Of Time and Third Avenue
Introduction
I DID a dumb thing, I started a piece of writing without knowing where I was going. Now this isn't damnfoolery for any author except me. We all have different work techniques and all are valid. Rex Stout said to me, "You know damn well how we write. You stick a piece of paper in the machine, type a word, then another, and finally you finish." I didn't believe him when he said he never outlined. I still don't because I must outline before I start writing. Only recently I learned that Stout outlined very carefully, but it was all in his head; he meant that he never wrote an outline. I have to write 'em.
Not that the story always follows the "game plan." Last year I was completing a novel and was so sure of my direction that I decided to get rid of the detailed notes I'd made before the writing began; they were cluttering up my workshop. I read through the final outline, the result of weeks of painful planning, and it had absolutely nothing to do with what I'd written. It was good; it was splendid; but the damned story had taken over and gone its own way.
Once the dean of us all, Robert Heinlein, and I were talking shop (writers are always talking shop, from work technique to favorite desk chairs) and Robert said, "I start out with some characters and get them into trouble, and when they get themselves out of trouble, the story's over. By the time I can hear their voices, they usually get themselves out of trouble." I was flabbergasted by this; I can't start a story until I can hear the characters talking, and by that time they've got will and ideas of their own and have gone into business for themselves.
But I blasted into what subsequently became "Of Time and Third Avenue" without an outline, mostly because I wanted to use a particular locale. The scene was P. J. Clarke's on Third Ave-

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nue, a low-down saloon where, for reasons I've never understood, we used to congregate after our repeat shows. In those old radio days you did a live show for the East and a live repeat, three hours later, for the West. The networks insisted on this; they claimed that listeners could tell the difference between a live show and a recording and resented the latter. Nonsense.
So after the repeat it was either Toots Shor's or P. J. Clarke's. We called it "Clarke's" or "Clarkie's" in those days; today, now a classy center for the young advertising and publishing crowd, it's called PJ.'s. Those initials have become a popular logo and are much imitated. You see like P. J. Horowitz's deli, P. J. Moto's sukiyaki, P. J. Chico's Montezuma's Revenge.
Here was this locale which I knew well. The characters were more or less cardboard—I hardly knew them at all—and this should have warned me, but I blithely began a play and wrote the first scene and then— What? I didn't know. I didn't have a story in mind, I had only a beginning. So I put the scene away and forgot it until I was irritated by another variation on the exhausted knowledge-of-the-future theme. You know the pattern: Guy gets hold of tomorrow's paper. Enabled to make a financial killing. Sees own death notice in back of paper. First time, great; subsequent variations, pfui!
I was annoyed into attempting what I imagined would be the definitive handling of the theme and reworked that original scene into the present "Of Time and Third Avenue." Footnote: Do you want to know the financial status of this author? I had to go to my bank to find out whose picture was on a hundred-dollar bill.
What Macy hated about the man was the fact that he squeaked. Macy didn't know if it was the shoes, but he suspected the clothes. In the back room of his tavern, under the poster that asked: WHO FEARS MENTION THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE? Macy inspected the stranger. He was tall, slender, and very dainty. Although he was young, he was almost bald. There was fuzz on top of his head and over his eyebrows. Then he reached into his jacket for a wallet, and Macy made up his mind. It was the clothes that squeaked.
"MQ, Mr. Macy," the stranger said in a staccato voice. "Very

