Tomorrow Lies in Ambush Page 8

  “Now, if you will excuse me.” Kincade moved his hand to a switch which grew out of the buckle of his gleaming belt, but he did not succeed in pressing it.

  Abe darted across the room and hit him on top of the skull with the only solid object available, which in this case happened to be the binoculars. Luckily—from Abe’s point of view—they were built to a robust naval specification and were able to put Kincade to sleep in a satisfactory manner. He trussed the unconscious man with cord, then removed the metal belt from around his waist. It was heavy, warm to the touch, and throbbed with a pseudo-life of its own.

  One hour later a small cigar store, half a block away from the bank, opened up for the day’s business. Abe, who was watching through the slats of his blind, saw morning sunlight flash on the store’s glass door, and he nodded contentedly.

  “See that cigar store over there?” he said. “It sells cigars, all right, but that ain’t all that goes on in there. The guy who owns it just happens to run the local book. Waddaya think of that?”

  Kincade, who was in the process of recovering consciousness, retched weakly.

  Abe accepted this as an adequate response to a rhetorical question. “Know what’s gonna happen next? About ten minutes from now the guard on that hick bank across the avenue is gonna drift along and lay a few bets the way he does every Friday morning. And that’s when I move in to collect. Waddaya think of that, professor?”

  Kincade’s lips moved this time, but no sound came out.

  “I got a good car outside,” Abe continued, ‘but now I got a better getaway—thanks to you. I hope your head don’t hurt too much, professor.”

  He clucked sympathetically at Kincade, and began putting on his working rig. This consisted of a hand-knitted blue sweater with a special roll neck which could be pulled right up over his face, and a shoulder holster containing a realistic toy Luger. He slipped a jacket on over it, put the metallic belt around his waist and picked up the canvas duffle bag he used for transporting large sums of money.

  “What … What are you going to do?” Kincade mumbled.

  “I’m gonna rob a bank.”

  ‘But my chronomotive device!”

  “You mean this belt? That’s my getaway, professor. You was enjoying yourself with all the doubletalk a while back. The only reason you gave me all that stuff was you thought I couldn’t understand it, but I’m not dumb, professor. All I got to do is lift the money, get out of the bank, then throw this switch and I disappear into another timestream where nobody robbed the bank—so I’m not wanted. I’ll have all that bread and nobody chasing me to get it back.”

  Kincade shook his head. “It may not work for you.”

  “Waddaya mean?” Abe scowled at him, took a deep breath and moved the switch on the belt. He felt a curious sensation, like a mild electric shock, and Kincade disappeared. For an instant Abe thought he had been outwitted by the little man, then he noticed the bedspread was a different colour. He was in the other timestream. A sound of movement came from the other room so, without wasting any time, Abe clicked the switch to its original position, felt the strange tingling sensation, and grinned as Kincade reappeared on the room’s only chair.

  “I knew it would work, professor.” He patted the belt with proprietory pride. “I’m gonna make a fortune with this gadget.”

  Kincade struggled ineffectually with his bonds. “That wasn’t what I meant. Your personal world-lines may not be sufficiently divergent to enable you to capitalise on …’

  “Give it up, professor—the big words don’t fool me.” Abe closed the door of his bedroom and went out into the corridor. He had spent longer than he had intended in the apartment and he would have to hurry to be ready for action as soon as the bank guard had left.

  The first thing he saw on emerging into the morning sunlight was the guard’s blue uniform disappearing into the cigar store, which meant he had already lost a couple of minutes. Abe danced an impatient jig on the avenue’s central island as the traffic flow prevented him from getting across, then came the realisation that there was really no need to hurry. After all, he had the bank-robber’s ideal companion—the instant getaway.

  He reached the sidewalk, strolled casually into the bank’s shady, old-fashioned porch and looked through the inner door. There were no customers in, and the four clerks behind the counter were all the sort he liked to deal with—not so young that they might be reckless, not so old that they might have crazy notions about loyalty. He pulled his collar up over his face, whipped out the toy Luger and shouldered his way through the door.

  “This is a hold-up,” he announced ritually. “Fill the bag up with used bills and nobody’s gonna get hurt.” He slung his duffle over the wrought iron grille, gestured threateningly with the plastic gun and noted with approval that the clerks were anxious to be helpful. All four began cramming the bag with money, and one even went as far as going into the strong room for extra supplies.

  Abe waited as long as he dared, but was prudent enough to realise that he had to get clear of the bank before jumping into the alternative timestream. Popping up in the same bank in alpha time with a sack full of loot and a gun in his hand could get him in big trouble. He might get shot before anybody noticed he had not committed a robbery.

