“Coffee—yeah, sure.” She slumped down on the couch, and he could not help but notice that they had great legs. Her, not the couch. “I suppose you might as well spend the night.” She gestured resignedly. “If everything you’ve been telling me is the truth, then this is your place as much as it is mine.”
“That’s right.” The coffeemaker, he noted with relief, was right where he had left it. Unlike the Aurora, it exhibited no unfamiliar technological traits.
When the brew (his favorite Goroka-Kenya blend) was ready, he presented her with a prepared cup. Sipping delicately, she favored him with a slightly twisted smile. “One cream, two sugars. It’s perfect.”
“Of course it is.” He sipped from his own mug. “Did you think I wouldn’t know how we like it?”
She sighed heavily. “You’re on your way home from a relaxing drive up the coast and your whole world turns upside down in the parking lot of a fish-and-chips place.” She edged closer to him. He did not draw away.
“At least you’re still in your world,” he told her. “To me, this is just a para of mine, and I don’t know how to get home. Maybe you’re confused, but I’m the one that’s lost. Lost in place.” He grinned crookedly. “Where’s Doctor Smith when you need him?”
She allowed him to put his arm around her. He knew exactly how to do it, where to let the fingers fall. When she snuggled closer she knew precisely how to do that, as well.
This is Maxine, he told himself. Another human being. Another individual, another person. It was not him, but someone else entirely. Well, maybe not entirely.
It was the first time in his life that he had ever made love without hesitation and without having to wonder if he was doing everything right.
While she made the coffee in the morning he did the toast and eggs: medium brown for the toast, over easy for the two eggs, half a glass of pineapple-grapefruit juice on the side. They ate in silence until their mutual unease dissolved into smiles and laughter: nervous giggles for her, deeper chuckles for him.
“How was it for you?” It was a morning-after question he had never had the guts to ask any of the other women he had made love to, but deep down he felt—no, he knew—that Maxine would not be offended.
She grinned at him over the top of her coffee mug. “You have to ask? I always wondered what it would be like to make love to someone who knew exactly what to do without having to be prompted. Now you’ve spoiled me.” Reaching across the small table, she put her hand on his.
“After what we’ve been through we deserve to be spoiled a little.” He energetically mopped up runny yellow yolk with bread. “This could get to be habit-forming.”
In both look and tone, her response was one of mild reproach. “Today is a work day. Or is it different in your para?”
“I’m afraid not. The things I’d like to see changed, that I’d be comfortable with having turned upside down, stay the same.” He smacked his lips, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. The napkins he bought at Ralph’s were plain, generic white. Maxine’s were stamped with little bouquets of flowers. “I suppose we’d better report in. I don’t want any of my selves fired even if they’re only para selves.”
She pushed back from the table. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk like that. Remember, to me you’re my para, not the other way around.”
He nodded. “Sorry. It’s hard to think about manners when you’re trying to concentrate on not going crazy. If it’s all right with you, I’ll drive. I’d like to check out the handling on the electric.”
“Internal combustion.” She shuddered visibly. “I’ll bet the skies of your Los Angeles are barely clear for half the year.”
He saw no point in correcting her. Anyone who could clear the skies of his Los Angeles for half the year could get elected mayor for life. Or maybe emperor.
A very few of the buildings they drove past looked different, but not sufficiently to slow him down. Some familiar advertisements were missing, but as far as he was concerned that was all to the good. Every vehicle on the street, from private cars to buses to delivery vans and even large trucks, traveled in eerie near-silence, whining in concert only when they accelerated.
It was an extraordinary experience to be able to drive up Lincoln with the window open while listening to the conversation of passing pedestrians or the songs of birds flying by overhead. There were far more birds than he was used to, as well, and a plethora of species instead of the usual dominant and domineering ravens and pigeons. Another legacy of the cleaner air in Maxine’s world, he noted.
Clearly, more than Maxine and her car were significantly different in this para. It meant he could expect to encounter further differences. On a whim, they compared the contents of his pocket and her purse. Except for certain feminine accessories that she carried and he did not, the contents were identical. Even to the signature, her credit cards were identical to his, her assorted forms of identification matched; she even carried the same kind and amount of money.
“Who’s the president?” Turning east on Wilshire, he found nearly every light and corner and storefront as familiar as day. Only the day itself, devoid of the usual smog and companion pollutants, was radically different from what he was used to.
“John Thomas Michaels, of course.” She leaned back in her seat and he admired the silhouette a slight but significant realigning of genes had produced.
“Local boy from Orange County, right?”
She nodded. “And before that, Bill Clinton.”
He was feeling more and more comfortable. “Check. And before him, George Bush, and before him, Ronald Reagan.”
She looked over abruptly. “Ronald Reagan? The actor?” Amusement at his witticism was writ plain on her face. “I know we share the same sense of humor, but it’s not usually so droll.”
“No, really, I’m serious. Ronald Reagan was the fortieth president of the United States. Two terms, in fact.” He turned to face her. “Are you telling me it’s different for you?”
