TIME, INC.
by John L. Chapman
(Author of "Lunar Gun," "Crystal World," etc.)
When the Time Agents set up in business, they didn't figure on there being more 
than one possible stream of time.



CASMIR OF THE HORDES set the huge box down and looked at the door before him. It 
was plainly marked: "Stanley, Holmes and Forthmiller--Time Agents. Entrance."
Casmir hesitated, adjusting his robe-like tunic, running his hands through his 
dark, unkempt hair. Then he entered, his sandaled feet crossing the floor 
noiselessly.
Forthmiller was tall, red-faced and curly-haired. Holmes was small and wiry. 
Stanley was dark, obviously the youngest of the three.
As one, they turned and stared at their visitor.
"Yes?" prompted Jack Stanley.
"You're the time agents, I take it? I'll introduce myself. I am Casmir, of the 
Hordes of 2012. I wish to be taken to that year as soon as possible."
"A gag!" said Holmes. "Throw him out!"
"Wait!" said Stanley. "2012, you say? You claim you're from that year?"
"Correct."
"But how did you get to 1948?"
"In my time-flyer. It was destroyed this morning--in a laboratory explosion. I 
have to get back some way, or my mission will be a failure--"
"Woodley's laboratory!" cried Forthmiller, jumping to his feet. "I remember--it 
was in the morning papers. Woodley was killed."
The future man looked at him curiously. "Yes. His name was Woodley at that."
He stepped back, amazed, as a barrage of questions flooded him.
"One at a time!" snapped Stanley. "Tell us--what were you doing with Woodley, 
and what caused the explosion?"
The other was momentarily perplexed. Then he said: "Why, Woodley had a new 
weapon, a highly destructive bomb controlled by radio. It employs a new 
explosive he calls deconite."
"Yeah, but where do you come in?"
"I repeat--I represent the Hordes of 2012. We are at war with the Dwellers. We 
and the enemy are both weaponless--to any important degree. The Hordes, however, 
have a time machine. This I used to travel back to the present--on a mission to 
procure a powerful weapon. You see, all weapons were demolished in the great war 
of 1994--the war that changed the world and started the Hordes and the 
Dwellers."
He paused, curious at the amazed expressions of the three time agents.
"Impossible!" scoffed Henry Holmes. "The man's crazy!"
"We'll hear him out," declared Stanley. "Go ahead, you--what about Dr. Woodley? 
Tell us what happened to him."
"Of course. It's obvious that the doctor had the weapon I was seeking. I landed 
my time-flyer in his laboratory, went to him and explained my purpose. He was 
astonished and didn't believe me, but I showed him the machine and thus provided 
proof of my identity. After some time I persuaded him to release a model of his 
weapon. I obtained it from him last night and took it with me to his home, where 
he insisted that I go. He remained at the laboratory, saying he would be along 
later, and that he would go over the apparatus with me in order to avoid 
mistakes. He never arrived, for he proceeded to experiment with a new deconite 
bomb, the bomb that wrecked the laboratory late last night. My time-flyer was 
destroyed as well. But I still have the weapon, and I must get it to the Hordes 
in 2012!"
"That," muttered Jack Stanley, "is where we leave off. Our machine doesn't go to 
the future. It goes only to the past."
I STILL maintain," argued Henry Holmes, "that a flight to the future is 
impossible. The future is not tangible, even in the time state."
Casmir of the Hordes looked at the scientist strangely. "Impossible? Not at 
all."
"Have you done it?" Holmes inquired, astonished.
"No. We of the Hordes have not travelled in time before. But our principle for 
future travel is quite simple. It is like the ancient sport called fishing. The 
fisherman casts his line, and when he makes a catch, he draws the line back to 
him."
Holmes scoffed. "Fishing and time-travelling--bah!"
Casmir resumed without comment. "In time travel the fisherman is the present. 
Its time state is stable, and can be used as a pivot to travel pastward or 
futureward."
