Paradox Alley

by John Dechancie

  “There are no restraining harnesses in this buggy,” I said, looking down at the blue fur-covered seats. I had known it before, but the careless disregard for safety struck me now.

  “Damn good idea to have ‘em,” Carl said. “Congress should get after Detroit to make ‘em mandatory.” An afterthought: “I should have thought of putting them in when I was designing it.”

  I looked out at history. The architectural styles were strange to me. They just don’t build things like that anymore. Everything was strange, yet somehow faintly familiar as well.

  We took a spur to the right that shunted us off onto another highway. We were heading due west, toward the ocean. “This is the Santa Monica Freeway,” Carl told us. “Straight shot into Santa Monica, then I’ll be home.” He laughed. “God, it’s good to be back.”

  About twenty minutes later the freeway ended. We cruised down a wide city boulevard, then turned right onto a palmlined street running along the beach. There were lots of bathers out, catching the late afternoon sun.

  “First thing I’m gonna do is get my board and go out,” Carl averred.

  “Your board?” Lori said.

  “Surfboard.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ll love it.”

  “It’s a nice beach.”

  I pulled out the communications device, thinking to test it out. I looked at its grainy surface. It was covered with the same half-visible geometrical lines and squiggles that I’d seen on the ship’s material. I held it near my mouth.

  “Arthur?”

  There was a moment’s delay, then: “Yes, dearie?”

  “Testing,” I told him.

  “Receiving you fine,” Arthur said, his voice reproducing with high fidelity.

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “Oh, the back side of the moon, hovering at about two hundred kilometers.”

  “Really? See anything interesting?”

  “Nope. Frankly, I’m bored. I think I’m going to hibernate until you need me.”

  “How long will it take you to get here if we need you in a hurry?”

  “Oh, about ten minutes, if I hurry.”

  “Maybe you should stay in Earth orbit.”

  “If you want. I might be detected, though.”

  I agreed. “Yeah, you might. Stay put, and we’ll contact you later.”

  “Have fun.”

  “By the way, what are our chances of getting back to Microcosmos?”

  “Fair,” Arthur said. “Since I know where we are, it makes it fairly easy. You just have to aim for the center of the universe.”

  “The center of the universe?”

  “Fourth dimensionally speaking, that’s where Microcosmos is, almost all the way back to the beginning of the universe. It’s a little off-center though, by about one or two billion years.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. If another ship like yours entered the solar system, would you have any way of detecting it?”

  “Yes, but that’s not going to happen,” Arthur told me.

  “Why?”

  “Because this is the only ship of its kind ever built.”

  “What about the chance of encountering the ship’s paradoxical double? You call it a spacetime ship: Doesn’t that mean it’s a time machine?”

  “In a way,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think there’s much chance of it happening.”

  Neither did I.

  16

  I TOLD ARTHUR that we’d keep in touch, and signed off.

  We headed north on the Coast Highway for a few kilometers, then turned right at a sign which read Topanga Canyon Boulevard and followed a winding road bearing up into the hills. Eventually, Carl made a right onto a gravel road, then a left into a driveway leading back to a beige-painted clapboard cottage with a small beetle-shaped automobile parked beside it.

  Carl pulled up in front of the house and turned the motor off.

  “Friends?” I asked.

  “Yeah, one friend. A guy, a little older than me. He’s a writer.”

  “What’s he write?”

  “TV scripts, movies, stuff like that. I know he did a Gunsmoke, and I think he wrote a version of some big Hollywood movie—one of those Roman Empire epics. I can’t think of the name of it. Anyway, his name wasn’t on the credits. A couple of friends of mine used to come over here and mess around, watch old movies, listen to jazz records.”

  “Records?” Darla asked.

  “Uh … recorded music.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Anyway, he’s home. He’s gonna think I’ve totally flipped when I tell him what’s happened.”

  Lori silently mouthed, Gunsmoke?

  We got out. Carl banged on the front door. No one answered, and Carl banged again. Faint sounds of upbeat music came from within.

