Out of This World

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Long ago, Amy Jewell had learned to read lips a little, just for fun. She couldn’t hear him through the closed window, but she knew what the man had said.

  He had said, “Shit.”

  He turned and called something back into the hatch, but Amy couldn’t make it out, nor could she see his lips.

  The man looked perfectly normal and ordinary, except for his rather outlandish attire. He was clean-shaven, his hair in a military crewcut that was beginning to grow out. He was tall and broad-shouldered and reminded her a little of Harrison Ford. She could see no sign of any injury; the thing’s fall didn’t even appear to have seriously mussed his uniform.

  He was scanning her back yard, looking over the lawn chair, the still-dripping sprinkler, the spilled geraniums and the branch that had been torn off the sycamore. He did not look pleased.

  Then he spotted her in the window. He waved and cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Hello!”

  Amy stared for a moment.

  Then another head appeared in the hatch, looking out—another young man in uniform and crewcut.

  Amy decided that she didn’t want to talk to these people. They might be harmless—but they might not, and she was alone in the house, the neighbors were still off at their church, and there were at least two of the strangers and either one was bigger than she was. Those blond crewcuts brought Nazis to mind, which didn’t help any.

  She didn’t think that the plane, or whatever it was, was going to explode. If there were any possibility of that the men would be running to get clear, not standing there looking around as if her back yard was some sort of disaster they had to clean up.

  She locked the back door and then went upstairs to her bedroom. She got the little gun her father had given her from the bedside drawer, then crossed to the back windows and looked out again.

  There were three men standing in her yard now, looking about. They looked nervous; one of them, the one she hadn’t seen at all before, looked downright twitchy, his head jerking back and forth, scanning the shrubbery.

  Naturally, he was the one with the gun.

  It was quite a large gun, too, not one that would fit in a holster and not a kind Amy remembered ever seeing before. It looked oddly bulbous, but very complicated and ominous. He had it tucked under his right arm, he wasn’t pointing it at anyone or anything, but Amy still had to suppress a nervous shudder. She was very glad she hadn’t gone out to yell at the men for wrecking her yard; that man looked as if he might have shot her without even meaning to.

  The second man righted the fallen lawn chair and sat down—making himself right at home, Amy thought with a stab of resentment. Then he put his head down in his hands and she felt a twinge of guilt for her resentment. She still didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on, but obviously, whatever these people were doing had gone wrong. Let the poor man sit down if he had to.

  The big blond who had been the first out cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Hello, in the house!”

  Amy didn’t answer. She thought about it, but decided to wait.

  “Hello!” he called again.

  She put the gun down and opened the window-latch, then reconsidered.

  “Where are we?” the man shouted. “Can you send for the authorities?”

  Amy frowned. That seemed like a strange thing to ask. She opened the window a few inches.

  “I already did!” she called.

  The man blinked up at her, and the other man, the one with the big gun, turned to look. She ducked down and picked up her own gun.

  This was crazy, she told herself. This was absolutely insane. These people were not acting like air-crash survivors at all. And that plane didn’t really look that much like a plane.

  So who the hell were they, then, and what was that thing? They didn’t sound like foreigners, not really—though asking her to send for the authorities, rather than to call the cops, was odd phrasing.

  That thing they came in—she had a better view of it from upstairs than she had had at ground level. It didn’t look like an airplane.

  It looked like a spaceship.

  Not a real spaceship—not the space shuttle or a moon rocket. It looked like something out of an old Flash Gordon serial, only real—as if those comic-book spaceships had been based on this ship the way comic-book cars were based on real ones.

  It bore the same relationship to those cheap models in “Flash Gordon,” she thought, that a real 1947 Checker bore to Benny the Cab in “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

  She blinked. Was someone shooting a movie, maybe? She’d never seen a ship like that in any movie, though. They wouldn’t build it full scale and drop it in her back yard, in any case—not without asking her permission.