"True," murmured Forthmiller. "Our own trips have used the present as a tow, so 
to speak."
"Of course," said Casmir. "Thus, in your return trips to the present, your 
flights were not in the exact sense futureward. Had you travelled in the 
opposite direction from your pivot, you would have gone forward--"
"Into nothing!" growled Henry Holmes. "The future is not there yet!"
Casmir ignored him. "The fisherman, in this case the present, casts the time 
machine in the opposite direction of the pivot. The return flight is similar to 
the rewinding of the reel."
"The pivot of your time flight," put in Stanley, "was 2012. Right?"
"Exactly. The destruction of my machine was like the fish breaking the line. I 
lost contact with my pivot. Now then, a minor change or two in your apparatus, 
and I will show you that future travel is by no means impossible. Are you 
willing?"
"No," snapped Holmes.
It's worth a try, Henry," said Stanley. "We'll give him a chance, anyway."
"That settles it," said Forthmiller. "Bring your radio bomb into the lab and 
we'll turn you loose on Bessie."
BESSIE was eight feet high and fifteen long, and wide enough for the four men to 
stand comfortably before the intricate control board. Casmir of the Hordes 
grimaced as he gazed at the array of meters and indicators.
"Strange," he murmured, "that you of the past should have the advanced 
mechanisms. Had I lacked interest for the ancient books, I'd never have 
understood your machine."
"It'll be a failure," muttered Holmes.
"We'll see," said Casmir. "Everything is ready. The exact stopping point is 
clocked. We can start."
Stanley gripped the starting lever, hesitated, and plunged it.
Through the lone circular port the outside world went hazy and vanished. The 
machine had dematerialized into the time state, which was dead, void and 
colorless.
A moment slipped by, then the port flourished and took color again. Swiftly, 
silently, the time machine had leaped the years, to .....
CASMIR HURRIED to the port. He looked once, and shouted: "We've made it! I know 
the hills and the plains. We've gone futureward--and to the very spot I 
designated!"
"Nonsense!" snorted Henry Holmes. "It could be any time, any place. How do we 
know it's 2012?"
"Take it easy," cautioned Forthmiller. "Everything can stand trial--once."
Casmir pulled the metal door aside, and with an exuberant shout, he fairly 
leaped outside.
"It's the city!" He was pointing. "The city of the Dwellers!"
The time agents followed his gaze. In the east, rising brilliantly in the 
morning sunlight, was a silver-sheened city of colossal height and beauty. 
Gracefully its shimmering towers reached skyward, woven through a narrow pattern 
of curving roads and archways. It was not a wide city, its base being less than 
a mile across. Its beauty was in its height.
"Magnificent!" gasped Holmes.
"You see," said Casmir. "This is 2012. I recognize the city--it's the home of 
the Dwellers. If we could destroy those towers, the war would end!"
Jack Stanley looked on in amazement. "You mean--the people of that city are 
weaponless?"
Casmir nodded. "When the city was built, there was no need for weapons. Nor has 
there been such a need prior to the Horde rebellion. With the coming of the war, 
both combatants found themselves defenseless, and unarmed. Of course, there are 
a few ancient guns in existence, but they are used only by the guards of the 
city. We have never been able to duplicate them successfully."
He hastened into the time machine again, returning with the large box. He took 
from it a smaller, black box, a cylindrical tube with several mounting 
accessories, and ten packages.
"A few deconite bombs," he remarked as he set to mounting the tube, "and the 
city will be demolished. Dr. Woodley's weapon is that powerful."
"Look," said Forthmiller, scratching his head, "you're going to bomb a city like 
that--without warning?"
Casmir didn't even look up. "This is war," he said bitterly, "and the supremacy 
of the Dwellers has existed too long."
