He walked over to the Gate as if to inspect it. Instead of stopping when he reached it, he stepped on through.
He was better prepared for what he found on the other side than he had been on the two earlier occasions of time translation—”earlier” in the sense of sequence in his memory track. Nevertheless it is never too easy on the nerves to catch up with one’s self.
For he had done it again. He was back in his own room, but there were two of himself there before him. They were very much preoccupied with each other; he had a few seconds in which to get them straightened out in his mind. One of them had a beautiful black eye and a badly battered mouth. Beside that he was very much in need of a shave. That tagged him. He had been through the Gate at least once. The other, though somewhat in need of shaving himself, showed no marks of a fist fight.
He had them sorted out now, and knew where and when he was. It was all still mostly damnably confusing, but after former—no, not former, he amended-other experiences with time translation he knew better what to expect. He was back at the beginning again; this time he would put a stop to the crazy nonsense once and for all.
The other two were arguing. One of them swayed drunkenly toward the bed. The other grabbed him by the arm. “You can’t do that,” he said.
“Let him alone!” snapped Wilson.
The other two swung around and looked him over. Wilson watched the more sober of the pair size him up, saw his expression of amazement change to startled recognition. The other, the earliest Wilson, seemed to
have trouble in focusing on him at all. “This going to be a job,” thought Wilson. “The man is positively stinking.” He wondered why anyone would be foolish enough to drink on an empty stomach. It was not only stupid, it was a waste of good liquor.
He wondered if they had left a drink for him.
“Who are you?” demanded his drunken double.
Wilson turned to “Joe.” “He knows me,” he said significantly.
“Joe,” studied him. “Yes,” he conceded, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?”
Wilson interrupted him. “No time for long-winded explanations, I know more about it than you do-you’ll concede that—and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn’t go through the Gate.”
“I don’t concede anything of the sort—”
The ringing of the telephone checked the argument. Wilson greeted the interruption with relief, for he realized that he had started out on the wrong tack. Was it possible that he was really as dense himself as this lug appeared to be? Did he look that way to other people? But the time was too short for self-doubts and soul-searching. “Answer it!” he commanded Bob (Boiled) Wilson.
The drunk looked belligerent, but acceded when he saw that Bob (Joe) Wilson was about to beathim 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.”