Paradox Gained

  PARADOX Gained

  by Mack Reynolds

  Copyright © 1954 by Mack Reynolds

  This edition published in 2011 by eStar Books, LLC.

  www.estarbooks.com

  ISBN 9781612103396

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The publishers at eStar Books are proud to provide this quality title for your reading pleasure. At eStar Books, we specialize in the unique and unusual. To find more titles in the genres you love most, including sci-fi, fantasy and speculative fiction, visit us at www.estarbooks.com.

  DON'T TRY TO FIGURE A FINAL ANSWER TO THIS ONE. PHILOSOPHERS HAVE TRIED FOR AGES ... AND HAVE FAILED!

  PARADOX Gained

  by Mack Reynolds

  The closet in Benjamin Farlan's two-room bachelor apartment wasn't particularly large. In fact, it measured three feet wide by four feet deep. And by no stretch of the imagination could it have held three full-grown men. Not as full-grown as these were.

  Besides that, the closet was already chock full of clothes, half a dozen pair of shoes and two suitcases.

  It happened about seven-thirty. Ben Farlan had finished an unsatisfactory day at the laboratory, had his dinner at the automat, and picked up a fifth of brandy on the way home. Little Ben Farlan liked brandy. He liked to sit at night in his hundred-and-fifty-dollar chair and read something not too technical, but not too light, and have a snifter glass of brandy on the coffee table next to him.

  On nights when he had nothing on his mind he could sit for hours that way, get through a whole book and possibly a third of his bottle before it was time for bed.

  This wasn't one of the nights when he had nothing on his mind. Things were getting on the chaotic side at the lab. Already he had enough work on his shoulders for three men, and now the Army was taking young Robertson. Now it was Robertson! They let a man take eight long years of schooling, eight years of work to become a scientist, preparatory to assuming a useful place in society— and then what happens? They slap him into the Infantry for what would probably be an indefinite period, the world situation being what it was.

  Ben had gone through three ounces of brandy and was pouring himself another glass. That was when the closet door opened and a six-footer who must have weighed at least two hundred and twenty pounds stepped into the room. He was wearing a uniform that wouldn't have been out of place on a Guatemalan Rear Admiral and he didn't look particularly friendly.

  Not half an hour earlier, Ben Farlan had hung his coat in that closet, and since then he hadn't left the room. He blinked reproachfully through his thick lenses at his brandy glass.

  The newcomer took him in with one sweep of his eyes, then strode quickly to the bedroom, opened its door, and gave a quick look around inside.

  "Hey!" Ben protested.

  Another six-footer, cut in the same 'model as the first, stepped from the closet. This was really out of the question. You couldn't have got the two of them in there with a shoehorn. But that didn't prevent a third one from pressing after the second.

  While the third brute was giving the room the onceover, the second headed for the bathroom and gave it a quick glance. They evidently wanted to be sure Ben Farlan was alone. The first had meantime checked the tiny kitchenette.

  Ben Farlan let loose with another weak, "Hey!"

  They were almost identical duplicates of each other except for the burdens they bore. Number One came in hands free, but the others were carrying various equipment either in their hands or suspended from their belts. Some of the gadgets looked uncomfortably like weapons.

  Ben Farlan came shakily to his feet. This was all too much at once. However, it wasn't in his nature or training as a laboratory scientist to be belligerent. Besides, he recognized this phenomenon as a symptom of complete mental collapse. He therefore decided he might as well let happen what might.

  Before he could say, "Hey," again the first of the three confronted him. "What is your name?" he snapped. He had an accent you could hang your hat on, but Ben Farlan couldn't quite place it.

  "My name's Farlan, Benjamin Farlan," Ben said. He mustered what courage he could. "And this is my apartment and I'd like to know what the blazes you—?"

  "Quiet!" Number Two roared at him. "Answer when you're spoken to!"

  Since he had one of the devices in his hand and was pointing at his host. Ben Farlan shut his mouth and blinked. He was not of the mold from which heroes are cast, and had never claimed to be. Besides, there was the net bulk of them. Nearly half a ton to his one hundred and thirty-five pounds.

  "What year is this?" Number One said.

  Ben Farlan refused to let himself consider some of the ramifications of that one. "It's 1955. It's December 6, 1955."

  Number Three said, "We missed, but not far enough to make the expedition a failure." His accent was as bad as those of Numbers One and Two.

  "Look here," Ben flustered, "just what do you gentlemen think you—?"

  "Quiet!" Number Two roared.

  Number Three was twisting dials on a small box-like affair he held in his hands. "Let him talk," he said, "while I check on phonemics and morphology."

  "Talk," Number One said to Ben.

