Parallelities

by Alan Dean Foster

  The increasingly irritating whine leveled off while thousands of mini-lights and gauges continued to glow and blink. It was all very impressive and very pretty and, after thirty minutes of nonstop glowing and blinking with no explication, very boring. Max checked his watch. While he did not have a story, Boles had provided the foundation for one. Given the now validated existence of a glut of arcane scientific equipment in a sealed basement in the mountains, Max knew he could fill in the reportorial blanks between bites of a fast lunch. He had already decided that he would have to come up with something other than the clichéd hunchbacked assistant, though. A mysterious, attractive girl with dark hair, an Eastern European accent, and carefully concealed origins who ostensibly served as the maid, perhaps. Like a good double espresso, his imagination began to perk.

  Why hang around and kill the evening in search of a story, when with the material he already had at hand he could invent one infinitely more interesting than anything he was likely to see? He smiled ingratiatingly at his busy host.

  “Thanks for the demo,” he told the would-be inventor as he started toward the doorway. “This is all very high-tech and I’m sure it can do some fascinating things—once you’ve got it up and running. But it’s getting late and I don’t want to impose.” Half expecting Boles to try and intercept him, either physically or with an argument, he lengthened his stride.

  “You’re not imposing. You’re going to expose me, remember?” Boles spoke without looking up from the arc of glowing console.

  “Expose what?” Noting that his host showed no inclination to interfere with his departure, Max hesitated. He made a gesture that encompassed most of the huge room and its inventory of shiny, blinking, humming, apparently purposeless electronics. “A failed ride proposal for Disneyland? A Westinghouse science fair entry gone mad? What’s all this supposed to be for, anyway?” He could not quite keep all the sarcasm out of his voice. “I’m assuming it’s supposed to be for something.”

  Boles made no attempt to hide the pride he was feeling in his perceived achievement. “You will be privileged to witness the first fully scaled-up run-through of the system, Max. I really would rather that you were on the staff of Nature or Scientific American, but given some of the scuzzball would-be writer types that I’ve had to deal with these past several years, I suppose I’ll have to settle for the Investigator.”

  “I’ll settle for coffee and Danish. I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go, Barry.” He did not, but willing to play the game to the last move, he made a show of checking his watch.

  “You can go in a minute,” Boles told him. “This should only take a minute.”

  Max eyed the phantasmagoric farrago of indiscriminately interconnected electronics gear dubiously. “What should only take a minute?”

  Boles glanced up briefly from his work. “Making contact with the world next to ours.”

  “Next to ours?” Max didn’t bat an eye. He’d interviewed too many loony scientist/inventor types to be surprised by anything the affably chatty Boles had to say. “You mean, out in space?”

  “No, no.” Within the enclosed underground room both light and sound were magnified. “I mean next to ours. I am a great believer in the existence of parallel worlds, or paras, as I call them. Always have been. Over the past several years I have been constructing a device with which to prove my theories.”

  “Prove them, huh? Prove them how?” Max gazed yearningly at the doorway.

  “By making actual contact with one. With this.” He gestured proudly at the confabulation of disparate electronics.

  The reporter’s skepticism continued unabated. “There’s more than one?”

  “So theory insists. Hopefully we will be the first to find out.”

  Max struggled to suppress a smile. “Mind if I take pictures?”

  “Not at all.” The reporter’s sarcasm lost on him, Boles returned to work at the console. “Documentation is what I’m after.”

  As he pulled the Minox from a pocket and checked to make sure there was a full roll of film on board, Max found himself liking his host more and more. Nuttier than a Texas fruitcake he might be, but he was a regular guy. A dangerous opinion for a reporter to hold, he knew. It might interfere with his objectivity—though this was not really a problem in Max’s case, because he had none.