He was interrupted by a distant murmuring that floated across the desolation 
behind them. Together the four men turned. Not far away, the ground dipped into 
a vast valley, and from it was advancing a strange, roughly shod group of 
warriors. First their heads appeared, then their tanned bodies. They carried no 
useful weapons to speak of, only rocks and crude spears.
They were marching toward the city.
"The Hordes?" asked Stanley, expectantly.
A slow frown crossed Casmir's face. "No," he whispered, "they're dressed as 
Hordes, but they're not Hordes. They're Dwellers."
"But you said--the Dwellers lived in the city!"
"I know." Casmir was perplexed. "But these are the Dwellers. I'd never mistake 
them. Besides, the leader you see is Mulr, their dreaded ruler. He governed from 
his palace in the city--before I went to the past!"
The marchers poured forth from the valley in a never ending stream. There must 
have been hundreds of them yet hidden from sight. The leader, upon seeing 
Casmir, held his hand high, and the procession slowed.
"I can't understand it," whispered Casmir. "It must be a trick of some sort. 
They're Dwellers all right--I'll turn the deconite on them--"
"No!" protested Stanley. "You'll have them charging us--"
But Casmir had swung the metal tube around so it pointed into the air above the 
valley. When the warriors saw this, Stanley's prediction became reality. At a 
shout from Mulr the Dwellers rushed forward with spears upraised.
Casmir uttered a shill cry of terror, dropped the weapon and ran for the city. 
When the spears and rocks began flying, the time agents took up quick pursuit.
"It's impossible!" wheezed Henry Holmes. "Everything is turned around!"
"Maybe this Mulr knows," panted Forthmiller, "what it's all about. But you ask 
him, not me."
"They've stopped coming," said Casmir, slowing. "They don't want to charge the 
city--yet."
"We're not heading back now," growled Forthmiller, wiping perspiration from his 
face. "The city looks much more inviting."
No one disagreed. At a slow trot, they proceeded into the metropolis.
A SECOND RACE occupied the streets of the city.
"Hordes," murmured Casmir as they walked along the crowded avenues. "The people 
are Hordes, but they're clothed as Dwellers."
The Hordes stared incredulously at Casmir and his three companions. Unlike the 
warriors outside the city, they were fabulously robed and immaculate in 
appearance. As yet, none of them recognized Casmir.
"Rhamnol," said the future-man, "was the leader of the old Horde race. 
Undoubtedly we'll find him in the city palace. He can explain."
Presently the palace, a lofty tower with a vast, arching entrance, came into 
view. Casmir led the group through the archway and into a private elevator that 
shot upward noiselessly.
"You're well acquainted with the city," remarked Henry Holmes.
"I was here once before," replied Casmir dryly, "at a time when hostilities 
didn't exist."
He took them along a curving corridor, past guards who nodded briefly at him, 
and into a small, luxurious room.
There sat Rhamnol, the leader of the Hordes, a bulky, short-legged personage 
with a plump face and tiny eyes.
He looked at Casmir queerly. His voice boomed. "Yes? What do you want?"
"You remember me, Rhamnol! Casmir! I've been to the past!"
The other frowned. "Eh? Casmir? Oh yes, I recall, faintly. Someone reported you 
missing. Where've you been?"
"To the past! I took our machine--went back before the war. And I found the 
weapon I was looking for--a great one!"
Rhamnol shifted uneasily, sliding his hands along the sleeves of his robe. 
"Weapon? Yes, we need weapons, but this machine you mention. Vaguely, I--"
"You've forgotten?" cried Casmir. "What has happened to you and the Hordes, 
Rhamnol? Did you take the city from the Dwellers?"
Rhamnol was bewildered. "You talk strangely. No, we didn't take the city from 
the Dwellers--we've always had the city. Don't you remember that? The Dwellers 
are outside, and they've been trying to overtake us for years--"
"But when I left," Casmir insisted, "it was just the opposite. The Hordes were 
outside--fighting for the city."
For a long moment Rhamnol sat in silent contemplation.
