The lights were off in the corridors and most of the rooms. She left them off, using her hands to find her way when her knowledge of the building failed her. Eventually, she arrived at the entrance door for the sub-zero levels. She felt a little flutter of anxiety before she ran Sunny’s ID badge over the reader, thinking that perhaps he didn’t have afterhours clearance. But no alarm sounded. Instead she heard the door sliding open. Once inside, she found her way to the stairwell and descended as far as the D-corridor. The anticipation was building now. Her heart raced. She heard sounds and calls from some of the rooms along the corridor, but she ignored them and went straight to room MB-314. Sunny’s ID got the door open. Before entering, she flicked on the overhead lights.
On the bunk on the far side of the room lay a small, old and shrunken man. He sat up when she entered, his face showing first confusion, then joy when he recognised her. He reached out his arms and made a noise she understood to mean, “Mama!”
She went to him and embraced him. They gripped on to each other as if they would never let go, but Catherine knew they had to act quickly. She drew back and showed the man Sunny Rashid’s ID badge. She pointed at Sunny’s picture on the badge.
“Him? You remember him?”
The old man looked from the picture to Catherine’s face. He nodded.
“You know what you have to do?”
He nodded again.
“Lie down.”
The old man did as instructed, and Catherine covered him with the sheet. Then she stood and crossed to the door. She swiped the ID badge across the reader and, as the door opened, groped around the wall for the light switches. She turned off all the lights in the room, then stood and held her breath as she listened to the door closing again. Then she felt her way along the wall until she found a chair. She sat down. Already, she could hear noises from the bed, tiny scratchings like the sound of things knitting together.
She hoped they would not be disturbed before morning.
HOW THEY MET THEMSELVES
Daniel Marc Chant
The Inventor, in one of his rare moments of inactivity, took it upon himself to read The Time Machine, the latest scientific romance by Herbert George Wells with whom he frequently corresponded by post. Ensconced in a remarkably comfortable chair in front of a gas-powered fire of his own devising, he speedily read the entire book in a little under two hours. Upon finishing it, he threw the thing into the fire and pronounced his verdict. “Poppycock! Stuff and nonsense.”
He would, he decided, write to Herbert first thing in the morning and put him right on a number of scientific matters, not the least being the feasibility or otherwise of time travel. Having spent a number of years researching the matter, he could prove beyond all doubt that movement through time was strictly forbidden by the laws of physics.
“Sideways,” he muttered, rising to his feet and stretching. “That's the way to go. Isn't that right, Bruin?”
At the mention of his name, the old dog's ears pricked up. The faithful Labrador was lying on a rug beside his master's armchair, no doubt grateful for the relief the fire gave to his rheumatic bones.
“Mister Wells,” the Inventor went on, “shares the delusion suffered by most thinking men that creation is bound by four dimensions. But if four, why not five or six? Or even an infinitude of them?
“Had dear Herbert my knowledge and intellect, he would not have called his latest work The Time Machine. Rather he would have entitled it The Interdimensional Machine.”
So saying, the Inventor turned to look proudly at the absurd-looking contrivance that occupied over half his living room. It was a copper sphere mounted on an iron platform and equipped with an airlock and a porthole. If it resembled a diving bell, that was due in no small part to the fact that a diving bell it had been until the Inventor had rescued it from a scrapyard and refurbished the interior with advanced gadgetry, the workings of which only he could understand.
Two cables, each as thick as a strong man's arm, snaked between the sphere and a Diesel engine which had been pumping electricity into the sphere's batteries for the best part of the day. Thanks to a few yet-to-be-patented modifications the Inventor had concocted, the Diesel made barely enough noise to be audible. If one did not know better, one would suppose it inhabited by a host of contented cats purring in unison.
An electric bell, such as might be seen at a train station to warn of the approach of a locomotive, could be discerned through the porthole. It was affixed to the wall above the main control panel. As he had on several occasions over the past few days, the Inventor gazed fixedly at it, and though he was no believer in telepathy or telekinesis, he projected his thoughts into the sphere, willing the bell to ring.
“Oh well,” he said, conceding defeat, “I think we best call it a day, Bruin, and take ourselves off to bed.”
Bruin pleaded with his eyes to be allowed to stay by the fire for a little longer. The thought of climbing the stairs with legs that didn't much want to make the effort in no way appealed to him.
“I know,” said the Inventor. “I'm not so young myself, Bruin, and the bedroom at this hour tends to be less than cozy, but we must sleep. Perhaps tomorrow I will purchase a small bed and then we need not bother ourselves with the upstairs. Until then, however, I am afraid we must—“ The Inventor was cut off in mid-sentence by a sudden clamor that once he'd gotten over his initial shock seemed to him the most joyous din he had ever heard. With childlike glee, he skipped over to the sphere and pressed his face to the porthole. “It's happening, Bruin! Just like I said it would!”