  A really colorful explosion, now, when all this expensive gear blew sky high, would make for a great shot. Trouble was, he was likely to find himself in the middle of it. Therefore, despite a missed photo op, he found himself hoping that everything would remain intact. He made a mental note to contact Southern California Edison for a copy of Boles’s monthly electric bill. It would give him a nice, absurd, appropriately mad-scientist statistic to slip into the story. One that could, for a change, be verified.

  As Boles had not warned him to keep away from any particular piece of equipment, Max roamed among the lights and sounds, snapping shots of gear he did not recognize while wondering what each piece was for. Of one thing he had no doubt, and that was the cost of the futuristic setup Boles had put together. Everything looked new, state-of-the-art, and expensive. It was all very impressive, even if it didn’t do anything more than just turn the basement into a kind of low-key nerd-styled disco.

  A bright flash of vaguely violet light strobed the room and he found himself blinking at the pretty colored dots that had suddenly chosen to do the two-step boogie on his retinas. “What the hell was that?”

  “Don’t know,” Boles called out to him. “Generated some intriguing readings, though.”

  Disneyland, Max decided silently. Or maybe Universal Studios. Boles was actually a clandestine consultant to the secret masters of contemporary consumer fantasy and he was working out the details of a new ride in his basement and Max was going to be the guinea pig for the first tryout. If so, his verdict was going to be unfavorable. As far as entertainment value went, the subterranean setup boasted plenty of color, but no action.

  As he contemplated an entirely new take on the story he was going to write, the ceiling lights began to flicker and the pervasive electronic hum to fade. The occasional second or two of total darkness that resulted bothered him more than he would have cared to admit.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” The disappointment in Boles’s voice was unmistakable. “I’m shutting the system down. It didn’t work.”

  “Oh well. That’s physics for you. Maybe next time.”

  “You’re humoring me,” Boles said flatly.

  His host’s genial personality notwithstanding, Max had had about enough. He had a life outside the basement, and he was ready to get on with it. “Don’t you want to be humored? Or would you rather I went on and on about what a waste of time and money this is?”

  Boles came around from behind the console. Though older, he was a lot bigger and in much better shape than the reporter. He was also between his guest and the doorway. Max tensed slightly. It would not be the first time he’d had to dodge an irate interviewee. If it came to that, he calculated he was quicker on his feet than the tall inventor.

  But there was no animosity in Boles’s voice as he addressed his visitor. No overt animosity, anyway. “Is that what you’re going to write in your article?”

  Max hedged his reply; an occupational necessity in his line of work. “I don’t know what’s going to be in my articles until they’re finished. I mean, trying to contact parallel worlds with some homemade basement gizmo, Barry—what did you think I’d write?”

  His host sounded faintly wistful. “A respectful report detailing serious efforts to expand the scope of contemporary dimensional physics.”

  Max’s expression turned apologetic. “Sorry, Barry. Wrong paper.”

  “I know, I know. Just be as kind as you can, will you? Despite appearances and what you may think, I’m partially dependent on a couple of outside sources for funding, and ridicule still hurts.”

  “Okay, I promise. No ridicule.” A little laugh
ter and some smug supercilious sniggering, maybe, but no ridicule. He liked Barrington Boles, in spite of the fact that the guy had inherited money. He was an okay bloke, as one of the reporters for the competing British tabloids might say, even if mentally he did list strongly to one side.

  Wanting to end the interview on a more upbeat note, he switched to a subject devoid of controversy. “How’s the surfing these days?” He smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner. “I can deal with the concept of parallel waves if they’re the watery kind.”

  “It’s fair.” Boles led him up the stairs and back through the eclectic but subdued den. The reporter breathed an inner sigh of relief when they reached the front door. Right up to the end, Boles had seemed stable enough—but you could never tell. Max had learned soon after starting out that it was important never to let your guard down in the presence of the truly wacky. “Although since I passed fifty, I tend to fall off the board a lot more.”