“You’re not joking, are you.” She became thoughtful. “It was during Stevenson’s terms in office that Purnululu power spread worldwide. That’s when the internal-combustion engine disappeared and gave way to electrics.”
“Purnululu power?” He admired the deep blue sky. Living as he had all his life in Los Angeles, it was a color he saw only in pictures, or when he traveled beyond the atmospheric limits of the city.
“I’ll be damned; you’ve never heard of it, have you? You haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.”
He spread his hands and looked helpless. “Sounds like an ad for a new music group.”
“It’s rather more important than that. The principles were formalized by a consortium of Australian researchers working out of Perth and Brisbane. They led to, not exactly cold fusion, but a new, clean, and incredibly cheap way of generating electricity.”
“Bet that calmed things down in the Middle East.”
She frowned. “The Middle East has been calm for years. When Purnululu power was made widely available, the price of crude oil dropped to something like six dollars a barrel. Deprived of any financial leverage, even the more extreme Arab governments were anxious to make a lasting peace.”
“So there was no Gulf War during the Bush administration? Saddam Hussein’s Iraq didn’t try to take over Kuwait?”
She smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. “Why would Iraq want to take over Kuwait? There’s nothing in Kuwait but sand and oil, and the world has plenty of both.” She turned away from him, staring out the front window. “I think I’m glad to live in this para and not yours. The world’s been a much better place since the Aussies took over.”
Now it was his turn to gape. “The Australians and not the Americans are the world’s dominant power?”
“Of course. What would you expect from a country that controls the world’s supply of cheap electricity? Their GNP overtook that of the U.S. at least ten years ago and the gap has been widening ever since. The nice thing is, nobody
minds, since the Aussies don’t bring the historical baggage of an imperial or colonial power to the world stage. They’re good stewards of international standards of behavior and the competition has forced American beer to become fifty times better than what it used to be.” She turned thoughtful.
“There was some minor outcry in certain parts of the States last year over the hundred-dollar bill they issued with the Norman Lindsay painting reproduced on it, but that’s quieted down.” She considered a moment longer. “I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to McMutton burgers, though.”
It was a lot of severe historical revisionism to try and digest all at once, and he was grateful when the familiar structure that housed the offices of the Investigator finally came into view. He was about to pull into the underground parking area when Maxine hastened to interrupt.
“Wait a minute, where do you think you’re going?”
“Down, of course. To park.”
“You can’t park here. At least, I can’t. Go to the lot around the block. Take the next corner.”
Confused and not a little upset, he followed her instructions, cruising regretfully past the familiar entrance. “I don’t get it. I’ve been parking downstairs ever since I started working for the paper.”
She stared at him. “Paper? You work for a paper?”
“And you don’t, I take it.” He searched for an entrance to the parking lot behind the main building.
“I started writing for a paper, sure. Then I found out that people would pay me ten times as much money just to look at me. Well, to look at me while I was performing.”
His voice darkened. “Just what exactly is it that you ‘perform’?”
“Hey, calm down. I’m an actress. A legitimate actress, though I will do the occasional nude scene. But only if it’s essential to the story line.” She shook a finger at him. “You don’t have to explain your reaction. Remember, I know how your mind works as well as you do. I’m just not that used to dealing with it from a male perspective.”
Great, he thought. I meet my perfect female self, a literal counterpart, and she’s doffing her britches for the camera. He knew he should have been flattered, but for some reason he wasn’t.
The warehouse-like structure on the opposite side of the parking lot from the Investigator building had frequently been used as a studio by small production companies, but Max had never been inside. He’d often seen equipment and catering trucks lined up in the lot or on the nearby streets. As these were a common sight in Los Angeles, he’d never stopped to watch or kibitz with the crew. He had always been too anxious to get to or from work.
They parked in an unreserved space and she led him inside, gaining admittance for him by propounding the simple ruse that he was her brother. Looking at the two of them, no one would have disputed it. The atmosphere inside the warehouse was hectic, with two productions shooting scenes simultaneously in different parts of the building. Maxine’s appearance was the occasion for numerous greetings and waves, whereas Max drew more than a few startled double takes from extras and technicians.
“I have to go to work,” she told him. “First wardrobe, then makeup. But I’ll be back. Meanwhile you can wait for me here.” She opened the door to a small but comfortable dressing room equipped with a lounge, TV, refrigerator, and other comforts.
He was more than a little impressed. “You’ve got your own dressing room?” He admired the modest furnishings. “We must be doing well in this business.”
Standing in the doorway, she laughed softly. “We are. In fact, if the critics are to be believed, our career’s about to take off. If you find yourself stuck in this para maybe I can get you some work. Identical twins are always in demand for commercials and such, and God knows there are no twins more identical than you and I.”
Except for me and Mitch, he reminded himself, and me and a billion other paras. He wondered if they were all this successful, across the multiple para lines. It was intriguing to contemplate the possibilities. What might he be in the next one over? A respected, highly lauded surgeon, perhaps, or a famous painter.
Stop it, he ordered himself. It was a waste of time to fantasize unreasonable expectations. Acting he could see himself doing, especially in Maxine’s comely form, but he knew his limitations. More than likely, those extended across parallel worlds as exhaustively as did his undeniable abilities.