  Carl was ready to knock a third time when the door was opened by a youngish dark-haired man wearing black-rimmed eyeglasses, a short-sleeved yellow pullover shirt, and dark pants. He had on leather moccasins and carried a carved briar pipe. He looked friendly but impatient.

  “Carl!” he said. “Hey, I’m working.” Puzzled, he glanced at Darla, Lori, and me, then said to Carl, “What’s up?”

  “Need your help. We’re in a jam.”

  “A jam?” He eyed me again, scrutinizing my maroon starrigger’s jacket. “Yeah?” He looked Carl up and down. “Are you guys shooting something?”

  “Huh?” Carl answered.

  “What’s with the costumes?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  The man nodded. “I’ve a feeling I’m going to hear it. Come on in.” He swung the door back, turned and walked inside. We followed him in.

  The living room was really a work space. There were three debris-littered desks, a half-dozen loaded bookcases, one sofa, and a few chairs. A piece of equipment which I recognized to be a typewriter sat on one desk amid piles of manuscript, stacks of periodicals, and other paraphernalia. Besides clogging the shelves, books lay everywhere, piled in stacks on the desks, on the floor, and on the furniture. The place did have the look of a writer’s lair.

  “Dave,” Carl said, “these are some friends of mine. Uh, this is Jake…”

  “Hi,” Dave said, shaking my hand.

  “Dave Feinmann.”

  “And this is Darla,” Carl said.

  “Hello, Darla. And you’re …?”

  “Lori.”

  “Hello, Lori.”

  Dave went to a cabinet containing a rack of equipment that, from the look of it, was a device for playing audio disks, something I’d never seen in my life. He turned a knob, and the music, which sounded like early jazz, faded into the background. He cleared some books off the furniture and motioned for us to sit down, taking a seat himself in front of the typewriter. He lit his pipe, cocking his head toward the typewriter. “Doing a treatment for an episode of this new science fiction series. Producer’s a friend of mine. Looks like they’ve sold the pilot.”

  “Yeah?” Carl said. “Great.”

  Dave got the pipe going. He gave Carl a funny look, then shrugged. “So, you’re in a jam. What is it this time? Did the cops finally—” He broke off and squinted at Carl. “Jesus. You look different, somehow. Where did you get that crazy haircut?”

  Carl passed a hand through his hair. “Crazy? Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “It’s way out. I—” Dave passed his eyes over the four of us, looking uneasy. “What are you people up to? You’re not extras—you’re not working a shoot nearby?”

  “No, Dave,” Carl said. “You’re not going to believe this, but…”

  For the next half hour, Carl spilled his story, though leaving out a good bit of it for economy’s sake. I spent the time watching Dave’s shifting reactions. He began with simple bemused skepticism, modulated to adamant disbelief, then switched to shocked credulity. By the time Carl had gotten through most of what he had to say, Dave’s expression was almost blank. He looked numb,
and a little shaken. Several times, early on, he had interrupted Carl, insisting, “This is a gag, right?” He wasn’t insisting now.

  Carl finished up and sat back, looking at Dave expectantly. Silent, Dave puffed on his pipe and stared out the window. He did this for a long while.

  Finally Carl snapped, “Jesus Christ, Dave, say something!”

  “I’m waiting for Rod Serling to come out and do the teaser,” Dave said quietly.

  Carl sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Oh, I believe it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” Dave crossed his legs and sat back. “There are exactly three possibilities. Either you’ve flipped, or I’ve flipped, or you’re telling the truth. There’s another, maybe, but I know you, Carl, and you couldn’t keep a straight face this long if you were jiving me. But let me tell you something right now—if I’ve read you wrong and you are indeed pulling my leg, if you got these people out of central casting and came up here to see how long you could keep me on the hook, if this is a gag, Carl, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to get out my samurai short sword, disembowel you, and feed your liver to you—without onions.”

  Carl shook his head slowly. “It’s no gag.”

  I took out the communicator and handed it to Dave. “Ever see a radio like that?” I asked.

  Dave examined it. “Radio?”

  “Maybe you’d call it a walkie-talkie. Say something into it.”