Henry Holmes mopped his brow, muttering: "It's crazy. It's not possible."
Casmir went on with his story, explaining to Rhamnol the flight to 1948, the 
destruction of the machine, and the return trip with the time agents. The Horde 
leader listened intently, and when Casmir had finished, he said:
"The first trip to the future, you say, and according to your friends, it was 
the first trip beyond the present, which is in this case 1948. That's strange. 
Could it be--"
"I'm beginning to understand," voiced Henry Holmes. "Why, it's just like I said. 
I was right! I told you-"
"Two futures!" exclaimed Stanley.
"Not two!" insisted Holmes. "Any number of futures--futures that haven't existed 
and are nothing but branches of your pivot point."
"Exactly," said Rhamnol. "Your time flight landed you in a different future--one 
that is patterned after Casmir's original future, save for the fact that the 
Hordes and Dwellers are turned around. A quirk in time did it--some 
insignificant event that gave the Hordes complete rule, and left the Dwellers on 
the plains outside."
"Then," gasped Jack Stanley, "a flight back to the pivot point might go astray 
too! We might land in the wrong 1948!"
"Possibly," murmured Rhamnol. "The machine would be moving through a 
non-existent future, in relation to the pivot. Anything could happen."
"That's great," opined Forthmiller. "From now on, we can't be sure of anything!"
AT NIGHT the torches of the Dwellers could be seen from the palace balcony, 
glowing dimly where the valley dipped and shaded the warriors from sight. 
Likewise, the balcony presented a sweeping view of the magnificent Horde city. 
Below, the white-robed masses wandered the streets, their voices a hushed 
murmuring cast adrift among the soaring, windowless towers. The shining full 
moon climbed into the eastern sky.
"I expect an attack at dawn," were Rhamnol's soft tones. "It will be a 
weaponless battle."
"Unless," Jack Stanley added quickly, "the Dwellers discover the secret of the 
deconite gadget."
"They may try to operate the weapon," remarked Casmir. "Mulr is smart enough to 
comprehend."
"A strange race, these Dwellers," remarked Rhamnol casually. "We of the city 
have never quite understood them. Their army is frequented by deserters who seem 
fearful of the odds against them. Many individuals have left the ranks and run 
madly for the city. As we have no use for them here, and must take great 
precaution against spies, our only alternative is to shoot them down before they 
reach the gates."
"That sounds like a lot of fun," said Forthmiller. "Picking 'em off, I mean."
"Seems like the Hordes and Dwellers have been at war for a long time," said Jack 
Stanley. "They're well informed along those lines."
Rhamnol smiled broadly. "We consider that complimentary," he said. "however, we 
have been fighting for many decades. Most of us were born during the early 
stages of the conflict, so you see, we have learned to ignore such things as 
pity and--"
"Look!" yelled Holmes. "One of your deserters!"
They looked--and to the east they saw a tiny, disheveled figure, plainly visible 
in the moonlight, running madly toward the city. One hand was held high in the 
air, waving.
The Horde leader watched with an amused expression. "A deserter all right. The 
guards will get him."
"Not if I get him first," said Forthmiller as he drew a gleaming little pistol 
from an inner pocket. "I came prepared, and the pleasure's mine--"
"Wait!" protested Stanley. "You aren't going to shoot--"
Forthmiller pulled the trigger and the running form tripped and fell lifelessly 
into the dust.
"You crazy fool!" Stanley growled. "Now look what you've--"
Rhamnol interrupted him. "It's all right. He was merely shooting a deserter. 
That's common in the city."
"Sure," agreed Forthmiller, "and he was a Dweller besides."
"No use arguing," interposed Casmir. "The fellow is probably dead, and there's 
no reason for regretting that. I suggest we forget about it and get some 
rest--before dawn."
"One minute," put in Henry Holmes. "Do you want to sleep and wait to be blown 
apart in the morning? The Dwellers will turn this deconite thing on us."
