The-Man-Who-Folded-Himself-David-Gerrold

waiting there for me when—no, that wasn’t right. I’d be going back in time tomorrow—that is, I’d be
coming back to today, where I’d put them on and take them forward with me. Right. They’d just be
skipping forward a few hours. And the sweater and the other pair of pants—the duplicated ones—
obviously, that’s what I’d be wearing tomorrow when I bounced back, leaving only one set in the
future. The condition of having two of them was only temporary, like the condition of having two of
me. It was just an illusion.
Or was it?
What would happen if I wore his sweater and slacks back through time? The sweater and slacks that he
brought from the future would then be the clothes that I would leave in the past so that I could put them
on when I went back to the past to leave them there for myself, ad infinitum . . . and meanwhile, my
sweater and slacks would be hanging untouched in the closet. Or would they?
What would happen tomorrow if I didn’t wear either sweater or pair of slacks? But something else
entirely? (But how could I? I’d already seen that I had worn them.) Would the pair that he brought
back cease to exist? Or would they remain—would I have somehow duplicated them?
There was only one way to find out . . .
I fell asleep thinking about it.
* * *
The morning was hot, with that crisp kind of unreality that characterizes the northern edge of the San
Fernando Valley. I woke up to the sound of the air conditioner already beginning its days work with an
insistent pressing hum.
For a while I just stared at the ceiling. I’d had the strangest dream—
• but it wasn’t a dream. I bounced out of bed in sudden fear. The timebelt glittered on the dresser
where I’d left it. I held it tightly as if it might abruptly fade away. All the excitement of yesterday
flooded back into me.
I remembered. The race track. The restaurant. Don. The check. It was sitting on the dresser too, right
next to the belt—$57,600!
I opened the belt and checked the time. It was almost eleven. I’d have to hurry. Don would be arriving
—no, I was Don now. Dan would be arriving in three hours.
I showered and shaved, pulled on a sport shirt and slacks and headed for the car. I wanted to go to the
bank and deposit the check and I had to pick up a newspaper—
Actually, I didn’t need the newspaper at all, I could remember which horses had won without it, but
there was a headline on the front page of the Herald Examiner:
FIVE-HORSE PARLAY WINS $57,600!
Huh—? I hadn’t seen that before. But then, Don hadn’t shown me the front page.
The story was a skimpy one and they’d misspelled my name; mostly it was about how much I had bet
on each horse and how it had snowballed. Then there were some quotes from various track officials
saying how pleased they were to have such a big winner (I’ll bet!), because it helped publicize the sport
(and probably attracted a lot of hopeful losers too.) Finally there was even a quote from me about what
I was planning to do with the money: “I don’t know yet, I’m still too excited. Probably I’ll take a
vacation. I’ve always wanted to see the world. I’d like to invest some of it too, but I have to wait and
see what’s left after taxes.” Faked, of course. I hadn’t spoken to any reporters at all; but apparently
some editor had felt the story wouldn’t be complete without a few words from the happy winner.