Gil sat down,
trading off the .45 for Shorty. “This dude and the redheaded babe and one or
two others are the ones who got us here, I think—I don’t know how yet—with the
idea of making us do something or other for them. Your man here got nasty about
explaining details and got kind of, you know, high-strung, so I invited him
over for some Nine-Mob hospitality. I don’t think the adoring public outside
will give us any trouble for the time being, as long as this one’s not messed
up too much.” He thought for a moment. “Al?”
“Yeah, Mac?”
answered Woods from the cupola.
“Are the gates
locked? If so, d’you think we could bust out of this brick barn?”
“The gates are
barred, Mac. We might be able to crash through, but it seems to me we’d come
down hard on that old bridge; might go right through it into the ditch outside.
I don’t know that we could climb out again.”
The sergeant
bit his lip. Van Duyn was sitting up, watching them and listening to the
interplay. Gil glared at him for a second, ready to speak, but Van Duyn began
first.
“MacDonald, I
appear to have misjudged you seriously, at least as far as temper and
tractability go. Rather than lose all chance of your cooperation, I’m prepared
to try to explain to you all that I can. I warn you though; it won’t be easy to
accept or, for that matter, to express.”
Pomorski
snorted, and said, “A while ago a Dink with a rocket launcher was going to
smoke us, had us dead to rights. Then we roll through a gray fog bank and we’re
in Fantasyland. I’ll be real surprised if the explanation is anything
but
loony.”
Van Duyn
considered this. “Quite so,” he decided. “Very well, I’ll ask you not to
interrupt until I’ve finished, and kindly to suspend your doubts for the
duration of my story. If you find yourselves outraged from a commonsense
standpoint, I suggest that you examine your surroundings; that should make you
receptive.”
Gil nodded.
“You three stay at the guns,” he told Woods, Handelman and Olivier, “and let us
know if you can’t hear what’s being said. Mr. Van Duyn, the floor is yours.”
What is
now proved was once only imagin’d.
WILLIAM BLAKE
DESPITE his request, his story
was subject to frequent interruptions for questions and comments. But as his
quiet, composed voice continued, the Nine-Mob listened with grudging, growing
credulity:
My name is
Edward Van Duyn. I hold degrees in a number of fields, some earned and some
honorary, but they are of little importance to me now, here, as they are part
of a life I no longer wish to live. They are of no further use or interest to
me.
You see, I come
from the same Reality as you gentlemen do. But I had long since grown bored and
frustrated with my existence before leaving there. I had fallen prey to ennui;
never saw it coming or felt it arrive, but one day there it was.
I had essayed
to do some teaching, but one must sort through so much gravel for the gems. And
then what is their attitude? “Teach me; it’s my right.” I tell you, there is a
surfeit of left-handed monkey wrenches in the world compared to the supply of
worthwhile students.
So, I
restricted my activities to pure research. It was for this reason that I
accepted a position with the think-tank center called the Grossen Institute. I
don’t suppose you’ve heard of it? A foundation supported by sizable
governmental and industrial endowments for abstract projects of scientific
inquiry. I was not specializing in any one field. I was responsible, like
several others, for “synthesizing,” exploring correlations and interfaces
between various areas of research.
About two years
ago, I became interested in three studies being done at the Grossen. One was a
rigorous mathematical investigation of the theories of a plurality of
universes, another a new attack on the problem of the relationship between
perception, reality and the effect of altered expectations on perceptual
reality. The third was an attempt to establish new data on the basic nature of
matter-energy systems. I began to acquaint myself with each of these endeavors
and even began to do a little independent study on my own. I began to see
parallels and correspondences in the three projects. I conferred in detail with
each team but didn’t reveal the dovetails I’d spotted, for as time went on I
became more and more certain that I’d come upon a major breakthrough, perhaps
unequaled in history.