"Now you're talking sense," said Stanley. "While we've got the chance, we ought 
to get the weapon on the Horde side. If we did that, we could take care of the 
Dwellers in no time."
"But how will we get it?" asked Casmir, shrugging. "No one wants to take the 
chance."
Forthmiller uttered a mirthless chuckle, and spun the gun on his finger. "No 
trouble at all," he grated. "Why didn't somebody think of this before?"
His lanky frame moved to the opposite side of the balcony, where he climbed over 
the railing and dropped to a nearby roof. The roof led to a point near the 
city's surrounding wall. Forthmiller leaped across the small space, and let 
himself down the outside of the wall, beyond which the Dwellers' torches still 
flamed.
"Better go along," said Stanley, starting after him.
Rhamnol gripped his shoulder. "No. One is enough, and at that they may sight 
him. If he can get the weapon alone, so much the better."
FORTHMILLER crawled along in the soft sand near the edge of the illuminated 
valley. He looked back for a brief while, glimpsing the little trail of 
footprints that led back to the hushed darkness of the city. The moon had merged 
with a cloud, and now the only light came from the torches of the Dwellers.
To the right, he could see part of the metallic walls of the time machine. He 
looked about anxiously for the deconite apparatus, and his hopes sank. The 
weapon was gone.
Inch by inch, Forthmiller crept to the valley's edge. Soon he could see the 
direct flame of the torches, and the heads of a swarm of Dwellers. He crawled 
another body length, raised his head a little, and saw an appalling scene before 
him.
Mulr, the leader, and several of his aids were grouped about the deconite bomb. 
The weapon's tube was pointed skyward--in the direction of the city. Mulr was 
crouching at the control box, studying its instrument panel anxiously.
The old warrior was smart enough to comprehend. Casmir had been right--the 
weapon that had been meant for the Hordes was going to be used by the Dwellers!
A moment passed and Mulr's bearded face beamed triumph. His thin hands played 
experimentally over the controls, while his aids moved back from the tripod 
fearfully.
Drawing his gun, Forthmiller got to his feet, let out a yell and ran forward 
into the valley. Mulr turned in surprise, forgetting the control box. He reached 
for a club.
Forthmiller jumped, skidding roughly to a stop beside the tripod. He levelled 
his gun, forgetting that the Dwellers didn't understand his weapon. Ignorantly, 
they came forward. He fired a shot, one fell, but they kept coming. Growling, he 
gathered the tube in his arms, mounting and all, started back up the hill.
Mulr's aids charged after him, overtaking him at the top of the valley. They 
bore him to the ground, tearing his clothes and snatching at the tube. He lifted 
his gun, and it was knocked viciously from his grasp. He fought back angrily, 
kicking two of them aside and rolling away. They pounced on him again, and 
managed to jerk the tube free. He got to his feet this time, and starting 
running. A couple of them clung to him, but he wrenched them off vigorously. He 
saw the time machine's blurred form before him, and made for it. Safe within its 
strong walls, he bolted the door and watched through a heavy glass window.
Part of Mulr's army poured forth from the valley and surrounded the machine, 
pounding their clubs violently against the metal walls. After some time they 
converged on the door and tried to smash it through, without success. 
Forthmiller grinned at them.
The pounding ceased in a short while, and the murmuring warriors trudged back to 
the valley. In the glimmering torch light, Forthmiller saw them resume work on 
the weapon. Apparently it was undamaged, for in a few moments the murmurings 
rose to shouts.
Forthmiller watched helplessly. At length he turned away in despair, his mind 
searching frantically for a means of regaining the weapon. He had to do that, or 
contact the city, or ....
He thought for a moment. His face brightened a little, and he muttered something 
about his stupidness. He snapped on a light above the control panel, and bent 
forward anxiously.
