August in Manhattan is brutal without air conditioning, which I couldn't afford. Clients obviously felt the same, because I hadn't seen one in weeks. I'd have gone fishing except I didn't have the money. Instead I sat and dripped.

 

Suddenly the door banged open. A girl rushed in. "Mr. Valentine! Come quick!" she said and left. I grabbed my hat and followed her.

 

It was Sheila, Professor Greene's secretary. We'd passed in the hall a couple of times; she'd smiled, but— It was August, and too hot. I figured I'd wait for a better time.

 

I ran down the hall to the professor's office and burst in on a scene of utter chaos. There wasn't one professor there but six! And I don't mean different guys; they were all Dr. Greene, all standing around a strange mechanism in the middle of the floor, fiddling with it and bickering. Even as I watched a seventh Greene flashed into view and then an eighth. I shouted for quiet but was wasting my breath.

 

Then from out of nowhere, a small weaselly man in a brown suit crashed through the knot of professors, caromed off me, and ran full tilt down the corridor. Finally, something I understood! I pursued, a crowd of Greenes following me. He slid into the elevator just before the doors closed; I angled for the stairs and pounded down six flights. I got to the lobby just as he raced out the front door, tripped, and fell under the wheels of an oncoming taxi.

 

* * *

 

It was lunchtime before I disentangled myself from the police, who were convinced I knew more than I did. I went straight back up to Professor Greene's office so I could find out.

 

"Where have you been?" demanded Sheila, but I didn't care to explain twice. There were two Greenes bickering over by the dingus; I whistled until I got their attention, then unloaded everything.

 

"...They finally told me the dead man's name was Jackman Spendt," I concluded. "But that tells me nothing, so I came here to ask."

 

The Greenes exchanged glances. "Spendt," they both began, then one said, "After you," stepped back politely, and vanished into thin air. The other went on as if nothing had happened.

 

"Spendt is our backer," Greene said. "He also provided the basic designs. I don't know much about him, but he certainly wasn't here when the machine went online this morning."

 

"He's a gambler," said Sheila. She flushed and continued. "I've seen him at the track. He wins — a lot."

 

I filed that away for future reference and turned back to the professor. "Okay, so what's with the dingus? Some sort of... I don't know, duplicating machine, or—"

 

"Oh, don't be absurd! It's a time machine, of course," snapped Greene.

 

Oh. Of course.

 

* * *

 

We all sipped iced tea under his office fan while he explained. It was the coolest I'd been all day.

 

"I didn't mean to turn it on," Greene was saying. "I dropped a screwdriver, and it seems to have crossed connections with the power cell. Now, every time I try to remove it, the machine sends me back in time to the moment it fell, and I can't reach it."

 

"Have you tried a loop on a piece of string, or—"

 

Greene waved that aside. "Yes, yes; all of that. Nothing works. I suppose I'll just have to wait until it runs out of power."

 

I've seen some strange things in my time, but this situation was the strangest. I was telling him that when I walked in and interrupted myself. "Watch it, clumsy!" I— no, he shouted.

 

"Hey! I'm just sitting here," I protested.

 

The new me looked bewildered. "But where's Spendt?"

 

"Dead."

 

"No, no: The other Spendt! He was just here!"

 

I got up and pushed past him— me— into the other room. It was empty, all but the machine. I spun back to ask myself what had happened when a man in a dark suit opened the front door. It was Spendt! He tossed a package at the mechanism; it lodged among the workings, and he turned away.

 

I reached out and grabbed the little guy. He squirmed, desperate to escape. The other me reached to help but bumped me, and all three of us fell into the machine. When I stood up I was alone, but there were voices in back. I stormed into the office to confront myself over my bad manners, and... then everything repeated itself, but from a different perspective. It was surreal.

 

Once the action was over, I levered myself off the floor. Sheila was standing by the doorway holding a newspaper, a look of horror on her face. I took it from her and read.

 

It was a slow news day, I guess; it's not often a guy gets hit by a cab and makes the front page of the evening papers, not even below the fold.

 

"He... he must have been trying to... to stop himself from dying," said Sheila, trying not to cry. "Oh! The poor man!"

 

Greene was over by the dingus. "This parcel — I think it's... ticking," he said.

 

We all exchanged glances. "A bomb!" we chorused, and ran for it.

 

The blast took out both rooms and the outer wall. Once again, the police were less than understanding. They held me overnight this time. Eventually I convinced them Spendt must have planted the device when he'd been there earlier.

 

Don't get me wrong: I never casually lie to the cops. But there's no way they would ever believe what had really happened, even if I understood it myself. Whatever Greene said, they must have chalked it up to the effects of concussion.

 

Anyway, the building manager sent a letter informing me my office will be inaccessible for three weeks, and my insurance already cut me a check as recompense for the lost time. If they only knew!

 

If you need me before September, I'll be in West Virginia — fishing.