Because of the
rather relaxed administrative regime at the Grossen, I wasn’t interrupted. It’s
not unheard of for Senior Consulting Fellows of the Institute to work for years
before presenting their findings with only sketchy progress reports in the
interim. In fact, that’s the only situation some of the better researchers will
stand for. Too, as a synthesist and a Senior Consultant, I had unrestricted
access to computer time and privacy. I was even permitted to recruit a former
student of mine, no questions asked, to assist me. Actually the boy was the
only one I thought I could trust.
Things became
unbelievably complex, forever evading us with one more unexpected factor. How
many times we hit dead ends I do not even remember, but it never seemed to
matter. We always knew that somehow we would find an answer. And a disturbing
thing happened in those days; I felt myself coming alive again for the first
time in years. It can be a bit traumatic, I assure you, to feel your
vallum
of
tædium vitæ
slipping.
I am the
scarred veteran of two divorces. I had become bored with the company of my
colleagues and intolerant of everyone else’s. I found most of life’s pleasures
either empty or juvenile. Yet now there was this desire awakening in me to make
this project work, a desire in no way connected with scientific kudos.
Making
practical application of the findings I had developed was more difficult than I
can tell you; you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, but you simply don’t have the
vocabulary. I built a device to permit access to the perhaps infinite universes
which coexist with our own—if, indeed, you and I are from precisely the same
one. To put it another way. I had—hmm, let me see if I can put this in terms
you can follow—yes, isolated a technique for translating the Reality of one
cosmos into a form perceptible in another. Call it a kind of transportation if
you will, or the creation of a contiguity between universes. That’s no more or
less accurate than calling it a translation.
The first model
was rudimentary, a sort of framework which served as the contiguous point. I
searched through a number of different universes, once with almost disastrous
results, and never seeing any that looked at all inviting, until at last on a
Friday evening I looked out at this one, at an empty field in Coramonde, this
place where we are now. I don’t remember actually stepping through the contiguity.
All at once I was standing on the other side, my hands in my pockets and my
cigar still in my teeth. The breeze that came up was… intoxicating. I felt full
and at peace for the first time in years. In the distance I could see a small
village, lit by torches and candlelight. The air was clean, with no hint of
city or machine. In a way I cannot explain, it was as if I’d come home.
When I
returned, my assistant, nearly hysterical, was plucking up the courage to come
through after me, although he’d been able to watch me the entire time through
the contiguity. He did not share my enthusiasm for exploration, for personal
involvement in research.
But the few
minutes I’d spent in Coramonde had changed me irrevocably. I had been given a
last-minute reprieve from the barren life that I’d accumulated around myself. I
had no one to consider; my ex-wives were well off and my children—a daughter by
each marriage—thought even less of me than I did of them.
I monitored the
contiguity for days, watched the shape and pace of life in Coramonde, and
decided that it was for me—though it wasn’t until later that I ran afoul of its
rather exotic natural laws.
Of course, it
was impossible to sneak the entire machine out of the Grossen, which was my
first impulse; I didn’t intend to enter another world and another life only to
be followed in time by the people I’d come to despise. My world weariness had
become a sort of spiritual impotence, yet here was the extraordinary chance to
change my entire life, an out, and I didn’t want to risk having it spoiled
through the interference of others. So I compromised by removing two essential
components from the contiguity apparatus and smuggling them out in my
briefcase. I then destroyed all my notes and tapes, erased my computer runs
from the banks and in general concealed my research as well as I could. I left
the components I’d taken in the keeping of my assistant, who agreed to keep
silence of a sort. In the meantime I was preparing a second contiguity
generator at home; it is not as hard when you’ve conquered the basic problem of
what it is you’re building. The second-generation model was a platform which
would transport itself along with its cargo. I equipped myself with a rifle and
some gear and, four months after my first trip to Coramonde, left that world
for good. I’d used up all the cash and credit I could lay my hands on in
building the second apparatus, but what did I care? I’ve no intention of
returning. If Coramonde begins to pall, well, I’ve universes waiting.