  “That’s enough,” he snapped, as forcefully as was possible through the moist wool of his collar. He took back the now-bulging duffle, walked quickly to the door and slipped out into the porch. His car was waiting across the avenue and the traffic lanes were clear. Slinging the bag over his shoulder. Abe loped across the sidewalk—just as a blue uniform appeared on his right.

  “Hold it right there, fella,” the guard called in a startled voice, as he clawed for his revolver.

  Goodbye, Abe thought smugly. It was nice knowing you.

  He pressed the switch on the metal belt.

  Something hit Abe a solid blow on the ribs, knocking him off course, and he ran straight into a concrete lamp standard. As he fell to the ground, winded, Abe realised he had made the transfer to alpha time successfully but had collided with a man already there. Both men were lying in a helpless, gasping heap outside the bank.

  “You stupid …’ Abe’s voice faded away as he saw that the man he had bumped into was wearing a blue roll-neck sweater with the collar pulled up over his face, and was holding a plastic Luger in one hand and a duffle bag in the other. He had run into himself!

  “You stupid …’ The other Abe’s voice faded away, too, and his eyes widened as they peered over the rim of his woollen collar.

  “Hold it right there, you two,” the guard called in a startled voice from further along the avenue, as he clawed for his revolver.

  Abe reached for the switch on his buckle, but the belt had ceased vibrating and a wisp of acrid smoke was curling up from it. In any case, he remembered morosely, there was a guard with a drawn gun looking for him in the timestream he had just left.

  ‘But where did you come from?” the other Abe demanded angrily, through the bars of his adjoining cell. “Why did you have to show up and spoil things after I spent weeks casing that bank?”

  “That’s the trouble,” Abe told him. “The professor tried to warn me that my other self might be doing the same thing as I was. Our two world-lines weren’t sufficiently divergent for me to capitalise on the … whaddayacallit.” He returned his gaze to the newspaper which had been passed in to him by a friendly cop. The headlines read:

  BANK ROBBERY ATTEMPT BY IDENTICAL TWINS

  Recovered Money Twice As Much As Was Stolen,

  Says Baffled Bank Official

  “I still don’t get it,” the other Abe grumbled.

  “It’s all to do with the Doctrine of Infinite Redundancy,” Abe replied. “Too deep for a crumb like you.”

  He turned his face to the wall and tried to go to sleep.

  Communication

  There was one truly creative phase in the weekly routine of Hank Ripley’s job, and he liked to take care of it on Friday n
ights around nine o’clock.

  By then he had three or four drinks under his belt and could feel the weekend—two days’ therapeutic idleness—opening up for him; yet he was still sufficiently in touch with his work to recall the week in detail. His skill in selecting amount and type of detail to put into his weekly report was, in Ripley’s estimation, the principal reason he remained in salaried employment. For over two years the area office in Vancouver had received, and apparently was mollified by, accounts of computer sales he was about to make, was planning to negotiate, or had just lost because of some inherent incompatibility between the Logicon 20/30 series and the customer’s specification. The reports were not entirely fictional—he never mentioned a prospect’s name unless he had actually called him—but they were designed to disguise the fact that Hank Ripley’s aptitude for selling computers was virtually nonexistent.

  It was a few minutes before nine when he opened his portable typewriter and set it on the table, flanked by a pack of cigarettes and a glass of Four Roses. He was staring at the ceiling, awaiting inspiration, when the doorbell rang. No friends were expected to call, so he decided to ignore the bell—the report was too important to let slide. There were times when he felt guilty about having the worst record in the whole Canadian organisation, but consoled himself by reflecting on the amount of priceless ingenuity he put into his reports. Any bright boy in Vancouver who took the trouble to study Ripley’s file would find dozens of case histories, packed with verisimilitude, showing ways in which Logicon hardware or software could fail to meet a client’s requirements. The same bright boy might wonder why such a large number of quirkish businesses should flourish in one corner of Alberta, but the lesson was there to be learned just the same.

  Ripley’s mind was gathering varicoloured threads of imagination when the bell gave another, and more prolonged, peal. Hissing with annoyance, he opened the door and found himself facing a man of about fifty who was wearing a lustrous business suit and carrying a softly gleaming briefcase. The stranger had a swarthy complexion and brown eyes with grey rings of cholesterol around the pupils.

  “Mr. Ripley?” he said. “Pardon me for interrupting your evening.”

  “Insurance?” Ripley pushed the door hastily. “I’m covered, and I’m busy.”

  “No—I’m not an insurance salesman.”

  “Oh, well, I’m a firm believer in my own religion,” Ripley lied. “I can’t be converted, so there’s no point in prolonging …’

  “You don’t understand.” The stranger smiled easily. “I want to buy a computer.”

  “You want …’ Ripley opened the door like an automaton and ushered the man in. Suppressing a feeling of unreality, he examined the visitor from the rear and noted how his dark suit drooped expensively at the shoulders, and the way his black hair curled slightly over his collar. Ripley had a theory that all wealthy and powerful men had black curly hair on the backs of their necks. He began to feel lucky, which was an unusual sensation for him.