  What the hell was going on?

  Then she heard the sirens approaching and decided it wasn’t her problem any more.

  Chapter Two

  The nagging in the back of his head had been there for a few days, and he didn’t really consciously notice it any more—until it abruptly stopped. For a moment he was startled by the sudden mental silence; then he realized what had happened and smiled broadly.

  It had stopped.

  About time.

  He had never figured out what caused that odd feeling, but whatever it had been, it was a relief to be rid of it.

  * * * *

  Angela Thompson burst out crying, and when her mother finally got an explanation it took a real effort not to slap the girl for getting hysterical over nothing.

  “Mr. Nobody stopped talking to me,” indeed!

  * * * *

  Ray Aldridge didn’t like it when the messages stopped, but it was no big deal. They weren’t providing all that much useful material, anyway—no bulletins from dead millionaires or miracle diet plans. He had gotten along without them for years, and he could get by without them again. He would just go back to making up his own.

  * * * *

  Oram Blaisdell wasn’t so complacent as the others. When the angels from Venus stopped talking to him, he concluded that Satan had somehow killed them all. He got his old twelve-gauge from the back room and went out to his pick-up and headed north.

  He wasn’t any too sure where Goshen, Maryland might be, but he reckoned he could find it.

  He got as far as Radford, Virginia before the cops picked him up for speeding. Listening to his story, they decided the poor old guy shouldn’t be running around loose. They called up his kids back in Paulette.

  Between Henry Blaisdell’s coaxing and the state troopers’ story about a secret government campaign against the Satanists in Goshen, Oram finally decided to go home and mind his own business.

  Satan wouldn’t get him without a fight, when the time came, but why go looking for trouble where he wasn’t wanted?

  * * * *

  Pel Brown was sitting in his favorite chair, re-reading C.S. Forester’s Ship of the Line, when someone knocked.

  He glanced up, annoyed. He had been in the middle of the scene where the Sutherland, Hornblower’s ship, tears up an entire Italian army on the Spanish shore road, and he resented the interruption. He had been comfortably absorbed in ships’ broadsides and Napoleonic politics.

  Nancy and Rachel were out shopping, he remembered, partly to return the duplicate tape of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ Rachel had gotten at her party yesterday, but mostly after groceries. They weren’t around to answer the knock—but maybe whoever it was would go away.

  Whoever it was didn’t go away, but knocked again instead.

  Why would anyone knock, anyway? Was the doorbell broken?

  Sighing heavily, Pel got up out of the recliner and put the book down on the endtable, using the unpaid cable TV bill as a bookmark. He plodded to the front door and opened it.

  No one was there. The porch and front steps were empty. No one was on the sidewalk or the lawn, either. More annoyed than ever, Pel turned and headed back for the recliner.

  The knock sounded again, and he realized it wasn
’t coming from the front door. It was coming from the door to the basement.

  Had Nancy come home without his even noticing it and somehow got herself locked in the basement?

  No, because then where was Rachel? She was never this quiet. And besides, he hadn’t been that involved with the book; he’d have heard them come in.

  Maybe a meter reader had come in from outside and needed to talk to him about something?

  On Sunday? Not likely.

  There was one easy way to find out. He opened the basement door.

  The man standing on the steps was a complete stranger. Pel blinked at him, startled. It was only when he saw this new apparition that he remembered seeing the little person while assembling Rachel’s wagon two nights before.

  “Good day, sir,” the stranger said. He bowed, right arm across his chest, a hat in his right hand, a feather bobbing on the hat.

  “Hi,” Pel said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I am called Raven,” the stranger replied, with another bow. “And whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  Pel stared for a moment.

  He had, he felt, plenty of reason to stare. The man before him was of medium height, maybe five foot eight or so, with curly black hair and a tan. He was wearing a black tunic with silver embroidery and gold trim, black woolen hose on his legs, and a fine black velvet cloak thrown over one shoulder. The hat he held was a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned black felt, with a curling white ostrich plume in the band.

