Duel by Richard Matheson Page A

remain motionless, Professor Wade,” the voice said.
    Wade tried to speak but his vocal cords felt numb and heavy.
    â€œDon’t try to speak,” said the voice. “I’ll be in presently.”
    There was a click, then silence.
    Slowly Wade turned his head to the side and looked at the room.
    It was about twenty feet square with a fifteen-foot ceiling. The walls and ceiling were of a uniform dullish gray. The floor was black; some sort of tile. In the far wall was the almost invisible outline of a door.
    Beside the couch on which he lay was an irregularly shaped three-legged structure. Wade took it for a chair.
    There was nothing else. No other furniture, pictures, rugs, or even source of light. The ceiling seemed to be glowing. Yet, at every spot he concentrated his gaze, the glow faded into lusterless gray.
    He lay there trying to recall what had happened. All he could remember was the pain, the flooding tide of blackness.
    With considerable pain he rolled onto his right side and got a shaky hand into his rear trouser pocket.

    Someone had picked his wallet up from the chamber deck and put it back in his pocket. Stiff-fingered, he drew it out, opened it, and looked at Mary smiling at him from the porch of their home.
    The door opened with a gasp of compressed air and a robed man entered.
    His age was indeterminate. He was bald, and his wrinkleless features presented an unnatural smoothness like that of an immobile mask.
    â€œProfessor Wade,” he said.
    Wade’s tongue moved ineffectively. The man came over to the couch and drew a small plastic box from his robe pocket. Opening it, he took out a small hypodermic and drove it into Wade’s arm.
    Wade felt a soothing flow of warmth in his veins. It seemed to unknot ligaments and muscles, loosen his throat and activate his brain centers.
    â€œThat’s better,” he said. “Thank you.”
    â€œQuite all right,” said the man, sitting down on the three-legged structure and sliding the case into his pocket. “I imagine you’d like to know where you are.”
    â€œYes, I would.”
    â€œYou’ve reached your goal, Professor—2475—exactly.”
    â€œGood. Very good,” Wade said. He raised up on one elbow. The pain had disappeared. “My chamber,” he said, “is it all right?”
    â€œI dare say,” said the man. “It’s down in the machine laboratory.”
    Wade breathed easier. He slid the wallet into his pocket.
    â€œYour wife was a lovely woman,” said the man.
    â€œWas?” Wade asked in alarm.
    â€œYou didn’t think she was going to live five hundred years did you?” said the man.
    Wade looked dazed. Then an awkward smile raised his lips.
    â€œIt’s a little difficult to grasp,” he said. “To me she’s still alive.”
    He sat up and put his legs over the edge of the couch.
    â€œI’m Clemolk,” said the man. “I’m an historian. You’re in the History Pavilion in the city Greenhill.”

    â€œUnited States?”
    â€œNationalist States,” said the historian.
    Wade was silent a moment. Then he looked up suddenly and asked, “Say, how long have I been unconscious?”
    â€œYou’ve been ‘unconscious,’ as you call it, for a little more than two hours.”
    Wade jumped up. “My God,” he said anxiously, “I’ll have to leave.”
    Clemolk looked at him blandly. “Nonsense,” he said. “Please sit down.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œPlease. Let me tell you what you’re here for.”
    Wade sat down, a puzzled look on his face. A vague uneasiness began to stir in him.
    â€œHere for?” he muttered.
    â€œLet me show you something,” Clemolk said.
    He drew a small control board from his robe and pushed one of its many buttons.
    The walls seemed to fall away. Wade could see the exterior of the building. High up, across the huge