“Go ahead,” said the other implacably. “I’m listening. It’s a nice story.”
Bob suddenly wondered if the other man could be himself. The stupid arrogant dogmatism of the man’s manner infuriated him. All right, all right! He’d show him. He strode suddenly over to the wardrobe, took out his hat and threw it through the Gate.
His opposite number watched the hat snuff out of existence with expressionless eyes, then stood up and went around in back of the Gate, walking with the careful steps of a man who is a little bit drunk, but determined not to show it. “A neat trick,” he applauded, after satisfying himself that the hat was gone, “now I’ll thank you to return to me my hat.”
Wilson shook his head. “You can get it for yourself when you pass through,” he answered absent mindedly. He was pondering the problem of how many hats there were on the other side of the Gate.
“Huh?”
“That’s right. Listen—” Wilson did his best to explain persuasively what it was he wanted his earlier persona to do. Or rather to cajole. Explanations were out of the question, in any honest sense of the word. He would have preferred attempting to explain tensor calculus to an
Australian aborigine, even though he did not understand that esoteric mathematics himself.
The other man was not helpful. He seemed more interested in nursing the gin than he did in following ‘Wilson’s implausible protestations.
“Why?” he interrupted pugnaciously.
“Dammit,” Wilson answered, “if you’d just step through once, explanations wouldn’t be necessary. However—” He continued with a synopsis of Diktor’s proposition. He realized with irritation that Diktor had been exceedingly sketchy with his explanations. He was forced to hit only the high spots in the logical parts of his argument, and bear down on the emotional appeal. He was on safe ground there—no one knew better than he did himself how fed up the earlier Bob Wilson had been with the petty drudgery and stuffy atmosphere of an academic career. “You don’t want to slave your life away teaching numskulls in some freshwater college,” he concluded. “This is your chance. Grab it!”
Wilson watched his companion narrowly and thought he detected a favorable response. He definitely seemed interested. But the other set his glass down carefully, stared at the gin bottle and at last replied:
“My dear fellow, I am not going to climb on your merry-go-round. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m drunk, that’s why. You’re not there at all. That ain’t there.” He gestured widely at the Gate, nearly fell and recovered himself with effort. “There ain’t anybody here but me, and I’m drunk. Been working too hard,” he mumbled, “‘m goin’ to bed.”
“You’re not drunk,” Wilson protested unhopefully. “Damnation,” he thought, “a man who can’t hold his liquor shouldn’t drink.”
“I am drunk. Peter Piper pepped a pick of pippered peckles.” He lumbered over toward the bed.
Wilson grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that.”
“Let him alone!”
Wilson swung around, saw a third man standing in front of the Gate
—recognized him with a sudden shock. His own recollection of the sequence of events was none too clear in his memory, since he had been somewhat intoxicated-_-damned near boiled, he admitted—the first time he had experienced this particular busy afternoon. He realized that he should have anticipated the arrival of a third party. But his memory had not prepared him for who the third party would turn out to be.
He recognized himself—another carbon copy.
He stood silent for a minute, trying to assimilate this new fact and force it into some reasonable integration. He closed his eyes helplessly. This was just a little too much. He felt that he wanted to have a few plain words with Diktor.
“Who the hell are you?” He opened his eyes to find that his other self, the drunk one, was addressing the latest edition. The newcomer turned away from his interrogator and looked sharply at Wilson.
“He knows me.”
Wilson took his time about replying. This thing was getting out of hand. “Yes,” he admitted, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?”