THE OTHER NOW
By MURRAY LEINSTER
Illustrated by PHIL BARD
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction March 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He knew his wife was dead, because he'd seen her buried.
But it was only one possibility out of infinitely many!
It was self-evident nonsense. If Jimmy Patterson had told anybodybut Haynes, calm men in white jackets would have taken him away forpsychiatric treatment which undoubtedly would have been effective. He'dhave been restored to sanity and common sense, and he'd probably havedied of it. So to anyone who liked Jimmy and Jane, it is good thatthings worked out as they did. The facts are patently impossible, butthey are satisfying.
Haynes, though, would like very much to know exactly why it happenedin the case of Jimmy and Jane and nobody else. There must have beensome specific reason, but there's absolutely no clue to it.
It began about three months after Jane was killed in that freakaccident. Jimmy had taken her death hard. This night seemed nodifferent from any other. He came home just as usual and his throattightened a little, just as usual, as he went up to the door. It wasstill intolerable to know that Jane wouldn't be waiting for him.
The hurt in his throat was a familiar sensation which he was doggedlyhoping would go away. But it was extra strong tonight and he wonderedrather desperately if he'd sleep, or, if he did, whether he woulddream. Sometimes he had dreams of Jane and was happy until he wokeup, and then he wanted to cut his throat. But he wasn't at that pointtonight. Not yet.
As he explained it to Haynes later, he simply put his key in the doorand opened it and started to walk in. But he kicked the door instead,so he absently put his key in the door and opened it and started towalk in—
Yes, that is what happened. He was half-way through before he realized.He stared blankly. The door looked perfectly normal. He closed itbehind him, feeling queer. He tried to reason out what had happened.
Then he felt a slight draught. The door wasn't shut. It was wide open.He had to close it again.
That was all that happened to mark this night off from any other, andthere is no explanation why it happened—began, rather—this nightinstead of another. Jimmy went to bed with a taut feeling. He'd had theconviction that he opened the door twice. The same door. Then he'd hadthe conviction that he had had to close it twice. He'd heard of thatfeeling. Queer, but no doubt commonplace.
He slept, blessedly without dreams. He woke next morning and found hismuscles tense. That was an acquired habit. Before he opened his eyes,every morning, he reminded himself that Jane wasn't beside him. It wasnecessary. If he forgot and turned contentedly—to emptiness—the acheof being alive, when Jane wasn't, was unbearable.
This morning he lay with his eyes closed to remind himself, and insteadfound himself thinking about that business of the door. He'd kickedthe door between the two openings, so it wasn't only an illusion ofrepetition. He was puzzling over that repetition after closing thedoor, when he found he had to close it again. That proved to him itwasn't a standard mental vagary. I