  Ben blinked. "What should I say?" he said. Then, "Look .here, have you gentlemen got a search warrant? Who the devil do you think you are? What's the idea of breaking into my home and tramping around like a bunch of secret police or something? You can't do that. I'll call the—"

  "That's enough," Number Three said. He turned to Number One, still twisting dials. "We're off, but not badly."

  "All right," Number One said. He had been standing at the window looking out at the street below. He turned now. "Fantastic," he grunted. He strode over to Number Three and grasped a handle-like projection on the box. Number Three threw a switch.

  "How is it now?" Number One said. The accent was gone.

  Number Three looked down at a dial. "Within half a mil."

  "Good enough," Number One said.

  The others, in turn, each grasped the handle for half a minute. Apparently it was a way they had of losing their accents. Ben could only goggle at them.

  Number One turned back to Ben Farlan. "Are you clothed for the street?"

  "Huh?" Ben said, then looked down at himself. He was in shirtsleeves. "I don't have a tie or jacket on," he said. "No overcoat, either."

  "Put them on," Number One commanded.

  Ben went to the closet, not knowing what to expect. Nothing seemed changed, however. In the narrow confines his clothes were tightly packed. He got his coat from a hanger, a tie from the rack.

  They watched him in silence as he tied the cravat about his neck, donned the jacket, and then got an overcoat.

  "Now you are dressed for the streets?"

  He was wearing bedroom slippers on his feet, but somewhere the worm had to turn. "Yes," he said.

  Number Three had substituted a box-camera-like affair for his previous gadget. He focused it on Ben Farlan for a moment, then said, "All fight, boys, line up there."

  The other two stood before him.

  Number Three pointed the camera at them. Their clothes hazed, fogged, and then slowly became distinct again. They were both clothed exactly as was Ben Farlan, down to the last polka dot in the tie.

  "I'll be damned," Ben Farlan said.

  Number Two took the box camera from Number Three and trained it on his colleague. In seconds, Number Three was clothed in the same way as his companions.

  "Anything else?" Number One said, looking from one to the other of them.

  "The means of exchange," Number Three said. "Our destination should not be far, but we might need some means of exchange. They had evolved slightly beyond the barter stage. They used metals. We should acquire a supply."

  Number One turned to Ben FarIan. "We require a supply of your medium of exchange."

  "So do I," Ben grumbled. "Otherwise I'd have ditched that slave-driving job of mine at the lab so quick you could—"

  Number Two's weapon came up. "A supply of the medium of exchange!" he barked.

  Ben Farlan winced. "All right," he said. "All right, if you want to add armed robbery to housebreaking." He reached into his pocket for his change. There were five or six pennies, four dimes, and two nickels. He tossed them to the coffee table and held his breath, waiting for them to ask for his folding money.

  Number One and Number Three bent over the coins.

  "What do you think?" Number One said.

  Number Three said, "Do you suppose he is jesting?"

  Number One looked up at Ben Farlan.

  Ben held his hands out, palms upward. "That's our medium of exchange," he said.

  Number One said, "He wouldn't dare lie to us." He picked up one of the nickels. "Try this one, it's the biggest."

  Number Three brought out another box, only slightly resembling the last. It was approximately the size of a cigar box but made of some darkish metal. He took up the nickel, lifted a lid, and slipped the coin inside.

  "I'll need some basic material to make it of," he said.

  Number One knocked his knuckles against the wrought iron base of Ben Farlan's floor lamp. "How about this?"

  Number Three scowled at it. "Might work," he said. "This coin is an alloy. I doubt if I could duplicate it exactly without a search for materials."

  "Use this then," Number One commande
d. "It should be near enough."

  A tiny beam of light lanced out from Number Three's box, and he trained it over the lamp from base to top. For a moment, nothing happened, then the lampstand slowly disintegrated and collapsed to the floor into a pile of shiny coins.

  "I'll be damned," Ben Farlan said.

  "Divide them," Number One commanded.

  The newcomers all stooped and picked up handfuls of the nickels and transferred them to their pockets.

  "Anything else?" Number One said.

  Number Three thought a moment. "That should be all," he said.

  "Except for this one," Number Two said ominously, motioning with his head to Ben Farlan.

  Number One looked at him.

  "We can't afford to leave him behind, here at the entrance," Number Two said. "Not without leaving a guard. And all of us might be needed to complete the mission."

  "Eliminate him and let's get going," Number One said over his shoulder as he headed for the front door.

  "Hey, wait a minute, fellows," Ben Farlan began desperately. He didn't get any further. Number Two tightened his lips and an eerie, purplish glow seethed out from his weapon.

  Ben Farlan felt his brain crumble in upon itself.

  "Benjamin! Benjamin Farlan!" The voice came from a great distance. "Wake up! Wake up, you drunk, or you're fired!"

  Fired?

  Ben Farlan opened one eye, groaned, and closed it again.

