The Two Timers Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn't really

class that as honest-to-God time travel. That's probability travel."

"All right," Jack said placatingly. "How do you feel about probability

travel?"

"Are you telling me you're from another present? From another time-stream?"

"Yes, John."

"But, why? If it were true, what would bring you here?" John Breton

raised the glass to his lips, but did not drink. His eyes were thoughtful.

"Nine years, you said. Is it anything to do with . . . ?"

"I heard voices, John." Kate was standing in the doorway. "Who have you

got with you? Oh . . ."

Jack Breton stood up as she entered the room, and the sight of her

filled his eyes, just as it had on the last night he had seen her alive,

until her image swamped his awareness -- three-dftnensional, glowing,

perfect. Kate's gaze met his for an instant, then darted away again,

and a single star-shell of pleasure burst in his head.

He had reached her already. Without saying a word, he had reached her.

"John?" Her voice was tremulous, uncertain. "John?"

"You'd better sit down, Kate," John Breton said in a thin, cold monotone.

"I think our friend has a story to tell."

"Perhaps Kate should have a drink, too," Jack Breton suggested. "This

is likely to take some time." Kate was watching him with a wariness he

found delicious, and he had to work to keep his voice steady. She knows,

she knows. While his other self was pouring her a colorless measure,

he realized he could be in some danger of making an involuntary trip. He

examined his own field of vision and found it clear -- no teichopsia, no

black star slowly sinking, no fortification phenomena. It appeared safe.

Slowly, carefully, he began marshaling his facts, allowing the past nine

years to re-create themselves on the taut canvas of his mind.

III

Kate was walking away down the street, past blazing store windows.

With her silvered wrap drawn tight over the flimsy party dress, and long

legs slimmed even further by needle-heeled sandals, she looked like an

idealized screen version of a gangster's moll. The ambient brilliance from

the stores projected her solidly into his mind, jewel-sharp, and he saw

-- with the wonder of a brand-new discovery -- the tiny blue vein behind

each of her knees. Breton was overwhelmed by a pang of sheer affection.

You can't let Kate walk through the city at night looking like that,

a voice told him urgently, but the alternative was to crawl after her,

to knuckle under. He hesitated, then turned in the opposite direction,

numbed with self-disgust, swearing bitterly.

It was almost two hours later when the police cruiser pulled up outside

the house.

Breton, who had been standing at the window, ran heavy-footed to the door

and dragged it open. There were two detectives, with darkly speculative

eyes, and a backdrop of blue uniformed figures.

One of the detectives flashed a badge. "Mr. John Breton?"

Breton nodded, unable to speak. I'm sorry, Kate, he thought, so sorry --

come back and we'll go to the party.

"I'm Lieutenant Convery. Homicide. Do you mind if I come in?"

"No," Breton said dully. He led the way into the living room, and had

to make an effort to prevent himself straightening cushions like a

nervous housewife.

"I don't quite know how to break this to you, Mr. Breton," Convery said

slowly. He had a broad, sunburned face and a tiny nose which made scarcely

any division between widely spaced blue eyes.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"It's about your wife. It appears she was walking in the park tonight,

without company -- and she was attacked."

"Attacked?" Breton felt his knees begin to swim. "But where is she now?

Is she all right?"

Convery shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Breton. She's dead."

Breton sank down into a chair while the universe heaved and contracted

around him like the chambers of a vast heart suddenly exposed. I did

it, he thought, I killed my wife. He was dimly aware of the second

detective taking Convery to one side and whispering to him.