A dull, swooshing noise stopped him. He hurried to the window in time to glimpse 
the trail of sparks that were trickling back into the valley. He turned. In the 
east, an arching fireball reached its zenith and began a lazy drop toward the 
towers of the Horde City. The deconite bomb!
Forthmiller made a lunge for the controls. He had a time machine--a means of 
travelling through the years or minutes; a means of closing a gap in space, 
reaching a destination in an instant. There was a chance ....
Adjustments were rapid. A switch was flung, and things changed outside. The 
light of the torches had disappeared. There was moonlight, and a distant stretch 
of sand. When Forthmiller went to the window, he could see the Horde city--from 
a different angle entirely. A moment ago it had been to the east. It was now to 
the west.
Forthmiller withdrew the bolt on the door and dashed outside. He ran directly 
for the city.
It was a half hour ago. Forthmiller had moved the machine pastward thirty 
minutes, chancing that it might land in another time state and disrupt the whole 
situation. He was certain that a brief flight wouldn't have effect. If he was 
right, he could warn the Horde city of the fireball that was to come. He could 
tell them that Mulr was going to comprehend the purpose of the weapon and use it 
against the Horde race. He could save thousands of people, including Stanley and 
Holmes, his fellow time agents.
Forthmiller ran on, his head lowered, his heart beating fast. He looked up once 
and saw the city looming before him in the pale light. Exulting, he ran faster.
It began to grow on him. Vaguely he remembered another man running toward the 
city, running just as he was now . . . and the shot that he himself had fired at 
the deserter.
His jaw fell open. Things blurred before his eyes and he felt a rising panic 
within his body.
A shot rang out from the city. He saw a flash of flame, and no more.
Forthmiller lurched and went skidding along in the dirt.
I STILL THINK I should have gone with him," growled Jack Stanley. "He's been out 
there too long."
"He'll be back," asserted Henry Holmes. "This Mulr fellow will have to be plenty 
smart to understand that deconite thing."
"He is smart," Rhamnol answered him. "He is the only smart man among the 
Dwellers, and that's why he's their leader. I wouldn't doubt that he could--look 
below--the commotion on the streets. What does it mean?"
"Something's wrong," said Casmir. "We'd better go down."
The four descended in the palace elevator. Emerging on the streets under the 
arching entrance, they met a vast crowd of Hordes. Foremost were two guards, and 
between them lay a bloody, disheveled form.
"We discovered this outside the walls," one of them announced above the crowd's 
murmur. "Someone claims it to be one of our friends from the past."
"Forthmiller!" exclaimed Stanley, starring[sic] forward. "And he's shot--he was 
the deserter!"
"You're crazy!" snapped Holmes. "Forthy shot the deserter!"
Pale-faced, Jack Stanley pointed. "Look for yourself. This is Forthmiller, and 
he's dead."
Casmir took in the scene meditatively. "There's but one answer," he said 
suddenly. "The man encountered danger out there, and entered the time machine. 
He moved backward in time, taking the machine to the opposite side of the city. 
He was trying to save us from something--"
"Mulr!" cried Rhamnol. "He discovered how to use the weapon--"
"Then the city is going to be bombed," Casmir warned. "We've got to evacuate!"
Rhamnol needed no further urging. He gave orders for immediate mobilization. The 
city was to be emptied of people, and the army was to advance on the valley at 
all costs. The results were sudden, and amazing.
The Hordes, having prepared for such emergencies, left their city quietly and 
efficiently. The army, with Rhamnol himself at the head, marched westward out 
the gates.
Half-way to the valley, the procession stopped as a streak of light leaped 
skyward in front of them.
"Fireball!" shouted Casmir.
Horrified, they watched it cross the sky and dip toward the city. It struck a 
tower, exploded violently, and sent streams of shattered remnants through the 
air.
Rhamnol's face was white. "Charge them!" he yelled, "before they can send 
another!"
The words took swift effect. The Horde army moved en masse across the plains, 
swarming to the valley's edge and charging straight at the huddled thousands of 
Dwellers.
