Short Fiction - Stanley G. Weinbaum (e book reader pdf .TXT) 📗

almost as sharp and detailed as reality itself; the illusion is sometimes as startling as that.

Van Manderpootz switched on the light, and the play of shadows began. “Now recall the circumstances of, say, a half-year after the market crash. Turn the knob until the picture clears, then stop. At that point I direct the light of the subjunctivisor upon the screen, and you have nothing to do but watch.”

I did as directed. Momentary pictures formed and vanished. The inchoate sounds of the device hummed like distant voices, but without the added suggestion of the picture, they meant nothing. My own face flashed and dissolved and then, finally, I had it. There was a picture of myself sitting in an ill-defined room; that was all. I released the knob and gestured.

A click followed. The light dimmed, then brightened. The picture cleared, and amazingly, another figure emerged, a woman. I recognized her; it was Whimsy White, erstwhile star of television and premiere of the “Vision Varieties of ’09.” She was changed on that picture, but I recognized her.

I’ll say I did! I’d been trailing her all through the boom years of ’07 to ’10, trying to marry her, while old N. J. raved and ranted and threatened to leave everything to the Society for Rehabilitation of the Gobi Desert. I think those threats were what kept her from accepting me, but after I took my own money and ran it up to a couple of million in that crazy market of ’08 and ’09, she softened.

Temporarily, that is. When the crash of the spring of ’10 came and bounced me back on my father and into the firm of N. J. Wells, her favor dropped a dozen points to the market’s one. In February we were engaged, in April we were hardly speaking. In May they sold me out. I’d been late again.

And now, there she was on the psychomat screen, obviously plumping out, and not nearly so pretty as memory had pictured her. She was staring at me with an expression of enmity, and I was glaring back. The buzzes became voices.

“You nitwit!” she snapped. “You can’t bury me out here. I want to go back to New York, where there’s a little life. I’m bored with you and your golf.”

“And I’m bored with you and your whole dizzy crowd.”

“At least they’re alive. You’re a walking corpse. Just because you were lucky enough to gamble yourself into the money, you think you’re a tin god.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re Cleopatra! Those friends of yours⁠—they trail after you because you give parties and spend money⁠—my money.”

“Better than spending it to knock a white walnut along a mountainside!”

“Indeed? You ought to try it, Marie.” (That was her real name.) “It might help your figure⁠—though I doubt if anything could!”

She glared in rage and⁠—well, that was a painful half hour. I won’t give all the details, but I was glad when the screen dissolved into meaningless colored clouds.

“Whew!” I said, staring at van Manderpootz, who had been reading.

“You liked it?”

“Liked it! Say, I guess I was lucky to be cleaned out. I won’t regret it from now on.”

“That,” said the professor grandly, “is van Manderpootz’s great contribution to human happiness. ‘Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might have been!’ True no longer, my friend Dick. Van Manderpootz has shown that the proper reading is, ‘It might have been⁠—worse!’ ”

It was very late when I returned home, and as a result, very late when I rose, and equally late when I got to the office. My father was unnecessarily worked up about it, but he exaggerated when he said I’d never been on time. He forgets the occasions when he’s awakened me and dragged me down with him. Nor was it necessary to refer so sarcastically to my missing the Baikal; I reminded him of the wrecking of the liner, and he responded very heartlessly that if I’d been aboard, the rocket would have been late, and so would have missed colliding with the British fruitship. It was likewise superfluous for him to mention that when he and I had tried to snatch a few weeks of golfing in the mountains, even the spring had been late. I had nothing to do with that.

“Dixon,” he concluded, “you have no conception whatever of time. None whatever.”

The conversation with van Manderpootz recurred to me. I was impelled to ask, “And have you, sir?”

“I have,” he said grimly. “I most assuredly have. Time,” he said oracularly, “is money.”

You can’t argue with a viewpoint like that.

But those aspersions of his rankled, especially that about the Baikal. Tardy I might be, but it was hardly conceivable that my presence aboard the rocket could have averted the catastrophe. It irritated me; in a way, it made me responsible for the deaths of those unrescued hundreds among the passengers and crew, and I didn’t like the thought.

Of course, if they’d waited an extra five minutes for me, or if I’d been on time and they’d left on schedule instead of five minutes late, or if⁠—if!

If! The word called up van Manderpootz and his subjunctivisor⁠—the worlds of “if,” the weird, unreal worlds that existed beside reality, neither past nor future, but contemporary, yet extemporal. Somewhere among their ghostly infinities existed one that represented the world that would have been had I made the liner. I had only to call up Haskel van Manderpootz, make an appointment, and then⁠—find out.

Yet it wasn’t an easy decision. Suppose⁠—just suppose that I found myself responsible⁠—not legally responsible, certainly; there’d be no question of criminal negligence, or anything of that sort⁠—not even morally responsible, because I couldn’t possibly have anticipated that my presence or absence could weigh so heavily in the scales of life and death, nor could I have known in which direction the scales would tip. Just⁠—responsible; that was all. Yet I hated to find out.

I hated equally not finding out. Uncertainty has its pangs too,