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good. For rental of this back room including exclusive utility for one chronos—"
"One whatos?" Macy asked nervously.
"Chronos. The incorrect word? Oh yes. Excuse me. One hour."
"You're a foreigner," Macy said. "What's your name? I bet it's Russian."
"No. Not foreign," the stranger answered. His frightening eyes whipped around the back room. "Identify me as Boyne."
"Boyne!" Macy echoed incredulously.
"MQ. Boyne." Mr. Boyne opened a wallet shaped like an accordion, ran his fingers through various colored papers and coins, then withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. He jabbed it at Macy and said: "Rental fee for one hour. As agreed. One hundred dollars. Take it and go."
Impelled by the thrust of Boyne's eyes, Macy took the bill and staggered out to the bar. Over his shoulder he quavered: "What'll you drink?"
"Drink? Alcohol? Pfui!" Boyne answered.
He turned and darted to the telephone booth, reached under the pay phone and located the lead-in wire. From a side pocket he withdrew a small glittering box and clipped it to the wire. He tucked it out of sight, then lifted the receiver.
"Coordinates West 73-58-15," he said rapidly. "North 40-45-20. Disband sigma. You're ghosting . . .* After a pause, he continued: "Stet. Stet! Transmission clear. I want a fix on Knight. Oliver Wilson Knight. Probability to four significant figures. You have the coordinates. . . . 99.9807? MQ. Stand by. . . .-
Boyne poked his head out of the booth and peered toward the tavern door. He waited with steely concentration until a young man and a pretty girl entered. Then he ducked back to the phone. "Probability fulfilled. Oliver Wilson Knight in contact. MQ. Luck my Para." He hung up and was sitting under the poster as the couple wandered toward the back room.
The young man was about twenty-six, of medium height, and inclined to be stocky. His suit was rumpled, his seal-brown hair was rumpled, and his friendly face was crinkled by good-natured creases. The girl had black hair, soft blue eyes, and a small private smile. They walked arm in arm and liked to collide gently when they thought no one was looking. At this moment they collided with Mr. Macy.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Knight," Macy said. "You and the young lady

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can't sit back there this afternoon. The premises have been rented."
Their faces fell. Boyne called: "Quite all right, Mr. Macy. All correct. Happy to entertain Mr. Knight and friend as guests."
Knight and the girl turned to Boyne uncertainly. Boyne smiled and patted the chair alongside him. "Sit down," he said. "Charmed, I assure you."
The girl said: "We hate to intrude, but this is the only place in town where you can get genuine Stone gingerbeer."
"Already aware of the fact, Miss Clinton." To Macy he said: "Bring gingerbeer and go. No other guests. These are all I'm expecting."
Knight and the girl stared at Boyne in astonishment as they sat down slowly. Knight placed a wrapped parcel of books on the table. The girl took a breath and said, "You know me . . . Mr. . . ?"
"Boyne. As in Boyne, Battle of. Yes, of course. You are Miss Jane Clinton. This is Mr, Oliver Wilson Knight. I rented premises particularly to meet you this afternoon."
"This supposed to be a gag?" Knight asked, a dull flush appearing on his cheeks.
'^Gingerbeer," answered Boyne gallantly as Macy arrived, deposited the bottles and glasses, and departed in haste.
"You couldn't know we were coming here," Jane said. "We didn't know ourselves . . . until a few minutes ago."
"Sorry to contradict, Miss Clinton," Boyne smiled. "The probability of your arrival at Longitude 73-58-15 Latitude 40-45-20 was 99.9807 per cent. No one can escape four significant figures."
"Listen," Knight began angrily, "if this is your idea of—"
"Kindly drink gingerbeer and listen to my idea, Mr. Knight." Boyne leaned across the table with galvanic intensity. "This hour has been arranged with difficulty and much cost. To whom? No matter. You have placed us in an extremely dangerous position. I have been sent to find a solution."
"Solution for what?" Knight asked.
Jane tried to rise. "I ... I think we'd b-better be go—"
Boyne waved her back, and she sat down like a child. To Knight he said: "This noon you entered premises of J. D. Craig & Co., dealer in printed books. You purchased, through transfer of money, four books. Three do not matter, but the fourth . . ." He tapped the wrapped parcel emphatically. "That is the crux of this encounter."

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"What the hell are you talking about?" Knight exclaimed. "One bound volume consisting of collected facts and statistics." "The almanac?" "The almanac." "What about it?"
"You intended to purchase a 1950 almanac." "I bought the '50 almanac." "You did not!" Boyne blazed. "You bought the almanac for
1990-"
"What?"
"The World Almanac for 1990," Boyne said clearly, "is in this package. Do not ask how. There was a carelessness that has already been disciplined. Now the error must be adjusted. That is why I am here. It is why this meeting was arranged. You cognate?"
Knight burst into laughter and reached for the parcel. Boyne leaned across the table and grasped his wrist. "You must not open it, Mr. Knight."
"All right." Knight leaned back in his chair. He grinned at Jane and sipped gingerbeer. "What's the payoff on the gag?"
"I must have the book, Mr. Knight. I would like to walk out of this tavern with the almanac under my arm."
"You would, eh?"
"I would."
'The 1990 almanac?"
"Yes."
"If," said Knight, "there was such a thing as a 1990 almanac, and if it was in that package, wild horses couldn't get it away from me."
"Why, Mr. Knight?"
"Don't be an idiot. A look into the future? Stock market reports . . . Horse races . . . Politics. It'd be money from home. I'd be rich."
"Indeed yes." Boyne nodded sharply. "More than rich. Omnipotent. The small mind would use the almanac from the future for small things only. Wagers on the outcome of games and elections. And so on. But the intellect of dimensions . . . your intellect . . . would not stop there."
"You tell me," Knight grinned.
"Deduction. Induction. Inference." Boyne ticked the points off on his fingers. "Each fact would tell you an entire history. Real