  It didn’t look like a stage costume, though—the materials were too heavy, the detailing too fine, without any of the glitzy look of theatrical attire. The clothes had a solid reality to them.

  So did the man who wore them. He had a long nose, dark eyes, and lines at the corners of a thin-lipped mouth; Pel estimated him to be in his late thirties or early forties. He looked more like a Mafioso than an actor.

  He was waiting for an answer.

  “Pel Brown,” Pel said at last.

  The stranger straightened up a little more and said, “Your servant, sir. Are you the master here?”

  “It’s my house, if that’s what you mean.” Pel considered it odd that the man’s speech was rather flowery, in accord with his garb, but his accent was faint and seemed somewhere between Australia and the Bronx, not at all in the traditional British upper-class manner.

  “Indeed,” Raven said. He moved his eyes.

  Pel took the hint and stepped aside. “Come on up out of there,” he said.

  The man who had introduced himself as Raven obliged, and for the first time Pel realized that the stranger’s tunic was belted with a wide band of black leather, and that a sword hung from that belt. Not a dueling foil, as his outfit might have led one to expect, but a sheathed broadsword.

  “Come on over here,” Pel said.

  Raven’s eyes darted about, taking in the passageway, the kitchen that was visible through the doorway, the family room, the bookcases, the etageres, the couch, the recliner, the video set-up, the Maxfield Parrish print on the wall.

  Pel stepped back and closed the basement door, making sure that it latched and that the lock was set. Then he followed his guest into the family room.

  Upon spotting the stranger the household cat, Silly Cat by name, leapt up from his place on the back of the couch and made a dash for the stairs. He was a timid beast, much given to hiding under the bed, and would hardly ever stay in the same room with an unfamiliar human being.

  “Have a seat,” Pel said, gesturing at the couch.

  “Thank you,” Raven said. He sank onto the sofa and seemed startled by how soft the cushions were. His sword got in the way; he swung it to the side, and had to unbuckle the belt to get comfortable. He pulled the leather band out, wrapped it around the scabbard, and then laid the whole package gently on the coffee table, carefully not disturbing the two issues of TV Guide or the beer-stained coaster. His velvet cloak he draped over the back of the couch, where, Pel was sure, the velvet would pick up cat hairs.

  Pel settled back into his recliner, his hand reaching automatically for his book. He stopped himself, leaned forward, and asked, “So, Raven, you said?”

  The stranger nodded.

  “Okay,” Pel said. “So what were you doing in my basement? You have anything to do with the elf who turned up down there night before last?”

  “Elf?” Raven’s face expressed polite puzzlement.

  “Something like that—little guy, about this high.” Pel held out his hands to show his tiny visitor’s height. “Said he was from Hrumph.”

  “Oh.” Raven nodded. “Aye, that would be Grummetty.”

  “Grummetty, huh?”

  “Aye,” Raven said. “A little person. He’s no elf; the elven are another sort entirely. Of a time, we called Grummetty’s people gnomes, but ‘twould seem they find the term offensive now, so we... well, most of us try to oblige them. Particularly now, in their days of exile.”

  “I asked him if he was a fairy,” Pel said.

  “Alack for that!” Raven exclaimed. A wry grin flickered quickly across his face, then vanished. “He made no mention on that. I’ll hope he took not too great an offense at it.”

  “No, he accepted it as an honest misunderstanding, I think. So, he’s a friend of yours?”

  “An ally, more than a friend, I would say,” Raven replied judiciously.

  “Oh,” Pel said, accepting the distinction without comprehension. “Well, so you got into my basement the same way he did?”

  Raven nodded. “Exactly. It pleases me well to see that you’re a man of such quick intelligence.”

  Pel gave a self-deprecating smile. “Sure. So now that we’ve got that straight—who the hell are you people, and how are you getting into my basement, and why?”