  Dave scowled. “Into it? Where? There’s nothing to this.”

  “Speak into this side,” I told him, pointing.

  Dave rolled his eyes, then held it near his mouth and said, “Hello?”

  “Hello?” came Arthur’s voice.

  Dave jumped, dropping the communicator. “Jesus Christ! It sounds like he’s in the room. That can’t be a walkie-talkie.”

  “Yes, it does have good reproduction for a long-range receiver.”

  Dave pointed. “Is that—”

  “Yeah, that’s Arthur,” Carl said.

  “Hello?” a puzzled Arthur said. “Jake, are you there?”

  I picked it up. “Yeah, Arthur. Sorry, we were just testing it again.”

  “I think we can rest assured that it works,” Arthur said peevishly.

  Dave chewed his lip, then asked, “He’s a robot, right? And he’s up on this … saucer?”

  “Spacetime ship,” I told him.

  “On the moon?”

  “Arthur, are you still on the moon?”

  “That’s right, dearie. Is that a new friend of yours?”

  “Yeah, that’s Dave.”

  “Hi, Dave!”

  Dave looked around uncomfortably before he said,. “Uh …hi.”

  “Lively one, isn’t he?” Arthur commented.

  Dave was nonplussed. Suddenly, something snapped and he jumped up. “This is too much.” He thumped the pipe into an ashtray and raised his hands palms up in a helpless, despairing gesture. “I don’t believe it. On top of everything, the robot’s a smart-shit. He’s in this fucking flying saucer, and he’s on the fucking moon, for Christ’s sake, and I’m feeding him straight lines.”

  “Such language,” Arthur complained.

  Dave suddenly developed a grave expression. “Excuse me,” he said quietly. He left the room.

  Carl waited a moment, then picked up the communicator. “Arthur, you asshole!” he whispered hoarsely. “Now he’s all pissed off.”

  “All these neurotic humans I have to put up with,” Arthur grumbled.

  Dave returned five minutes later bearing a tray on which were a number of tall bottles. His face looked a bit gray. “I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink. Beer’s all I have.”

  We all took a bottle. Dave sat, took a long swallow; and ruminated. He took another drink before he said, “I’ve just had a shock. I’ll tell you about it in a minute, but first, let me tell you the reasons for my believing your fantastic story strictly on the basis of what you’ve told me, and what I’ve seen. I buy it not because it makes one whit of sense, which it doesn’t, not because it’s believable, which it isn’t, but because of a few little things. I’m a writer. I’m plagued with the penchant for noticing things—little things. Tiny touches of convincing detail. Like your accent, Jake.”

  “My accent?” Strange to hear someone say I had one.

  “Yeah. It’s American, generally. But I can’t place it, and I specialize in regional dialects. I do great dialogue, my producers tell me. But I can’t place yours. Yours either, Lori. Now, Darla’s is totally different from both of yours. If I had to put a tag on it, I’d say it was Mid-Atlantic. Neither British nor American. But there’re traces of other accents in there. A mélange. I can’t figure it.”

  “Better to call it mid-colonial,” Darla said.

  “Yeah. I guess so.” Dave gulped more beer. “Accents. Okay, now clothes. Those getups you’re all wearing. Those clothes weren’t made anywhere in the civilized world. I don’t know that for sure, but the style … I mean; it’s a style I’ve never seen. And they’re nondescript clothes, nothing flashy about them, except that jacket of yours, Jake. But it’s worn and tattered. The elbows are wearing through. That jacket’s been worn, for Christ’s sake. Again, there’re only two possibilities. Either that’s a studio wardrobe throwaway, or it’s a real jacket, worn by a real person, who happens to be from another time and place.” Dave drained the bottle, took another from the tray, and applied a tool to its top. The metal cap popped off. “And you, Carl. I noticed it right off the bat. There’s something different about you, even besides the haircut and those futuristic overalls you have on. You look different. Like you’ve traveled, grown. You look older. You are older, according to your story. About a year, right?”

  Carl nodded.

