Part 2

The counter girl was at the far end scrubbing the counter. The baldish cashier was on the other side of the store behind a counter, waiting on a man and a woman. I took Golfin's billfold and quickly thumbed through it.

There were several of the three dollar bills. There were two ones. And there were five twenty dollar bills. I shoved all the money into my pocket except one of the three dollar bills.

I made sure no one was looking my way, and dropped Golfin's billfold on the floor, kicking it under the counter behind me in the center aisle where it wouldn't be found unless the janitor swept under there. I decided to do the same with Wile's. After all, if Sam Golfin were right, and there was a murder, I didn't want a couple of strange wallets on me. Nor those coated needles.

I looked at the three dollar bill in my hand. It was like that other one. Picture of Truman on it, atomic mushroom on the other side, with the atom superimposed. I squinted at the fine print. _Series of 1958._

That made me frown. Why would someone bother to change the date on phony money? And it was too nice a job of engraving for such a thing too.

I thought of one of the tests for good money. I rubbed the three dollar bill against the margin of the newspaper. Some of the ink came off.

The wild theory Golfin had fed me was tame compared to what I was beginning to suspect. I took out the rest of his money and picked out a twenty dollar bill. Putting the rest back in my pocket, I studied the twenty. I rubbed it against the margin of the newspaper. Ink came off. It was genuine money.

Taking a deep breath, I squinted at the fine print. _Series of 1964._

I looked at the rest of the money I had taken from Golfin. The two ones were okay. All the rest had dates in the future. I knew money. I could spot a phony bill a block away. It was real money.

Either a master counterfeiter had--Another thought struck me. I compared the serial numbers of the bills. All different. That clinched it. They weren't phony.

That meant that Golfin was _actually from the future himself_. Then why had he given me and Sarah Fish that story about prophetic dreams and amnesia? I thought about that a bit and nodded to myself. He wanted to give us something we could believe. We wouldn't have believed a raw statement that he was from the future. Those three dollar bills....

* * * * *

The more I thought about them the less they seemed like a gag. I tried to recall every detail of Golfin's passing it when he bought his cigarettes. He hadn't done it like he was pulling a gag. He had taken his change and walked out. He didn't know he had done anything wrong. He had assumed a three dollar bill was used here--or now, rather.

My coffee was cold. The girl was looking at me as if she wanted to close up. I smiled at her and tossed a quarter on the counter and went out on the sidewalk.

I debated what to do. Should I forget the whole thing? Or should I take a walk back to Sarah Fish's house and see what was going on? I decided on the latter.

Her house was dark. No police cars were there. That was not what I had expected. With a murder, there should be police cars, and the place should be lit up. Or maybe not. It had been an hour since I left the place.

I went back to the drugstore and caught the bus down to the Davis Street El station. Riding on the elevated it occurred to me that maybe I'd better not go to my apartment. If the police had gotten my wallet from George Wile they might be waiting for me.

I decided to rent a room for the night and wait until morning. Then I changed my mind. If I went back to my room I could claim Wile had picked _my_ pocket. If the police were looking for me they would eventually get me anyway, since I already had a record of three arrests for this and that.

I sighed and relaxed, and after a while the train dipped down into the subway, and I got off and had a late snack at the corner cafeteria.

It was almost midnight when I climbed the stairs to my apartment. When I opened the door the phone was ringing. I turned on the light and closed the door, and answered it.

"Ben Smith?" a strange voice said. "This is George Wile."

"Oh," I said. I did some quick thinking. "Oh!" I said in a different tone. "I remember you. How'd you know my number. Did you find my wallet? That must be it. I lost it. Thanks a lot for calling me about it. I'll meet you tomorrow and get it back."

"It was in my pocket," he said coldly. "And my own was missing. I want it back."

"Yours was missing?" I said. "Hey, wait a minute. If you think I got it you're crazy. Somebody played a trick on us. There must have been a pickpocket at Sarah Fish's tonight."

"There was," he said coldly. "You. I took the trouble of calling the police and found out. I want my wallet and I want it tonight."

"I don't have it. No kidding." I said worriedly. "I'm handing you the straight goods. By the way, what happened after I left? I heard the police sirens."

"Someone had called them and said there was a murder. They were pretty sore about it."

"And there wasn't? Ha Ha?" I said.

"Quit stalling, Smith," Wile said. "I want my wallet back. And everything in it."

"Haven't got it," I said.

A long sigh came over the phone.

"All right," Wile said. "I sort of expected this. I'll give you five hundred dollars for it."