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estate investment, for example. What lands to buy and sell. Population shifts and census reports would tell you. Transportation. Lists of marine disasters and railroad wrecks would tell you whether rocket travel has replaced the train and ship."
"Has it?" Knight chuckled.
"Flight records would tell you which company's stock should be bought. Lists of postal receipts would indicate the cities of the future. The Nobel Prize winners would tell you which scientists and what new inventions to watch. Armament budgets would tell you what factories and industries to control. Cost-of-living reports would tell you how best to protect your wealth against inflation or deflation. Foreign exchange rates, stock exchange reports, bank suspensions and life insurance indexes would provide the clues to protect you against any and all disasters."
"That's the idea," Knight said. "That's for me."
"You really think so?"
"I know so. Money in my pocket. The world in my pocket."
"Excuse me," Boyne said keenly, "but you are only repeating the dreams of childhood. You want wealth. Yes. But only won through endeavor . . . your own endeavor. There is no joy in success as an unearned gift. There is nothing but guilt and unhappiness. You are aware of this already."
"I disagree," Knight said.
"Do you? Then why do you work? Why not steal? Rob? Burgle? Cheat others of their money to fill your own pockets?"
"But I—" Knight began, and then stopped.
"The point is well taken, eh?" Boyne waved his hand impatiently. "No, Mr. Knight. Seek a mature argument. You are too ambitious and healthy to wish to steal success."
"Then I'd just want to know if I would be successful."
"Ah? Stet. You wish to thumb through the pages looking for your name. You want reassurance. Why? Have you no confidence in yourself? You are a promising young attorney. Yes, I know that. It is part of my data. Has not Miss Clinton confidence in you?"
"Yes," Jane said in a loud voice. "He doesn't need reassurance from a book."
"What else, Mr. Knight?"
Knight hesitated, sobering in the face of Boyne's overwhelming intensity. Then he said; "Security."

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"There is no such thing. Life is danger. You can only find security in death."
"You know what I mean," Knight muttered. "The knowledge that life is worth planning. There's the atom bomb."
Boyne nodded quickly. "True. It is a crisis. But then, I'm here. The world will continue. I am proof."
"If I believe you."
"And if you do not?" Boyne blazed. "You do not lack security. You lack courage." He nailed the couple with a contemptuous glare. "There is in this country a legend of pioneer forefathers from whom you are supposed to inherit courage in the face of odds. D. Boone, E. Allen, S. Houston, A. Lincoln, G. Washington and others. Fact?"
"I suppose so," Knight muttered. "That's what we keep telling ourselves."
"And where is the courage in you? Pfui! It is only talk. The unknown terrifies you. Danger does not inspire you to fight, as it did D. Crockett; it makes you whine and reach for the reassurance in this book. Fact?"
"But the atom bomb . . ."
"It is a danger. Yes. One of many. What of that? Do you cheat at solhand?"
"Solhandr
"Your pardon." Boyne reconsidered, impatiently snapping his fingers at the interruption to the white heat of his argument. 'It is a game played singly against chance relationships in an arrangement of cards. I forget your noun. . . ."
"OhI" Jane's face brightened. "Solitaire."
"Quite right. Solitaire. Thank you, Miss Clinton." Boyne turned his frightening eyes on Knight. "Do you cheat at solitaire?"
"Occasionally."
"Do you enjoy games won by cheating?"
"Not as a rule."
"They are thisney, yes? Boring. They are tiresome. Pointless. Null-coordinated. You wish you had won honestly."
"I suppose so."
"And you will suppose so after you have looked at this bound book. Through all your pointless life you will wish you had played honestly the game of life. You will verdash that look. You will regret. You will totally recall the pronouncement of our great poet-philosopher Trynbyll who summed it up in one light-