My preliminary
experiences in this cosmos are not important at this time, but I met Andre and
Gabrielle. Unfortunately, I took the contiguity generator to Earthfast—that is,
when I met the local ruler and proposed some political revisions—and it was
impounded when we were forced to take hurried departure. I believe Yardiff
Bey—an agent of our enemy—has it now.
I know that all
this seems like circumlocution, but I want you to see the full string of events
that lead to your being here. Let me explain some things about reality here, to
help you understand the situation. You’re now in a place where phenomena that you
might call magic are operational, and
usually
controllable. Laws of
nature in this universe permit outrageous things like that air elemental that
nearly toppled this APC. This is a world of conflict, and the beings who
influence movements of—call it good and evil—are often active participants in
the struggle.
How shall I
tell you about our enemy? I’m afraid it’ll be a bit simplistic-sounding. We’re
menaced by a, a
force,
if you will, directing uncounted servants and
driven by a monomaniacal urge to dominate everything,
everything
in
creation. Hard to accept? Oh, yes, quite. Well, gentlemen, here’s one that’s
harder, albeit closer to home: tomorrow at dawn our enemy is sending a dragon
to destroy us here in this castle.”
The Nine-Mob’s
declarations of disbelief tumbled over each other, but Gil was thinking about a
miniature tornado that had almost turned their thirteen-ton APC over on
command. Van Duyn continued.
“My friends and
I invoked a being from the spiritual plane to open a way between worlds and
bring you to us. We’ve no adequate way to defend ourselves, but yours should
prove effective enough.”
Pomorski leaned
forward, eyes narrowing. “Even if what you say is true—and I don’t concede it
by a long shot!—why shouldn’t we
make
you send us back right now?”
Van Duyn’s
eyebrows arched.
“So homesick
already, even if only to return to a war, Mr. Pomorski? As to your question:
transitions, summonings, invocations and things like your being brought here
and sent back again are governed by, among other things, astrological
configurations. Just as the dragon cannot come before tomorrow, we can’t send
you back before tomorrow evening. If we’re still alive, that is.
“This means
that, help us or no, you’ll be here with us when he comes. And if he destroys
this castle, I doubt very seriously if you’ll find anyone in this world both
willing and able to send you home. But if you’ll use your weapons to fend off
Chaffinch or kill him, we’ll return you to the selfsame point in space and time
from which we summoned you.”
Gil slouched
back, stiff from sitting hunched over on the low bench. Even with the cargo
hatch open, the APC was uncomfortably warm.
“We’ve got no
reason to get our tails mangled for you,” he said, “and none of this has
anything to do with us.”
“Nonetheless, you’re
here.”
The sergeant
bridled but checked his anger, and took a ballot by eye; Olivier and Handelman
nodded, Pomorski and Woods shrugged.
A tie.
“All right,”
Gil told Van Duyn, casting the deciding vote himself. “If there is a dragon,
we’ll grease it for you; but I’m goddamned if I know how I’m going to explain
this later.”
Van Duyn
pretended to think for a moment, though he already knew what he would say to
them.
“Since you will
be returned to the point from which you were taken, may I suggest that you
simply say nothing? You won’t be believed anyway.”
Pomorski
nodded. “Good thinking there. The best we’d get if we opened our mouths is a
two-oh-eight discharge for the Jungle Jitters and maybe a stay in the
upholstered ward.”
Gil, who’d
shifted from decision-making to practical details of the problem at hand, said.
“Look, exactly what is this dragon—Chaffinch, you called it? What’s it like,
anyway?”
It was only
afterward that the Nine-Mob realized how easily they’d gone from incredulity
and suspicion to the problem-solving attitude. Pomorski and Gil, speculating
later, thought that the nature of the spell that had drawn them there for that
one purpose had perhaps predisposed them to accept their mission with minimal
objections.
But they were
never quite sure. Hadn’t their actions been logical, rational under the
circumstances? What, if anything else, could they have done at the time?