I took the phone from my face and stared at it, thinking. Talking sounds came from the receiver. I put it back to my ear and said, "Come again? I didn't hear you."

"You heard me all right," Wile said. "Okay, I can get you two thousand dollars from the bank tomorrow. Meet me at eleven o'clock at State and Washington, northeast corner."

"Okay," I said. "Be sure and bring me _my_ wallet."

"I will," he said smoothly. His tone became worried. "Is my wallet in a _safe_ place?"

"Sure," I said, thinking of the spot under the counter where I had slid it with my foot. "You don't need to worry about it at all."

The line was dead. I realized suddenly that he had trapped me into an admission that I had his wallet.

* * * * *

This wasn't the same as a little light finger work on a crowded train, or getting a rubber check chased, or any of the many things I did when the opportunity arose, to pay my rent. Wile didn't just want these poison needles back. He was planning to kill me to keep me quiet. But he wanted the needles and his wallet back too. First.

I thought of Golfin and his reading in the papers that I had been murdered, and it wasn't funny. I locked the door and wedged a chair under the knob. Wile now knew for sure I was the one who had his wallet. He could be on his way down to kill me right now.

I started packing.

It wasn't until I was almost packed that I suddenly became aware of someone standing behind me. I jerked around in alarm. It was Sam Golfin.

"How'd you get in here?" I blurted out.

"I've been waiting here ever since tomorrow," he said. "I had to see you."

I grinned at him thinly. "I didn't get murdered at Sarah's after all," I remarked dryly.

"No, thank God," Golfin said. "It proves that the past _can_ be changed. I'd hoped it could." He frowned. "But unfortunately in preventing your murder at Sarah's a new future came into existence. I have to do it all over again."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Tomorrow when I came to see you, you were in here--dead. The door was unlocked. That's how I got in."

"Oh fine!" I snorted. "See what I'm doing? I'm packing. In another five minutes I'll be on my way to parts unknown."

"I only wish that were true," Golfin said sadly.

"Look," I said. "I wish you'd get out and leave me alone. You want to know why I almost got killed last night?"

"Yes, I do," Golfin said. "That's something the police couldn't find out--in that other future, I mean."

"I'll tell you," I said. "I didn't know anything about Sarah Fish's place. I probably would never have gone there except for you. You bought a pack of cigarettes in the drugstore. Remember?"

Golfin blinked his eyes, then nodded.

"You paid for them with a three dollar bill."

"What is wrong with that?" Golfin asked.

"Nothing," I said slowly, "except that there aren't any three dollar bills."

"Oh dear me," Golfin said. "Of course there aren't. It completely slipped my mind!"

"I wanted one of those three dollar bills," I said. "The druggist wouldn't let me have the one you left, so I went to Sarah Fish's place to find you and get one."

A knock sounded at the door.

"It's the man who's going to kill you," Sam said.

"And there isn't any other way out of here," I said. "How are you going to get me out of this one?"

"I don't know," he mused. He looked from me to the door, his eyes thoughtful. "I'm beginning to see something," he said. "It's very interesting. So you went to the Fish residence because of me. Hmmm. I wonder.... It doesn't seem possible, but...."

"What doesn't seem possible?" I asked.

He smiled apologetically. "There really isn't anything that can be done about that man in the hall." The knocking was repeated, more loudly. "And this future is quite hopeless for you...."

Whoever was in the hall was trying some kind of key in the lock.

"If I owned a gun it wouldn't be," I said, watching the door bend in under pressure from outside.

"If you only knew who it was!" Golfin groaned.

"But I do!" I said.

"You said at Sarah's that you didn't," Golfin snapped.

"I didn't, then," I said. Quickly I told him about George Wile and the package of poisoned needles. "He's obviously planning on murdering someone. Maybe at Sarah's last night," I concluded hastily, my eye on the door. "My switching wallets with him stopped that. Now he's got to kill me before he can go ahead with this other murder, or I could put the finger on him."

"Why--didn't--you--say--so--before?" Golfin said, glaring at me with annoyance.

The door splintered a little, the noise sounding like a shot. I took my eyes off Golfin to look, and when I looked back Golfin was darting at me, his hypodermic gadget in his hand and what looked like murder in his eye.

* * * * *

I tried to grab his wrist. This time he was too fast for me. He evaded my clutch and was behind me before I could turn. I felt a sharp pain stab at the base of my skull. I started to turn. The room blurred as a wave of dizziness swept over me....

