by Simon Hawke
They arrived at the Mayfair Hotel a short while later and found a suite reserved for them on the top floor. Ordinarily, Hightower would not even be able to get through the front doors of a place like the Mayfair, but the treatment they received was red carpet all the way. "Yes, Mr. Hightower, your suite is ready, of course. And if there is anything that we can do to make your stay more comfortable, please do not hesitate to let us know."
The bellman took them up to their room and Colin started rummaging around in his pockets for a tip, but the man only smiled and shook his head. "Thank you, sir, but that will be quite unnecessary. Everything's already been taken care of. Have a nice stay, sir."
"Right," said Colin, shutting the door behind him.
"Oooh, what a lovely room!" said Megan. "It looks like a room in the royal palace!"
Colin frowned, then realized she wasn't talking about another hotel. And then the bedroom door opened and a woman came out dressed in an elegant, dark blue suit and navy pumps. And she was carrying a gun.
"Bloody hell," said Hightower. "I knew this was all too good to be true."
"Please sit down, Mr. Hightower," said Pamela. "And you, too, miss. And don't make any sudden moves, please. I've been shooting competitively since I was a little girl, and I'm really very good with this."
"Dr. Fairburn, I take it?" Colin said.
"Pleased to meet you. Do sit down. We have a great deal to discuss. I hope you had a pleasant flight. Would you care for some refreshments?"
"We had some on the plane," said Hightower. "But I sure could do with another drink."
"The bar's over there," said Pamela, gesturing with the gun. Colin didn't know very much about guns, but he knew enough to recognize a semiautomatic with a silencer when he saw one.
"Is the gun really necessary?" he asked, slowly heading over to the bar and taking care to make no abrupt moves. "Or did you bring us all this way only to shoot us?"
"If I wanted you dead, Mr. Hightower, I could have accomplished that with a great deal less trouble," Pamela replied. "EnGulfCo has enormous resources. I could have hired a professional for a lot less money than it would have taken to charter that private jet. No, the gun is for my own protection. You see, I don't know you, and you do not exactly come highly recommended."
"Ah, I see," said Hightower, relaxing somewhat. What she said made perfect sense, of course. "Yes, I am well aware of my considerably less than sterling reputation. However, I have prided myself on always getting the story, regardless of what it took. I may not be upper crust, like you, but I am a competent professional."
"Very well," said Pamela. "In that ease, why don't you prove it to me? And forget all the fanciful speculation in your story. Tell me exactly what it is you think you know."
"Well, that's rather difficult to do without speculating," Colin said, "because I have no proof, you see, but here goes. I think someone-probably EnGulfCo, given your rather intense interest-has invented time travel. I think you've got yourself a top secret working prototype of some sort of time machine, only something has gone wrong."
"Go on."
"What I think must have happened," Colin continued, "is that whoever took this machine into the past has either deviated from the plan or else has suffered some sort of mishap and lost control of the machine, because somebody named Warrick now has it and is sending people from his time into ours, for reasons I can't fathom. Perhaps he is experimenting with the machine, trying to figure out how it works. Perhaps he thinks it's some sort of device for execution, because apparently he's using prisoners as his subjects. In either case, Megan here insists that he lives in an Alabaster Tower close to a royal palace of some sort, and that he is a sorcerer. I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but she obviously believes that he is literally capable of casting spells and such."
"Interesting," said Pamela. "Keep going."
"He seems to have a rather highly placed position in the government of his nation, which Megan tells me is called the Kingdom of Pitt," Colin said, pouring himself a drink. "She is from its capital city, which is known, coincidentally, as Pittsburgh. From what she tells me, the period sounds definitely medieval. Now I've done a little research, but I can't find any reference to any Kingdom of Pitt, nor a land of twenty-seven kingdoms or a city known as Pittsburgh. Except for the one in Pennsylvania, of course, and its history hardly goes back to medieval times. This initially led me to suspect that Megan comes from a time period about which very little is known, possibly the England of Celtic times. However, there's one thing that doesn't quite fit. She speaks a very modern sort of English, with only a few out of place expressions and constructions."
"And what conclusion do you draw from this?" asked Pamela.
"That she wasn't genuine, but after spending some time with her, I am convinced she is exactly what she claims. Either that, or she's one of the best actresses I've ever seen. If it's a performance, it has absolutely no inconsistencies. What's more, I've interviewed several other people who claim to have come from this same kingdom, and their stories are all the same, down to the last detail, with only one variant. Some of them claim that before they were transported here, this Warrick placed a 'spell of compulsion' on them, which sounds rather like a posthypnotic suggestion. This suggestion, or compulsion, drives them to seek a way to return to him in the Alabaster Tower and tell him where they've been and what they've seen. However, I've also spoken to at least one person who claims that no such compulsion was placed upon him."
"And is that all you have?"