  "You heard me. Wake up!"

  He felt a stinging slap across his face.

  "Hey," Ben protested. "Cut that out." He opened both eyes, took in the rounded, scowling face above him and blinked.

  "Hello, boss," Ben said. "What happened?" He attempted to sit up from where he had been sprawled flat on his back.

  Hugh H. Johnston glared down at his laboratory manager. "Stinking drunk not three hours after you leave work," he accused. "No wonder efficiency is falling off at the lab. No wonder it's all we can do to make a decent profit."

  Ben Farlan allowed himself just the proper amount of indignation in view of his accuser's august position as head of the Johnston Research Laboratories. "I'm not drunk, H.H.," he said with precisely that amount of indignation. "Where are they?"

  "Where are who? And what's wrong with you if you're not drunk? What're you doing there on the floor?"

  Ben Farlan got to his feet, staggered to the coffee table, and poured himself a quick one. He got it down without strain.

  "Those three bruisers. I— I think they meant to kill me."

  H.H. looked his disbelief. "You mean you've had a holdup?"

  Ben Farlan sank into his chair. He looked around the room vaguely. He bent over and picked up a strange, blue-colored five-cent piece. "They were here, all right," he muttered. With a palsied hand he passed the coin to his employer. "Take a look at that, H.H."

  H.H. looked at it, first with quick irritation, then wide-eyed, then with slow care.

  He said, "It's plastic. You're not allowed to copy U. S. currency exactly, this way. Even if it is plastic, it's against the law. It's counterfeiting."

  "Blue plastic," Ben said. The brandy had proved an excellent antidote to whatever the strangers had done to him. He poured another one. "Blue plastic. It used to be my lampshade."

  H.H. sat down on the couch, took another quick look at the plastic coin, and pursed his plump lips. "Offhand I'd still say you were drunk, but this coin intrigues me. Let's start from the beginning. I came over here to talk about the labor shortage with you. The door was ajar, so I came in. You were flat on your back on the floor. Now, what happened?"

  Ben told him.

  His employer let him tell it. All of it. Then he heaved his bulk to his feet. "I should've known better than to give that job to a pipsqueak like you, no matter how hard it is to get men. You're fired!" He headed for the door.

  "Wait a minute, H.H.," Ben said frantically. "Just one thing before you go. Please."

  H.H. swung around on his heel, his triple chins quivering his indignation. "Well . .."

  "Would— would you mind looking in the closet? Kind of push my clothes to one side and see if there is anything there in the closet."

  His ex-boss puffed his cheeks out in indignation. But then he clicked his teeth and snapped, "Certainly, you confounded lush." He added ambiguously, "How can you expect to make a dollar . . .?"

  He flung open the door to the closet, stepped partially inside, and fumbled with the suits and coats there

  There was silence for a long moment, then Hugh H. Johnston backtracked, went to the sideboard, and found himself a glass. He made his way to the coffee table, picked up Ben's bottle, and poured himself a quick one. He got this down and made his way to the window. He opened the window and leaned far out and looked to his left. The window looked out on the wall which backed the closet.

  H.H. brought his head back in, carefully closed the window, and then returned to the coffee table and the brandy bottle. He poured himself a longer one this time and then returned to the couch.

  He said, "You're hired again. Benjamin, where do you think they came from, and who do you think they are, and what do you think they came here for?" He added, "And have you thought of any way we might make a buck or so out of them?"

  "That's the way I feel," Ben said, "except for the last. The last hadn't occurred to me."

  "There's a hallway leading from the other side of your closet," H.H. said.

  "There couldn't be."

  "I know it."

  Ben Farlan faltered. "They'd have to come from, well, another world or something."

  "Or something. What was it that one said when he was talking about out money? How we'd once used barter."

  Ben wrinkled up his forehead. "You mean when he said we had evolved beyond the barter stage?"

  "Is that what he said?" H.H. was pinching his lower lip. "We had evolved, eh?" He looked at Ben Farlan. "Something isn't right. I mean, not normal. Those characters were talking in the past tense. As though we were in the past, and they were in the present."

  "Well, they had an accent— at first. Maybe they don't know English—."

  H.H. waved that aside. "Obviously, they're not just foreigners. They actually felt that they were talking about something in the past. In other words, they regarded us as their past —which means they came from the future."

  Ben's mouth fell open. "The future? You mean they—?"

  "Traveled in time." H.H. nodded portentously. "Yes, that's it. Unbelievable though it may seem, they are time travelers, coming from the future."

  "Why, that's nonsense, H.H."

  "Take a look at that hallway behind your closet. So is that. This apartment is twelve stories high and that closet wall backs onto sheer space. It's the only possible answer. Those gadgets you describe—" His thoughts seemed to wander. "What were they here for, Benjamin?"