"Here's your coffee, sir."

I looked at the girl behind the counter, then down at my newspaper. "Thanks," I said. My stomach felt funny. I felt just like a guy I knew once who had a premonition he was going to die. Heartburn, I decided hastily. But I felt nervous.

I took a sip of the hot coffee and tried to concentrate on the paper. Then I became aware of the little man. I felt instantly I had seen him someplace before, but I couldn't place him.

"A package of Camels," he said to the cashier.

"That will be twenty cents," the baldish cashier said.

The little man handed him a bill he had been holding in his hand. "By the way," he said smoothly as the cashier glanced at it, "could you tell me the way to Sarah Fish's residence?"

The little man glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to know me, but gave no sign of recognition. The cashier was giving him directions. I was listening, but I was trying to puzzle out the strange feeling that I had been through all this before. And it wasn't until the little man had left that it seeped into my consciousness that something was queer about that bill.

"Hey!" I said to the cashier. "What kind of bill did that little guy give you?"

"Why, a--a--Oh good Lord."

We examined it together. It was a three dollar bill. And instead of surprise, I felt the jaws of a trap closing in on me. I listened to the cashier babble about playing gags on his friends with it. A part of me wanted to turn my back on the whole thing and forget it.

But some force pulled me in the direction the little man had gone. As I walked I relaxed. I shrugged off the strange feeling I had. I told myself I didn't believe in premonitions.

A party of some sort was in full swing at the Sarah Fish place. I nodded to myself. I could go in and mix with the crowd. I could pick this little man's pocket. Maybe a few more. The worst that could happen would be that they wouldn't let me in.

Beside the huge door was a button. I pressed it and heard a series of chimes ring out. A few seconds later the door swung open and a middle aged man with a jovial expression said, "Come in, come in. I'm George Wile. Sarah's somewhere. What's your name? Sorry I can't keep track of all Sarah's friends."

"Ben Smith," I said, stepping inside.

"Sarah'll show up in a minute," George Wile said, and promptly forgot me. That was okay by me. I had taken an instant dislike to him.

I stood near the door looking around, trying to spot the little man. A gorgeous young thing held a tray in front of my face until I took a tall glass that contained, I discovered, an excellent Tom Collins.

Suddenly I saw the little man. He was at the edge of the group surrounding a distinguished appearing man who was talking. I edged over near the crowd and sized things up. It would be a cinch.

I crowded against the little man, then jerked as though someone had shoved me. At the same time my free hand snaked in and got his wallet.

"Sorry," I murmured. "Someone pushed me."

The little man looked up at me and smiled. And I had a strange feeling that he had been expecting it. I could have sworn he even knew I had his wallet, and was laughing at me.

There was one obvious answer. He was a cop and he knew me. He'd take his time and get me with the goods. He didn't look like a cop but--

I looked for him and he had disappeared.

I tried to locate him, meanwhile sipping my Collins as though I belonged here. Then I did something I always do unconsciously as a matter of habit. I felt in my hip pocket to make sure my own wallet hadn't been stolen by some other pickpocket. It was gone!

So that was it! The little man was a pickpocket. I thought I had seen him someplace before! I grinned suddenly, wondering if he had really missed his billfold yet.

* * * * *

I kept looking for him. Then things happened fast. I saw the little man sliding away from the man who had let me into the house. George Wile. I took a step after the little man. My eyes jerked back to George when he uttered a scream and clutched at his back. He fell forward, his arms and legs jerking.

I pulled my eyes away, searching for the little man. A crowd was rushing around George Wile. I heard someone--a woman--scream, "My God! He's dead!"

I saw the little man at the front door. He slipped out as I pushed through the crowd toward him. I went as fast as I dared. When I reached the sidewalk I saw him running toward the drugstore.

I ran after him, gaining rapidly. He looked over his shoulder and saw me. Then--

He just vanished. Right in front of my eyes. He couldn't have darted off the walk into the bushes.

I stopped, not believing my eyes, and started searching the lawns carefully. A couple of minutes later I heard sirens coming toward this part of town.

I hid between two houses and watched the police cars pull up in front of Sarah Fish's place. Then I went to the bus line.

A few hours later, after a lot of riding around town I climbed up to the sidewalk from the subway. A night extra was being shouted.

"Big murdah in Evanston!"

And I knew before I read the paper that it would give my name as the murdered man. Premonition. I was beginning to believe in it now.