  “Well...” Raven’s eyes roamed the room again, the green wall-to-wall carpeting, the textured ceiling, the green drapes and the sliding glass door to the patio, the books and records and CDs and videotapes, the throw pillows that Rachel had stacked on the floor as a fort for her Barbie dolls.

  Pel waited.

  Raven sighed. “’Tis a long story,” he said, “and I scarce know where to start.”

  “Begin at the beginning,” Pel said, without thinking. “And go on till you come to the end; then stop.” The quote from Lewis Carroll was an old favorite.

  “Indeed, that’s the wisest course for most tales,” Raven agreed. “But I think I’d do best to start by asking you a question. What know you, sir, of other worlds than your own?”

  “It depends how you mean that,” Pel replied cautiously. He did not intend to set himself up for anything.

  “What I mean, good sir,” Raven replied, “is that I am not of your world. In truth, I know nothing of it save what Grummetty told me, and what I have seen for myself. Your pardon, but your world seems to me passing strange; your chamber here reminds of nothing so much as a wizard’s secret chamber, yet the door—it is a door?—aye, the door yonder is sheerest glass, is it not? Not some mage’s trickery?”

  “It’s glass,” Pel agreed. “Go on.”

  “Doors of glass,” Raven said, shaking his head in amazement.

  “Get on with it!” Pel snapped. His patience was wearing thin. If this was all some elaborate stunt he was getting tired of it, he wanted the punchline. If it was real—well, that was another matter entirely. That was frightening.

  It was downright terrifying, in fact.

  “Your pardon, sir,” Raven said, ducking his head. “As I was saying, your world is not my own, nor from what I see here does it much resemble my own, though men are yet men, and the trees and grass I see through the pane seem familiar, and we speak the same tongue.”

  That fact had already struck Pel. It seemed very unlikely that people from another world would speak English.

  “It seems to me that you speak it as the little people do, rather than as my own, yet ‘tis certainly the same tongue,” Raven continued.

  Pel began to wonder if he would ever g
et to the point. “All right, you’re from another world,” he said. “How’d you get in my basement?”

  “’Tis the doing of our mage, Elani, with a spell stolen from the foe; she sent first Grummetty, and then myself, to see what manner of world it was that the Imperials had found in their quest for aid against Shadow.”

  “What?” asked Pel, thoroughly confused. Raven’s accent seemed to be thickening, and his phrasing becoming more complex, as he settled into the conversation. The words didn’t seem to make sense, but he tried a little free association. “You’re in trouble with Lamont Cranston’s Chrysler?”

  “How’s that?” Raven expressed polite puzzlement.

  “Never mind,” Pel said, waving it aside. “Go on.”

  Raven nodded. “As I said, ‘tis a long tale. Know you aught of Shadow, or perchance of the Imperials?”

  “No,” Pel said flatly. He decided not to try any Little Anthony jokes.

  “I feared as much.” The stranger groped for words, then began. “Shadow,” he said, “is an evil thing. ‘Twas once a mortal wizard, the legends say, but I’d not swear to that. Whatever it is in truth, its magic is great, its slaves and servants many and mighty, and in its realm its power is absolute. For centuries, since before my family’s first father began the archives, Shadow has been growing, spreading its power, fighting and defeating and devouring mages and wizards, learning their spells and consuming their power. In its wake come death and terror; castles are thrown down, their inhabitants horribly slain. Villages are burnt, the people devoured, crops and livestock vanished. For centuries, men of good will have struggled against Shadow, have resisted the offers it made of power in its foul realm—but weaker men have sold their souls for empty promises and brief pleasures.”

  Pel listened appreciatively. Raven told the story well, despite his curious accent. Pel had heard it before, of course, in any number of fantasy novels and movies. “And you’ve found some way this Shadow can be defeated?” he asked, anticipating the next step in the traditional plot. “Some talisman that can kill it, or something?”