It was perhaps fortunate for Bruin that he was hard of hearing, otherwise the clanging of the bell might well have caused his weary heart to give out. He watched without very much interest as his master climbed into the sphere and closed the door behind him.
When the sphere began to glow and hum, Bruin took it in stride. Having been the Inventor's constant companion for many a long year, he was accustomed to accepting the unusual as usual, the bizarre as mundane. Even the sudden disappearance of his master from within the sphere caused him no concern whatsoever.
The glow and hum disappeared, and the bell ceased its awful clanging. Thankful that he wouldn't be forced to leave the warmth of the fireside any time soon, Bruin closed his eyes and was soon dreaming about chasing rabbits.
Lights cascaded around the Inventor. They came in multi-colored streams and spheres that pulsated. He could taste the spectrum and smell it too.
The journey lasted a matter of seconds. He knew it was over when the lights disappeared and his interdimensional engine shut itself off.
Had it worked?
“Of course it has!” he hissed at himself, annoyed by his momentary lack of faith in his own abilities. Every part of the machine had been thoroughly tested. He’d gone over the equations a hundred times. Nothing had been left to chance.
He peered out of the porthole and had the fright of his life when he found his own face staring back at him. His fear quickly turned to elation as he realized the significance of the sight. “I was right! There are many mes scattered throughout the universe! Perhaps even an infinitude. Oh think how it would be if myself and my alter egos could communicate en masse! Think of the good we could do; the problems we'd solve.”
His doppelgänger seemed to have been struck by much the same idea, for he returned the Inventor’s look of delight with one of his own before stepping to one side, thus affording the Inventor a view of a living room much like the one he'd just left.
The furniture was identical to his own and laid out in the same meticulous pattern. He was delighted to see an exact duplicate of his gas fire blazing away.
If ever there was an indisputable case of great minds thinking alike, he told himself, this is it!
Giddy with excitement, he opened the door of the copper sphere and stepped out into a universe not his own. The Doppelgänger greeted him with a laugh and a hug that was fondly returned.
“We did it!” cried the pair
. “The greatest scientific breakthrough ever!”
They laughed at the synchronicity of their remarks. It occurred to the Inventor – as it must have to his double – that they were more identical than even the most identical of twins in either of their universes.
“Come,” said the Doppelgänger, “let us swap notes. You must tell me of your world, for I have no doubt it differs to my own in many crucial aspects.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Inventor. “It is my–our–contention that each world differs from those adjacent to it by a small but significant degree.”
“And that the further apart the worlds,” the Doppelgänger cut in, “the greater the difference.”
“Exactly what I was going to say!”
“I know, dear boy. I know.”
Two great scientists sat by the gas fire sipping a most agreeable sherry.
“I have no truck with spiritualists and mediums,” said the Doppelgänger after a few minutes of fevered chat that none but they would have much understood, “but I would not rule out some kind of psychic connection between the two of us. How else would one explain us building the two machines necessary to make travel between our worlds possible?”
The Doppelgänger was referring to the fact that though it might be supposed that the Inventor’s Interdimensional Machine had effected a jump between two adjacent worlds, no such thing had occurred. It was only the Inventor who had been thus transported. He had left in his own machine and arrived in its exact double in a parallel universe.
In effect, his machine had acted as a transmitter which would have been useless without the Doppelgänger version of the machine to receive him.
The bell which had summoned him to what he called Earth II had been set off by a signal from the Doppelgänger to announce that all was in readiness for the Inventor to journey between worlds.
“We need not resort to the supernatural to explain the phenomenon,” said the Inventor, wondering at his other self's folly. “If there are an infinite number of us scattered throughout the universe, then it is inevitable that one would do as you have done and build a machine complimentary to my own in the knowledge that another such machine must exist in the multiverse. In fact, there might well be an infinite number of us doing so.”
“Dear Lord!” The Doppelgänger slapped his forehead and laughed good-naturedly at his faux pas. “You are right, of course. Why ever did that thought not occur to me?”
“Because amongst the infinite wes who have built an interdimensional machine, it is a mathematical certainty that an infinite number of us will think and act as you do.”
“All those infinite infinities within an infinity of infinities. It fair boggles the mind.”
The two scientists talked like old friends catching up on one another. They said relatively little about their respective machines as they both knew as much as the other on that subject.
“Do you by any chance have a prominent physicist by the name of Moriarty in your world?” the Doppelgänger enquired.
“I don’t believe so. The only Moriarty that comes to mind is a fictitious villain.”
“So you have no General Theory of Relativity?”
“Certain of our more eminent scientists are working towards one, but I would say they are some years away from succeeding. Perhaps if I lent them a hand...” The Inventor gave an apologetic shrug. “Alas, I already have more irons in the fire than I can comfortably deal with.”
The Doppelgänger picked up the sherry with the laudable aim of recharging two glasses recently drained. He saw at once that it was empty. “No matter, dear boy. I shall have Bruin fetch some more.”