“Be back in a little while,” she assured him. “I’ll check in on you before they call me. As long as you keep quiet you can probably observe the filming.”
“I just might do that,” he replied. “What kind of a picture is it, anyway?”
“Babe Meets the Road Warrior.” She looked apologetic. “Sony Pictures wrested the rights to both franchises away from George Miller. I can’t say that I’m crazy about the script, but it’s a substantial part and I only have two scenes with the pig.” She smiled reassuringly. “It’ll be good for my career. Anything with an Aussie connection sells tickets.” She closed the door quietly behind her.
Left alone in the dressing room, he took further stock of his surroundings. The Australian edition of Premiere lay on the small end table along with The Economist and the trades. Deciding that he might as well make himself comfortable, he flopped down on the couch, picked up the TV remote, and switched on the set. Flipping through the agglutinated angst of morning soap operas and talk shows, in which he detected several strong Aussie accents among the principal players, he settled on a slice of inconsequential chat froth taped in Sydney. The media personality being interviewed was American, the interviewer Australian, the set florid with Asian colors and accoutrements.
As these novelties began to pale, he found himself drifting off. The couch was wide and comfortable, the room well insulated from the industrial-strength showbiz bustle outside, and he was exhausted mentally if not physically. When Maxine was ready to do her scenes he would take her up on her offer to watch the shoot, he told himself sleepily. She said she would wake him. Meanwhile, it would not hurt to give his overburdened mind a rest.
As he knew from experience, talk shows made excellent soporifics. Stretching out on the couch, he kicked off his shoes and let the banal drone of fruitless argument between uninteresting people with nothing to say lull him swiftly to sleep.
For the first time in days, his slumber was not troubled by disquieting dreams. When he awoke, he felt greatly refreshed and ready to deal with whatever the cosmos pitched his way. His shoes were where he had left them, at the foot of the couch.
Except—the couch was different, as were his surroundings. Different, and yet startlingly familiar. He instantly recognized the refrigerator in the corner, the table and scattered chairs, the posters and cartoons tacked to the walls, the pantry area with its built-in coffeemaker, even the stains on the floor. As for the couch, he had spent many a fruitful moment reclined on it before.
Or had he? Aware now that reality was not always what it seemed, he sat up slowly and donned his footwear. The employees’ lounge was heartrendingly familiar. Of Maxine there was no sign.
Moving to the door, he opened it not onto the bustling backwash of a small studio but a hallway frequented by familiar faces. There was no sign of filming in progress. The studio, like Maxine, was gone. Though he needed a good deal more proof before he would allow himself to accept the comforting reality of his surroundings, it was possible, just possible, that the Boles Effect had dropped him not into another para, but back into his own world line.
Stepping out into the hall, he oriented himself and headed off to his left. Through the occasional windows that opened onto the outside he recognized the same hazy urban panoramas he had casually committed to memory during his two years at the paper.
Well-known faces looked up and smiled or volunteered nonchalant greetings, as if nothing was amiss and all was right with the world. This world. For them, nothing was faulty, nothing had gone awry. Their reality was and always had remained undisturbed. Sterling Feeney, from down in Composition, stopp
ed to chat.
“Hey Max, saw that piece you did on the fortune-teller and the dead kid. Good stuff! You have a real feeling for atmosphere in your stories and …” He broke off, his expression becoming one of concern. “You feeling all right? You look a little out of it.”
A little out of it, Max thought. Yes, you could say that I’ve been a little out of it.
“I’m fine, Stir-fry. You know us writers. When we’re caught staring off into the distance it doesn’t mean that we’re rude or not listening; we’re just hard at work.”
“Yeah, that’s the excuse you always use.”
“What about you?” he asked the compositor. “How are you doing these days?”
“Me? I’m swell.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary happen in your life lately? Nothing extraordinary crop up in your neighborhood or fling itself in your face?”
Slightly baffled, Feeney regarded the reporter uncertainly. “Are you getting at something specific, or are you just having me on?”
“Forget it.” Raising his gaze, Max looked past the shorter man. “Seen Maxine around?”
“Maxine?” Feeney considered. “Don’t know any Maxine. She work here?”
“I thought she did. With another writer named Mitch.”
Feeney shook his head slowly. “Haven’t seen any stories with a byline from a guy named Mitch. Has Kryzewski hired some new people?”
“Probably not.” He pushed past the bemused compositor. “See you round, Sterling.”
Back, he thought as he heaved a long mental sigh. I’m back. It was just as Boles had hopefully hypothesized; the effects of the field were transitory and had worn off of their own accord, leaving him back in the world where he belonged. There was no need now to revisit the eccentric inventor, except perhaps to show him that he could relax and that there was no longer any cause for alarm. Like a bad headache quickly cured, the effects of his experience could no longer be felt.
Passing others in the hall, he was now able to greet them cheerfully. His cubicle beckoned, familiar and changeless. Before he could slip inside and take his seat, he ran into Hammel coming the other way.
Parallelities Page 13