  “My name is Mervyn Parr,” The visitor dropped his case on to a chair and surveyed Ripley’s unimpressive apartment with a curious appearance of satisfaction.

  “It’s a pleasure to …’ Ripley floundered. “Have a seat. Have a drink.”

  “I never touch alcohol,” Parr said benignly, seating himself. ‘But please have one yourself.”

  “No thanks.” Ripley lifted his glass as he spoke, realised what he was doing, and set it down again. He took a cigarette and puffed it into anxious life …

  Parr viewed the performance indulgently. “I expect you’re wondering why I called with you like this?”

  “No! No! Well … yes. I would have been delighted to call at your office and make the Logicon presentation during business hours. Not that I’m objecting, mind …’

  “My office is in Red Deer.”

  “Oh.” Ripley felt his luck desert him. “That’s north of Calgary, isn’t it? You should be talking to our rep for central Alberta.”

  “I don’t want to talk to your rep for central Alberta, Mr. Ripley. I want to buy a computer from you.” Parr’s voice had a resonant quality which Ripley found vaguely reminiscent of something out of his childhood.

  “The company doesn’t work that way.”

  “The company won’t know anything about that side of things. I’m going to use a fictitious address right here in Lethbridge.”

  “I see,” Ripley said glumly.

  Parr laughed aloud, showing strong greyish teeth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ripley. I’ve been a little wicked—playing cat-and-mouse with you. The fact is that I’m on the staff of the New University of Western Canada. My department needs a computer for use in a new kind of sociological survey centred on Red Deer.”

  “I still don’t see why you’ve come to me.”

  “It’s quite simple. You run a one-man outfit here in the south. My survey has to be conducted in absolute secrecy otherwise the results would be invalidated—trying to observe particles, you know, uncertainty principle—and if I were to deal with a big live-wire office the word would be bound to get out sooner or later. Now do you see why I’ve … we’ve chosen to deal with you?”

  ‘But how about after-sales service?”

  “Well, Mr. Ripley, I presumed you would be willing to undertake that for me if it becomes necessary. I understand you’re a qualified maintenance man, and a private arrangement could be beneficial to both of us.” Parr glanced significantly at the shabby furniture.

  “There’s the question of payment. Our accounts people …’

  “Cash,” Parr said tersely.

  Ripley lifted his glass and took a long drink. “Well, I don’t know …’

  “Mr. Ripley!” Parr shook his head in amazement. “Do you know you must be the worst salesman in the world? If I’d approached any other Logicon representative with this proposition I’d be signing contracts by this time.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ripley gave himself a mental shake—there was such a thing as being too ethical, even when a deal looked as queer as a fifty-cent watch. “It was the mention of cash.” He laughed uncertainly. “Nobody has ever mentioned paying for a computer before. It’s going to cause a flutter at head office.”

  “That doesn’t matter—as long as you sit tight. Now may we discuss business?”

  “You bet, Mr. Parr.” Ripley pulled his chair closer to the other man’s knees, noticing as he did so that one of Parr’s fingers was banded with white skin which suggested he usually wore a ring. “Would you like to tell me something about the amount of data to be handled, the retrieval performance expected, and so on?”

  “Fine. The population of Red Deer has grown to close on 200,000, and we’ve selected it for our study because it’s a good example of what sociologists call a Second Magnitude Area in the Willis Classification System. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Never mind—it’s an abstruse technicality. The point is that the university is going to analyse social volition and interaction in the area more thoroughly than has ever been attempted anywhere else. To do this we are going to record data on every man, woman and child in the designated region.”

  “What kind of data?”

  “Straightforward. Age, place of birth, height, weight, colouring, profession …’

  “Height and weight?” Ripley was startled.

  “Important sociological and physiological criteria, my friend. Essential too for computer recognition of individuals whose pictures may not be stored, or whose appearance may have changed.” The resonance had crept back into Parr’s voice, stirring Ripley’s subconscious.

  “Just a minute,” he said. “How is this survey going to be carried out?”

  Parr examined him soberly. “If the information I’m about to give you goes any further, we have no deal. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “There will be a limited number of checkpoints—probably only one at first—with facilities for automatica
lly photographing, weighing and measuring people who pass through. The computer must recognise subjects, and on command print out all available data.”

  Ripley took another swallow of Four Roses. “That’s easy enough—the tricky part is getting your 200,000 photographs.”

  “We won’t have 200,000. There will be only a few thousand in the beginning. We’ll use every source to expand the store, but in the interim would it be possible—through cross-references, deduction, what-have-you—for the computer to identify people first time without a photograph?”

  “How do you mean?”