  “Sure. So it all fits, it all hangs together on that level, the level of convincing detail. On the rational level, the whole thing holds about as much water as a colander. But I have to believe it. That communicator thing could be a souped-up transistor radio or something, but even so, it’s one weird object. I wouldn’t have accepted the story on that basis alone, but … it, plus the little things, the fine touches—add it all up, and … I’ve stepped into a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity, the middle ground between light and shadow, et cetera. Cue Rod. Action.” Dave exhaled slowly, taking off his glasses and rubbing his left eye. Then he swept back his longish dark hair. “But there’s one more thing. The clincher—a piece of irrefutable evidence. The shocker. When I was in the kitchen, I made a phone call. I called you, Carl. I talked to you. You were home, at your parents’ house.”

  Carl seemed to collapse inside. He lowered his head and stared at the floor.

  “Okay,” Dave said. “So, what do we do? How can I help?”

  Dave’s rented house was small, having only two bedrooms, but he was willing to give up both of them and sleep on the couch. When I protested, he said he usually collapsed there anyway after working into the wee hours. There was only one bed, which Carl and Lori insisted that Darla and I have; they made do with layers of blankets and pillows piled on the floor in the spare bedroom. We were set for a prolonged stay. Ordinarily, Dave said, he didn’t suffer house guests for more than three nights, but he was willing to put us up, and put up with us, for as long as was required.

  “However long it takes to resolve the spatiotemporal crisis,” he told us, “you’re welcome to stay. What, I’m going to throw out time travelers from the twenty-fifth century?”

  “Twenty-second,” I corrected him.

  “Right, that was Buck Rogers.”

  Trouble was, our presence would undoubtedly disrupt his work routine. He wrote for a living, and he needed to put in a full day’s work every day, including weekends. It behooved us, then, to find something to do during daylight hours, which would entail going out, which would necessitate our getting some acceptably conventional clothes. Dave came through for us again. He lent us money, enough to buy something d
ecent for all of us at a discount clothing outlet. I told Dave that I could pay him back in gold. Carl insisted that he’d make good on the loan.

  Once we’d solved the costume problem, we cast about for something to keep us occupied. Going to the local beach was out. Carl’s double would be there.

  “I was a beach bum, I admit it,” he said. “But I know what beaches I used to hang out at. I never went to Malibu. Didn’t like the kids who hung out there. Bel Air types with Corvettes and Lotus Fords and Porsches. We can go there, and my double wouldn’t show up in a million eons.”

  Earth … summer … 1964 …

  It was a bright and colorful and happy time, a flux of seaspray and sunlight and rock music tinny and loud from a portable radio. The images come quickly to me, along with the sounds and smells: the reek of gasoline exhaust and suntan lotion and hot dogs sizzling on the grill at the concession stand; the endless beach carpeted with seminude bodies baking in nonionizing radiation, and the roar of the ocean, rolling in and out as it has done on this planet, this home of humankind, for five billion years. Darla and I stretched out on towels beside the bright surf and let Earth’s sun warm on our backs. We dozed, and the flux convolved about us. We were lost in time and didn’t particularly want to be found.

  … summer, 1964. It was a time of blaring news reports over the radio and TV … the Russians, Viet Nam, Laos, Cambodia. An election year, the Republicans nominating somebody named Goldwater, whom I had never heard of, to run against the incumbent, Johnson, whom I had barely heard of. (Hadn’t there been another President Johnson, in the earlier part of the century? Or had it been another century entirely?) It was a time when the world had fallen under the spell of four young men from Britain with domed haircuts who played their electrified instruments enthusiastically, if not well, singing songs with a steady beat and charmingly simple lyrics …

  We had some time to bask in the sun and absorb some of the backdrop of this time and place, but we had some thinking to do as well; rather, I had it to do. At night we sat around with Dave and talked, filling him in on more details concerning our adventures in the world of the future and the worlds of the Skyway, including our journey outside the known mazes—the Outworlds: Splash, Talltree, the planets of the Nogon—the chase through the Garage Planet of the Roadbugs, the wonders of Microcosmos, and other tales.