"Not quite. After the first story ran," Colin went on, "my paper received a rather interesting call from a young musician in New York. When I called back and spoke to him, he told me a fascinating story, after first informing me that if I used his name, he would say that it was only a publicity stunt to get his band's name in the paper. He said he was from this same time period, only unlike the others, he was not from the Kingdom of Pitt. He claimed to have come from a kingdom known as Darn, where he worked as an apprentice to a sorcerer. I asked him some questions pertaining to certain details I had left out of the story, and except for the spell of compulsion, his answers matched what I knew. Or at least what I'd been told by Megan and the others.
"One day, he said, some brigands brought a curious apparatus to the sorcerer to whom he was apprenticed. They claimed to have found it sitting abandoned in the middle of a road. This sorcerer proceeded to use every spell he could think of to divine the purpose of this machine and figure out how it worked. One of them was apparently successful, because while he was sitting in it and casting his spell, he suddenly disappeared, but the machine remained. This so-called apprentice then realized that it was a dangerous device, so he took it to Pittsburgh and delivered it to Warrick the White, whose title is-get this-the Grand Director of the Sorcerers and Adepts Guild and Royal Wizard to the King of Pitt.
"Warrick questioned him about the spells his master had used, then forced him to get into the machine while he spoke the same spell. The next thing this young man knew, he was in New York City. He managed to survive by living on the streets for a short time, until he met a girl who took him in. Soon afterward, he got a job as a vocalist with a rock and roll band. He seemed quite happy with his lot and had no desire whatsoever to return to his own time. Like Megan and the others, he insisted that where he came from, magic really works. However, it apparently doesn't work here, because although he was a sorcerer's apprentice and knew some magic, none of his spells would function since he had arrived. This didn't seem to bother him, though. He was enjoying a considerably upgraded lifestyle as an up-and-coming young musician and said he'd take electric guitars and MTV over magic anyday. He told me he was confident no one would ever believe this story, except perhaps whoever had made the machine in the first place, and if I knew what was good for me, I'd drop the whole investigation, because the government was probably behind it all."
Pamela raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, waiting for him to go on.
"A
ll in all, it was quite an interesting conversation," Colin said. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would have dismissed him as a drug-addled young neurotic, but then these aren't exactly ordinary circumstances, are they? So," said Colin, as he finished off his whiskey and poured himself another, "what I think is that either this whole thing is the nuttiest and most complicated hoax I've ever heard of, or else this time machine or whatever it is has enabled you to discover the existence of a parallel universe. How am I doing?"
Pamela had lowered her gun. "A parallel universe!" she said. "Jesus, I hadn't even thought of that." She took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. "Why don't you pour me one of those? I think I could use it."
"My pleasure," Colin said, reaching for another glass. "Now, turnabout is fair play, Dr. Fairburn, if that is really your name. I realize you're the one with the gun, but don't you think I'm entitled to some answers after all the work I've done? How close was I?"
Pamela took the drink from him and tossed it back in one gulp. "Entirely too close," she said, and told him everything.
"Marvin Brewster, eh?" said Colin when she'd finished. "I've heard of him. We used to call him 'the nutty professor.' Little did we know."
"He happens to be my fiance," Pamela said.
"Sorry. No offense. So, where do we go from here?"
"I wish I knew," said Pamela. "I've been working on duplicating Marvin's machine, and it's almost complete, but without a fresh supply of Buckminsterfullerine, there's no way to make it work."
"And you can't get your hands on any more of this Buckminster-whatever-it-is?" asked Hightower.
"It's not exactly something you can buy over the counter," Pamela said, wryly. "Marvin got this supply from a meteor that fell to Earth on some Pacific island. We have the capability to manufacture it now, but not nearly in the same density. EnGulfCo's working on it, but in the meantime, unless they can locate some more from another meteor fragment somewhere, there's nothing more that I can do."
"Which means that Brewster's stuck... wherever he is," said Colin.
"I don't even know if he's still alive," said Pamela disconsolately.
"Well, it's some terrific story, that's for sure," said Colin. He took a small tape recorder out of his pocket. "This thing's gonna win me a Pulitzer."
There was a chuffing sound and the tape recorder flew out of Colin's hand, smashed by a .38 caliber hollowpoint bullet. Hightower glanced at Pamela with shock as she lowered the semiautomatic.
"Are you crazy?" he shouted. "Look what you just did! You could have killed me!"
"She's a sorceress!" said Megan.
"She's a bloody nutcase, is what she is!" said Hightower.
"Relax, Mr. Hightower. I've been shooting clay pigeons and grouse hunting with my father most of my life. If I had wanted to kill you, rest assured, I would have. And believe it or not, I just did you a favor."
"A favor!"
"That's right. If the chairman of EnGulfCo even suspected I'd spoken to you about this ... well, to be quite honest, I'm not really sure how far he'd be willing to go, but at the very least, he'd make absolutely certain you never published your story anywhere."
"If you people think you can suppress a story like this-" Colin began, but Pamela interrupted him.
"Look, I'm taking a tremendous risk telling you all this. You have no idea. I've had my phone tapped and I've been followed ever since I started on this project. I'm reasonably sure I wasn't followed here, but it's only a matter of time before your part in this becomes exposed. I chartered that jet on an EnGulfCo account, and that same account is paying for your room."
"Well, that wasn't very smart, was it?" Colin said.