Jack Stanley felt a tugging at his sleeve. He stopped, hearing the whine of 
Henry Holmes' voice.
"--their battle!" Holmes made out. "--don't want--any part of it!"
"What about the weapon?" Jack yelled back. "We've got to get it out of here--"
But Holmes didn't hear him. The oncoming Hordes rammed him and knocked his frail 
body to the ground. Stanley dodged, pushed a couple warriors aside and bent 
swiftly. He lifted Holmes, kicked, shoved and fought his way clear of the moving 
army. In the valley below, he heard the clashing of the Hordes and Dwellers.
HENRY HOLMES wiped a smear of blood from his cheek and looked up anxiously at 
Jack Stanley. He stopped panting long enough to say: "We don't belong here let's 
get out!"
"But Woodley's gun--"
"Let them have the thing--we've got to get away from here--get back to '48. 
We've gained nothing, and lost Forthy--"
"Yeah, I know. Maybe you're right. Things are a little different now."
"And look--the Dwellers are deserting again. Running the other way. Rhamnol will 
get ahold of the gun, and that's all that seems necessary."
"Yeah--he's got them licked--"
Stanley helped Holmes to his feet and started him toward the city. "We're 
checking out. We've got something bigger than all this to worry about."
They hurried past the city and made their way eastward in the bright moonlight. 
Behind them, the distant shouts of the Hordes faded and were replaced by the 
steady humming of the city's machines. Ahead, the waiting time machine took 
shape.
Safe within its walls, Henry Holmes whined: "Now to find the right 1948!"
"That might not be so easy," reflected Stanley. "We're in a future that hasn't 
existed, and might never exist in relation to our own time. It's different from 
travelling in the past. This way--the return trip could land us anywhere."
"I still say it's impossible!" snorted Holmes. "Unexisting futures, time 
channels, pivots--it's all--"
Stanley cut him short with a quick throw of the starting lever. Holmes stood 
there, shaking a little, his mouth open. Outside, the time state enveloped them 
like a blanket.
The flight was swift, and the window began to color. Through the heavy glass, 
the laboratory of Stanley, Holmes and Forthmiller, Time Agents, took form.
"Success!" exulted Holmes, "if this is the right channel--"
They took hasty departure from the machine, bursting noisily into their office. 
They looked once, and saw that time had played another trick on them.
"HELLO," said Forthmiller cheerfully. "How was the future?" He brought his feet 
down from the desk top and stood up, yawning and stretching.
"You!" gasped Holmes. "You're dead! You shot yourself!"
Forthmiller glared at him. "Dead? Do I look dead? Snap out of it, Hank--"
"Wait," sighed Jack Stanley. "Let's get it straight. We took you to the future, 
Forthy. Don't you remember Casmir and Woodley's bomb? And--"
"Of course. I remember all that, but what gave you the notion I went along? I've 
been right here all the time. I didn't go. I told you I didn't want to go. And 
from the looks of things, I'm glad I didn't."
Stanley gaped. "You didn't go! Sure, that's it! We did land in another channel, 
Henry--but in this one Forthy stayed home. He didn't want to go!"
Holmes sank miserably into a chair. "I know--I see it all now. But what did we 
gain? We're the Time Agents--and our business is going to flop."
"Yeah," agreed Stanley. "The time-travelling idea is all shot. We can't play 
around with seven or eight futures and expect--"
"You two are talking nonsense," growled Forthmiller. "What do you mean, seven or 
eight futures, and what's this about my shooting myself? You're both crazy. 
What's more, our business is okay--it's all fixed. Fellow came in a half hour 
ago and offered to buy us out. Said we had a good racket, and the big guys 
behind him were interested. I told him no, but he said I'd better talk it over 
with you two first. He'll be back in a few minutes, with a couple grand as a 
starter. If you like, we can sell--but I don't see why. Everything's okay. I 
can't figure you guys out--"