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ning, skazon line. 'The Future is Tekon' said Trynbyll. Mr. Knight, do not cheat. Let me implore you to give me the almanac."
"Why don't you take it away from me?"
"It must be a gift. We can rob you of nothing. We can give you nothing."
"That's a lie. You paid Macy to rent this back room."
"Macy was paid, but I gave him nothing. He will think he was cheated, but you will see to it that he is not. All will be adjusted without dislocation."
"Wait a minute. . . ."
"It has all been carefully planned. I have gambled on you, Mr. Knight. I am depending on your good sense. Let me have the almanac. I will disband . . . reorient . . . and you will never see me again. Vorloss verdashl It will be a bar adventure to narrate for friends. Give me the almanac!"
"Hold the phone," Knight said. "This is a gag. Remember? I-"
"Is it?" Boyne interrupted. "Is it? Look at me."
For almost a minute the young couple stared at the bleached white face with its deadly eyes. The half-smile left Knight's lips, and Jane shuddered involuntarily. There was chill and dismay in the back room.
"My Godl" Knight glanced helplessly at Jane. 'This can't be happening. He's got me believing. You?"
Jane nodded jerkily.
"What should we do? If everything he says is true we can refuse and live happily ever after."
"No," Jane said in a choked voice. "There may be money and success in that book, but there's divorce and death, too. Give him the almanac."
'Take it," Knight said faintly.
Boyne rose instantly. He picked up the package and went into the phone booth. When he came out he had three books in one hand and a smaller parcel made up of the original wrapping in the other. He placed the books on the table and stood for a moment, holding the parcel and smiling down.
"My gratitude," he said. 'You have eased a precarious situation. It is only fair you should receive something in return. We are forbidden to transfer anything that might divert existing phenomena streams, but at least I can give you one token of the future."
He backed away, bowed curiously, and said: "My service to

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you both." Then he turned and started out of the tavern.
"Hey!" Knight called. "The token?"
"Mr. Macy has it," Boyne answered and was gone.
The couple sat at the table for a few blank moments like sleepers slowly awakening. Then, as reality began to return, they stared at each other and burst into laughter.
"He really had me scared," Jane said.
"Talk about Third Avenue characters. What an act. What'd he get out of it?"
"Well ... he got your almanac."
"But it doesn't make sense." Knight began to laugh again. "AH that business about paying Macy but not giving him anything. And I'm supposed to see that he isn't cheated. And the mystery token of the future . . ."
The tavern door burst open and Macy shot through the saloon into the back room. "Where is he?" Macy shouted. "Where's the thief? Boyne, he calls himself. More likely his name is Dillinger."
"Why, Mr. Macy!" Jane exclaimed. "What's the matter?"
'Where is he?" Macy pounded on the door of the men's room. "Come out, ye blaggardl"
"He's gone," Knight said. "He left just before you got back."
"And you, Mr. Knight!" Macy pointed a trembling finger at the young lawyer. "You, to be party to thievery and racketeers. Shame on you!"
"What's wrong?" Knight asked.
"He paid me one hundred dollars to rent this back room," Macy cried in anguish. "One hundred dollars. I took the bill over to Bernie the pawnbroker, being cautious-like, and he found out it's a forgery. It's a counterfeit."
"Oh, no," Jane laughed. "That's too much. Counterfeit?"
"Look at this," Mr. Macy shouted, slamming the bill down on the table.
Knight inspected it closely. Suddenly he turned pale and the laughter drained out of his face. He reached into his inside pocket, withdrew a checkbook and began to write with trembling fingers.
"What on earth are you doing?" Jane asked.
"Making sure that Macy isn't cheated," Knight said. "You'll get your hundred dollars, Mr. Macy."
"Oliver! Are you insane? Throwing away a hundred dollars . . ."
"And I won't be losing anything, either," Knight answered.

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"All will be adjusted without dislocation! They're diabolical. Diabolical!" "I don't understand."
"Look at the bill," Knight said in a shaky voice. "Look closely." It was beautifully engraved and genuine in appearance. Benjamin Franklin's benign features gazed up at them mildly and authentically; but in the lower right-hand corner was printed: Series 1980 D. And underneath that was signed: Oliver Wilson Knight, Secretary of the Treasury.