"It makes no difference, Mr. Hightower," Pamela replied. The chairman of EnGulfCo is not in the habit of reading the tabloids, but it's only a matter of time before your story comes to his attention one way or another. And if you think he can't suppress it, think again. He could easily buy your newspaper and have you fired. Or, for a lot less money, he could simply have you disappear."
"Are you serious?" said Colin.
"I'm not sure I'd put it past him," Pamela replied. "Think about it. A discovery like this would mean a fortune to whoever controlled it. Think of the power it would place into their hands." She shook her head. "I'm afraid Marvin's really done it this time. He's gotten himself, and all of us, into one hell of a mess."
"So what were you intending to do?" asked Colin.
Pamela shrugged. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought it all through. Right now, all I can think about is Marvin. He's in trouble, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do to help."
"Well, perhaps there's something I can do," said Colin. "Look, so long as this discovery remains a secret, EnGulfCo is holding all the cards. Granted, I want to write the story, so I have a vested interest. However, getting this whole thing out into the open is your best chance to help Brewster. So long as EnGulfCo remains in control, they can call the tune. But if you were in control, then it would be a different story, wouldn't it?"
"What do you mean?" asked Pamela.
"Right now," said Hightower, "all that's happened is a couple of pieces have appeared in an American tabloid that has printed stories about Elvis being spotted in convenience stores. In other words, no one's likely to take any of this very seriously. Especially given my rather less than savory reputation. However, while I might be easily dismissed, that wouldn't be the case with you. Especially if you had some sort of proof, such as detailed notes and diagrams of the machine. If we were to approach, say, The London Times, and you could convince them this whole thing was on the level, then EnGulfCo could no longer control the situation. Now, what's in it for me, you may well ask? Well, I get to write the story. And I'm on record as the guy who broke it, and my career is made. What do you say?"
Pamela moistened her lips. "I have a good friend on the editorial board of The Times. The difficulty would be in getting the proof from Marvin's laboratory. I'd never get it past security."
"You have access to the lab, right?"
"Yes, of course. But I'd never get out with Marvin's notes."
"Well then, we'll simply have to think of something," said Colin. "Are you allowed in after hours?"
"Yes."
"Good. That means fewer people will be about. Do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?"
"There should be some paper in the desk there. And I've got a pen."
"We'll need a rough layout of the place. The route to and from the lab. How many guards, how many cameras, elevators, flights of stairs, and so forth. I need to know as much as you can tell me about what sort of security they've got. Can you do that?"
"Yes, I think so."
"All right, let's get to it."
"You sound as if you've done this sort of thing before," said Pamela.
"Dr. Fairburn, you wouldn't believe some of the places I've gotten into."
"Well, if we're going to be partners in crime, you might as well call me Pamela."
Colin grinned. "All right, Pamela." He glanced over his shoulder at Megan. "Why don't you watch the magic box awhile, dear? Pamela and I have got some work to do."
Queen Sandy made her way through the dark and winding streets to a part of town where even a strong and well armed man out walking alone after sunset would be taking his life in his own hands. However, if she felt afraid, she showed no sign of it. She headed purposefully toward the corner of Cutthroat Avenue and Garotte Street, and a raucous alehouse known as The Stealers Tavern. As she walked with her cloak billowing out behind her, she watched the shadows and steered clear of the mouths of alleyways, staying in the middle of the deserted street. But in this part of town, caution was not necessarily a guarantee of safety.
As she approached the corner where the tavern stood, three figures detached themselves from the shadows and moved out into the street to block her way.
"Well, well," one of them said, "what have we here?"
"Is that the best you can do?" Sandy replied.
"What?"
" 'Well, well, what have we here?' What a cliche. Was that the most original line you could think of?"
"What's a cliche?" asked one of the other alleymen, for that is what they were, the term "mugger" not having been invented yet.
"Shut up!" the first alleyman said.
Sandy glanced over her shoulder. The street behind her was clear. "You mean you didn't even think of blocking my escape?" she said. "Have you three ever done this before?"
"Don't try running away," the first alleyman said. "We'll chase ye down."
"Aye, we're very swift, ye know," the third alleyman added.
"Fleet of foot," said the second alleyman, nodding emphatically. "Very, very fast."
"Shut up!" said the leader. He pulled out a dagger. "Right, now, lady, hand it over."
"Hand what over?" Sandy asked.
"Your purse, of course! Don't be a twit!"
"I haven't got a purse."
"What do ye mean ye haven't got a purse? Every woman's got a purse!"
"Well, I don't."
"Come on, do ye think we're stupid?"
"Incredibly," said Sandy.
"Ey, did you hear what she just said?" the third alleyman said, turning to their leader.
"Of course, I heard, ye idiot! I'm standing right here, ain't I?" He turned back toward Sandy. "Now don't go making this any harder on yourself, lady. Let's have the money."
"I don't have any money," Sandy said. "And if I did, I certainly wouldn't give it to the likes of you. Now stand aside and let me pass."
"Look, lady, we've got knives," said the leader of the alleymen. He held his up so she could see it clearly, then nudged the other two and they held theirs up, as well.
