end up here, with him. Had to.
Wait a minute―in that case the whole crazy business was straightened out. He had gotten away from Diktor, had all of his various personalities sorted out and was back where he started from, no worse for the wear except for a crop of whiskers and, possibly, a scar on his lip. Well, he knew when to let well enough alone. Shave, and get back to work, kid.
As he shaved he stared at his face and wondered why he had failed to recognize it the first time. He had to admit that he had never looked at it objectively before. He had always taken it for granted.
He acquired a crick in his neck from trying to look at his own profile through the corner of one eye.
On leaving the bathroom the Gate caught his eye forcibly. For some reason he had assumed that it would be gone. It was not. He inspected it, walked around it, carefully refrained from touching it. Wasn't the damned thing ever going to go away? It had served its purpose; why didn't Diktor shut it off?
He stood in front of it, felt a sudden surge of the compulsion that leads men to jump from high places. What would happen if he went through? What would he find? He thought of Arma. And the other one―what was her name? Perhaps Diktor had not told him. The other maidservant, anyhow, the second one.
But he restrained himself and forced himself to sit back down at the desk. If he was going to stay here―and of course he was, he was resolved on that point―he must finish the thesis. He had to eat; he needed the degree to get a decent job. Now where was he?
Twenty minutes later he had come to the conclusion that the thesis would have to be rewritten from one end to the other. His prime theme, the application of the empirical method to the problems of speculative metaphysics and its expression in rigorous formulae, was still valid, he decided, but he had acquired a mass of new and not yet digested data to incorporate in it. In rereading his manuscript he was amazed to find how dogmatic he had been. Time after time he had fallen into the Cartesian fallacy, mistaking clear reasoning for correct reasoning.