  Max allowed the other man to open the door for him. Heading out and not wishing to leave his kindly host wholly downcast, he volunteered what he hoped would be construed as a mildly backhanded compliment. “At least you’re not doing cold fusion.”

  It was Boles’s turn to laugh. “Not me. I’m into science, not fantasy.” He stared out into the gathering darkness. Cool coastal fog was starting to creep onshore. “Can I offer you something to eat? My fridge serves as sort of an unofficial annex for the Pacific Rim Deli down in Malibu. How about a corned beef or pastrami on rye? Or I could nuke some brisket?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got work to do at home and I’ll heat something up there. Good luck proving your theories and finding your parallel worlds, Barry. Of all the, um, revolutionaries I’ve interviewed, you’re one of the few I’d actually like to see succeed. Better a para world than a para normal.”

  “I expect that’s para for the course.” The inventor grinned as Max winced.

  Half a story was better than none, he decided as he guided the Aurora down the winding access road toward the coast and the highway. It was too bad Boles was so damn normal. It muted Max’s enthusiasm for the ferociously caustic piece he had planned to write. As for the pictures he’d taken, including those of his host, the touch-up guys in the photo department could spice them up as required. Electronic image manipulation had been a tremendous boon to the likes of the Investigator, where any story, no matter how imaginative or outrageous, could now be supported by photographic “evidence.”

  The gate guard did not look up from his TV as Max exited the walled compound and turned south onto the highway. It was a crisp, windless night, the fog was atmospheric rather than intrusive, and he was able to enjoy the drive down through Malibu and into the city. Once back up on the bluffs, he headed briefly south on Ocean until he could turn down Appian Way toward his building. The electric garage gate responded swiftly to his remote.

  He was relieved to see that his parking space was empty. Late-night visitors tended to appropriate unused stalls on the assumption that their owners were out for the evening, instead of parking in those spaces that had been reserved for them. He backed in effortlessly.

  It had been a productive, if busy, day, and he was feeling very good about himself as he took the elevator to the top floor, exited, and strolled to the far end of the hall. His was the last apartment on the left, near the front of the building and facing the water. Fumbling in a pocket, he pulled out his key.

  He did not need it. The door to his apartment was ever so slightly ajar. Muted light emerged from within.

  It was too late for the manager to come calling, he thought furiously. Besides, the building’s manager, an affable guy named Tim, was not in the habit of paying uninvited visits to tenants’ apartments, much less hanging out in them for extended periods of time. The same held true for repairmen, and in any case, nothing in his place was broken. That left two possibilities; a thief, or one of the several women friends to whom he had extended the courtesy of a key. Living in a beachfront apartment in L.A. offered benefits beyond a view.

  Who had his key, and who might have dropped in to surprise him? He struggled to remember. Leaving the door ajar might be a certain lady friend’s way of teasing him in, in which case the longer he stood there toying mentally with possibilities the longer he was putting off nascent pleasures. Leaning close to the crack, he listened intently. No banging or bashing about piqued his interest, but neither did he hear the stereo softly pumping out Yanni or Barry White, either.

  He considered alerting the manager or retreating to the garage to use the cellular phone in his car to call the police. If his visitor was feminine and less than immoderately dressed, however, the arrival of several cops clutching drawn pistols and nighttime attitudes was likely to dampen the mood some-what. Dare he risk that? It certainly seemed the most likely explanation. After all, his was a security building.

  Putting on his best smile, he pushed the door aside and entered. At the same time, a figure emerged from his bedroom to greet him. It was clad entirely in black. Not black lace, but black sneakers, socks, jeans, and long-sleeved overshirt. In silhouette it did not in any way remotely resemble the feminine form, and it was carrying the twenty-inch Trinitron that under normal circumstances reposed sleekly atop the dresser by the foot of his bed.

  “Aw, shit!” Catching sight of Max, the man promptly set the TV down gently on the nearby coffee table. “Look, don’t call the cops, man! I’m leaving quietly, see? I didn’t take nothing else and I ain’t taking nothing. Gimme a break, man! I’ve been hungry.”