I went to an all night cafe and ordered a hamburger plate and read the paper. They had identified the victim by the wallet they found on him. My wallet, of course. And that meant that the little man had planted it on him and then killed him. With a poisoned needle the papers said.

Why?

I gave up trying to figure it out after a while and went to my apartment. I had made up my mind to get out of town. They might find out the victim's real identity, and then they would come looking for me to find out why my wallet was on him.

I locked the door and began packing clothes into a suitcase. I became aware after a while of someone standing behind me. I jerked around in alarm. It was the little man.

"You!" I blurted. "How'd you get in here?" I doubled a fist and started toward him. He had killed a man and planted my wallet on the corpse.

Then, suddenly, a queer distortion blanketed my mind. I had a strange conviction that things were happening just the way they had happened before--many times before--only not at different times, but this very instant.

Abruptly, like a veil drawing away from a window, the distortion vanished. With preternatural clarity everything that had happened flooded into memory.

"Good!" Golfin said. "I see the time-lines have emerged as true memories. And this time I saved your life."

"You think so?" I snarled. "The police will be after me by morning. They'll pin the murder on me--the murder _you_ committed."

He was shaking his head. "I didn't kill George Wile. Let me explain what happened. But go on with your packing. I can talk while you work."

I nodded.

"In the first time-line," Golfin said, "the one I started out to investigate, you were actually killed. I know now how it happened. You see, Sarah Fish is a blackmailer. George Wile was one of her victims. To get out of her clutches he had planned on killing her. It was a perfect setup for him. Several of her blackmail victims were there. All he had to do was stick her with the poisoned needle and sit back. Nothing could be pinned on him. Motive? A dozen of those present had equal motives.

"But you were there. A pickpocket. You lifted his wallet. He wouldn't have felt your light touch ordinarily, but he was acutely conscious of those spare poisoned needles. He had one in his fingers. Within a few moments Sarah would have been killed. You changed things. He killed you instead, and in the excitement stole back his wallet. And of course he didn't go through with his original plan to kill Sarah Fish. And also of course, the police never solved your murder. That's why I chose it in my first attempt to change the past. It was an ideal mystery. I could solve it and at the same time save your life.

"I went into the past and watched your every move. But George Wile was too smart. Even watching I couldn't find out who had done it. So I went back into the past again and began my great experiment, _an attempt to alter what has already happened_.

"I succeeded--but not the way I had hoped. There is an inertia to events. That inertia in events made you steal his wallet the second time--and plant your own on him. You left before he discovered the switch. He came after you to kill you here. It was then you gave me the identity of your killer. After that I went back to my original point again. At the proper time I did what you had done. I picked George Wile's pocket. He felt me do it. Again--the inertia of events--he tried to stick me with the poisoned needle. But I was ready for him. I deflected his hand and shoved. He stuck himself."

* * * * *

Golfin grinned. "Sure I planted your wallet on him. But who can say whether it was my own free will or the inertia of events that made me do it? The morning papers will carry the story exactly the same as it was in the first time-line. A tremendous inertia of a single event."

"But what about me?" I said wildly. "The police will check. They'll know he isn't me."

Golfin shrugged. "I doubt it," he said. "My guess is that Sarah will identify him as you and keep quiet. To protect her racket, George will be buried as Ben Smith. George Wile's relatives will report him missing. He'll never be found. 'Your' murder will remain unsolved."

"I'm getting out anyway," I said. "I don't want to chance it."

"Then why not come with me?" Golfin said. "Now that I know I can change the past I'm going to start doing it in earnest."

"Go with you?" I said.

"You could work for me," Golfin said persuasively. "I would pay you far more than you average picking pockets, and it would be far more exciting work."

"Say...." I said thoughtfully. "That's not a bad idea. I guess I owe you something, too, for saving my life." I nodded. "Okay. But where do we go?"

"Not where," Sam Golfin said. "To when. We're going to my present--a future year not too far removed from 1954."

He took out his hypodermic gadget and came toward me. I retreated a step, then stood still, the palms of my hands suddenly wet with perspiration.

"Good boy," he said. "It won't hurt much."

* * * * *

I went into the drugstore and up to the cigar counter. "A pack of Camels," I said to the cashier. I took out a three dollar bill and handed it to him as he slid the pack toward me.

"Fifty cents out of three dollars," he said absently.

I nodded, thinking of the first time I had seen a three dollar bill.

That was a long time ago, as time goes. Back in fifty-four. I was a pickpocket then, in case you want to know. Now--I'm working for Sam Golfin.

Investigations. Any place, any Time.