At the mention of his beloved dog’s name, the Inventor’s heart skipped a beat. He was thrilled to discover that his was not the only Bruin in creation, that in fact there were an infinite number of Bruins, giving love and comfort to reclusive old men like himself who might otherwise suffer the trials of loneliness.
And how wonderful was it that the Bruin of Earth II had been trained to fetch and carry!
The Doppelgänger put down the decanter and replaced it with a hand bell which he rang briefly but vigorously. Moments later, footsteps could be heard in the hallway and the Inventor braced himself to greet the interdimensional double of his loyal companion.
An African dressed in a hotel page boy style uniform entered. “Master?”
“Bruin,” said the Doppelgänger, “fetch the bottle of Amontillado I put aside for a special occasion. And see if you can find a copy of today's Times. I'm sure my guest will find it most edifying.”
The African looked first at the Doppelgänger and then at the Inventor. And then back to the Doppelgänger. His face was a study in bewilderment.
The Doppelgänger lost his patience. “Go, damn you! And mind your own ruddy business.”
The African hurried away.
“That's your Bruin?” asked the Inventor after a few moments of shocked silence. “A human?”
“Well, I'd hardly call him human. Scarcely more than a domesticated ape, really.” The Doppelgänger sensed his guest was disconcerted. “Is your slave called something other than Bruin?”
“Slave?” The Inventor could scarce believe his ears. “There are no slaves in my world.”
The Doppelgänger frowned. “How then does the British Empire function?”
The Inventor explained about the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833 which had done away with slavery in the British Empire and forced other parts of the world to follow suit. He was onto the topic of the American Civil War and the ensuing emancipation in the States when Bruin returned bearing a bottle of Amontillado sherry and a newspaper.
The slave placed the broadsheet on the small table beside the Inventor's chair then began to decant the sherry.
“Are you telling me,” said the Doppelgänger, “that despite having the might of the British Empire behind it, the Confederacy was vanquished?”
“Well, that's just it. The Empire stayed out of the conflict.”
“You know, the more I hear about your version of Earth, the more amazed and intrigued I become.”
Having filled the decanter, Bruin was dismissed and told he might retire for the night.
“Thank you, boss,” said the African, bowing deferentially and backing out of the room. “Goodnight, gentlemen. May God bless you both.”
The Inventor found the display of obsequiousness nauseating. There was no doubt in his mind that all men and women are created equal and should be treated as such. The very thought of slavery was abhorrent to him.
But I must watch my manners, he reminded himself. This is not my world nor even my house. It would be remiss of me to deliver a moral homily to my host no matter how strongly I feel about the matter.
Deciding it would be prudent to change the subject, he said, “Would you mind if I perused the newspaper?”
“Not at all. I have one or two things to catch up with in my study. Shall I leave you in peace for – shall we say an hour?”
“That will be splendid.”
Left alone, the Inventor gave his full attention to the Times of London which he held to be as good a window on the world as there could be. The date was 5th August 1888.
ANOTHER BRUTAL MURDER OF A WOMAN IN EAST LONDON proclaimed the headline. The Inventor read on:
On Saturday morning at a quarter past six the neighbourhood of Whitechapel was horrified to a degree bordering on panic by the discovery of another barbarous murder of a woman, the site of the crime being 9, Grey Eagle Street, Spitalfields. The murdered woman has been identified as Celia Woodruff, who recently opened a laundry service in nearby Lamb Street.
Police have yet to confirm that this horrid crime was the work of the elusive murderer known as Jack the Ripper, but no one can deny it bears all the hallmarks of his work.
It seemed an uncharacteristically sensationalist story for the Times to be leading with, in the Inventor’s view. More the style of Illustrated Police News or one of the other publications that st
rove to appeal to the lower classes.
Jack the Ripper indeed! It comforted him to realize the Times in his world would never stoop so low.
He turned the page and found himself looking at an illustration of the Queen standing outside a building he recognized as Newgate Gaol. The accompanying headline read, LAST JEW IN ENGLAND EXECUTED.
Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Victoria, last night attended the execution of Ephraim Silverstein, the last of those of Jewish extraction who chose to defy the 1185 Racial Purity Act and not emigrate while he had the chance to do so. As the one-time usurer dangled at the end of the rope, so began a new era wherein it can truly be said that England is for the English.
Upon reading those words, such a rage came upon the Inventor that it was all he could do to stop himself taking out his anger on the first inanimate object that came to hand. Had he been in his own world, in his own living room, he would have had no such qualms.
Disgusted, he put aside the Times and helped himself to a glass of sherry. The Amontillado proved to be of exceptional quality, and after downing a glassful with indecent haste, he helped himself to another.
What kind of a world is this? he wondered, closing his eyes for he now felt quite drowsy. Slavery in the British Empire? The Times resorting to the antics of the gutter press? A pogrom against the Jews in this day and age?
He uttered the word evil before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.
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