  “Hungry, my ass!” The outraged reporter was emboldened by the fact that the would-be burglar displayed nothing in the way of a weapon. The intruder was also several inches shorter than the outraged tenant and slim to the point of emaciation.

  “Aw, shit!” exclaimed a new voice unexpectedly.

  Turning, Max saw a second man standing in the doorway behind him. He was exactly the same height and weight as the burglar, wore exactly the same clothes, spoke with precisely the same intonation and phrasing …

  He was, in point of fact, an uncannily exact duplicate of the equally stupefied burglar presently standing slack-jawed in the middle of Max’s den.

  “Who the hell are you?” the newcomer inquired sharply the instant he caught sight of Max’s unwanted visitor.

  “Screw you, Jack!” The would-be television hoister’s expression flattened like a punctured tire. “Son-of-a-bitch but you look a lot like me.”

  Ignoring a stunned Max, the newcomer marched into the room. “A lot like me? Shit, you look just like me!”

  “Just like who?” A third visitor made his presence known as he wandered in from the hallway. He wore black sneakers, black socks, black jeans, and a black long-sleeved pullover shirt. All three men shared the same attitude, not to mention the same eyes, the same disreputably acquired notch in their right ears, the same beer stain on the hem of their shirts, and the same edgy irritation. They clustered together in the middle of the modest den alongside the coffee table and the nearly purloined Sony, and argued vociferously.

  Max quietly closed the door, then turned and waved. “Hi. Remember me?”

  Going silent simultaneously, they turned to look at him for the briefest of moments before returning to their arguing. This was complicated by the fact that they often had the same thought concurrently and attempted to give voice to it at exactly the same moment. The ensuing confusion created by identical-sounding overlapping voices only added to their exasperation.

  I’m being burgled by triplets, Max thought wildly. Triplets who don’t seem to know each other.

  “Hey,” declared the first intruder, “we can sort this out. After all, you guys sound like fellas I could get along with.” He gestured in Max’s direction. “But first we’ve got a job to do, and that doesn’t include letting Mr. Homeowner here run around loose.”

  Max didn’t resist. There were three of them and they were all probably crazy to boot. He let them tie him to one of the kitc
hen chairs and watched while they sat calmly in his den and argued energetically. One of them had the nerve to go to the refrigerator and help himself to three of Max’s choicest cold brews. Their subsequent exclamations of delight indicated that, unsurprisingly, they all favored the same brand of beer. This mutual bonding gave him time to note that the similarities between the three extended far beyond the superficial. Even their hand gestures were so similar as to be indistinguishable.

  After some thirty minutes of increasingly jovial camaraderie, they rose and shook hands. The one who had been carrying the bedroom TV heaved it back up off the coffee table while his companions cleanly and efficiently disconnected his stereo and desk computer. In response to his frantic pleading they graciously left him his backup disks, whereupon after making a quick check of the hallway to insure that it was empty, they filed out the door and closed it behind them. His neighbors, he knew, would invariably tell the police they hadn’t seen or heard a thing.

  His restraints were tight but not painfully so. In less than an hour he managed to twist and wriggle free. Though far too late to do any good, the police responded with admirable speed.

  He sat morosely in his den while a middle-aged officer with short blond hair and the first stirrings of middle-aged paunch dispensed professional empathy, asked questions, and took notes. Her partner made the obligatory sweep of the apartment, looking for nonexistent fingerprints (true pros that they were, the three thieves had never removed their black gloves) and other information that would prove useful. Neither they nor Max held out much hope of seeing his property again, but they were at least sympathetic.

  “I’m sorry we can’t be more encouraging, Mr. Parker, but I’ve learned it’s better to be straight with people than raise false hopes. We do solve many of these household burglaries, but not as many as we’d like.” She put her pen and pad back in her shirt pocket.