by Jaxon Reed
For his part, Rick scratched his head wondering what to say. He could think of nothing that would satisfy the probing questions. He certainly could not tell Willowby the truth, that he had recently left the Walker’s headquarters, a facility existing outside time and space. That a fae had somehow sneaked into the Wildflower Room, where people passed in and out of various parallel worlds in order to hunt the evil creatures and send them to Judgment. That the fae ripped apart the room’s reality, sucking in as many people as possible in the collapse, sending them to various and sundry unknown alternates. That the same fae took out their advanced computer system, which had a human interface that looked like a woman who went by the name of Cait.
And he could not tell Willowby that as far as Rick knew, he was stuck on this world until help arrived.
So he stayed silent and merely smiled back at Willowby, giving the older man his best good old boy grin.
That did nothing to ameliorate Willowby’s temper.
“Answer the question, y’ blasted colonial!”
Rick smiled even wider. He said, “Oh, come now, Mr. Willowby. That’s no way to speak to a guest. To a fellow pilot. Uh, you can fly, right?”
“Don’t you talk back at me! I’ll have answers, I will! How did you know how to fly a state-of-the-art aeroplane? Our pilots spend untold months in training! Nobody on that flight should have been able to get it down as easily as you did.”
Rick was saved from addressing this last series of questions by a commotion outside the door. Even the bobbies glanced over their shoulders at the sounds out in the hall.
The door burst open and a thin man wearing a dark suit with a pained expression on his face poked his head through. Rick recognized him from earlier as Willowby’s private secretary.
The man said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Willowby. I’ve tried to appeal to him, but he insists on coming in.”
One of the cowboys from the flight barreled his way between a group of bobbies who appeared uncertain as to whether or not they should try and stop him. He stood six-foot-six and still wore his giant white cowboy hat from the plane, making him look an even seven feet tall. The big man wore a huge grin on his face.
“Thar he is! Thar’s mah boy! This man landed y’all’s bucket of bolts when all hope was lost. And Ah was on that plane! Ah shore do wanna thank you, boy. Mah name is Tucker Crenshaw MacGraw, Ambassador to the You-knighted Kingdom from the Republic of Texas. Howdy!”
He stuck his hand out and Rick stood to grab it, noting the chunky golden ring on the big man’s finger.
Rick said, “Oh, you’re an Aggie?”
“That’s right! Class of ’26!”
“I’ve known several Aggies. They were all good men. Good soldiers, every one.”
MacGraw beamed with pride and his back straightened as his chest puffed out. He said, “We put more officers in the Great War than any other school, Ah’ll have you know. On both sides of the Atlantic.”
He looked around at the Brits in the room as if challenging them to deny the assertion. Clearly no one even considered saying something to the contrary. Everyone, from airline executives to policemen, looked quite intimidated at the giant man’s mere presence, much less his words.
“This is all fine and dandy,” the thin secretary said, working up the nerve to speak. “But we’re dealing with a delicate situation here, Mr. Ambassador. Mr. Willowby is trying to figure out where this man came from, how he happened to be on that plane, and who, exactly, he is. The airline is in quite a moment right now.”
The ambassador waved him away as if shooing a fly. He said, “Aw, pipe down, Grady. This man is a hero!”
MacGraw bent down next to Rick and said in a lower voice that still managed to rumble throughout the small room, “Where are you from, son?”
“Well . . . Uh . . .”
Honesty is the best policy, Rick thought to himself.
“I retired in upper New York State.”
Willowby let out another “Phsaw!”
Grady said, “A colonial! He’s nothing more than a tenement farmer, I’d say. And he has no papers, Mr. Ambassador. We’ve already checked. No money, and no airplane ticket, either. He’s a stowaway from one of the colonies. He probably sneaked onboard during the stopover in Bermuda. I’ve no doubt the authorities are looking for him back home, too.”
MacGraw ignored them. He said, “So you’re from New York, huh?”
“Well,” Rick said, as a thought occurred to him, “I was born in Texas.”
MacGraw smiled. The entire lower half of his face creased upward by at least an inch. He said, “Where at, boy?”
“Dallas Baptist Hospital. My dad had a job down there, but we left when I was three to move back to New York.”
MacGraw said, “Wull, thar you have it, Grady! This here boy is a native Texan! Everybody born in Texas is a Texan by birth, by Gawd, and can therefore claim citizenship in our great republic. Ah’ll take him to the embassy and we’ll take care of his paperwork.”
MacGraw slapped the thin secretary hard on the back, knocking the smaller man off balance. He caught himself on the table before falling over.
Willowby stood up, his face flushing redder than usual. He said, “Now see here, Mr. Ambassador. This man was on a royal aeroplane with no ticket. Stowing away is a jailable offense in Great Britain.”
MacGraw snorted and said, “This boy saved that royal airplane, and everybody on board. Including yours truly!”
His voice lowered threateningly, and his eyes narrowed as the smile melted away. He said, “Ah don’t think y’all want to make this an international incident, Mr. Willowby. Do you?”
The big Texan stared down at the shorter Brit, who gulped as the room grew uneasily quiet. Then MacGraw straightened and smiled again. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a thick roll of British pound notes.
“Alrighty, look. Ah know how much a ticket costs, ’cause I bought one back in Houston. Here’s enough for the boy’s fare. First class.”
He threw down a wad of cash on the table in front of Willowby.
“Now if y’all will excuse us, we’ve got to go get this boy his passport replaced!”
2
MacGraw charged through the phalanx of police, guiding Rick firmly by the shoulder down the hallways and toward the building’s front entrance.
When they reached the lobby, a reporter stood up, pointed at him and said, “There he is!”
Correspondents mobbed the two men before they could reach the door. Bulbs flashed and tape recorder mics were shoved near their faces.
“Mr. Ambassador! Mr. Ambassador! Do you have anything to say?”
“What’s the status of the stowaway?”
“Can we talk to him? Can we get a statement, sir?”
“Let us just talk to the chap! Give us something Mr. Ambassador!”
MacGraw stopped suddenly, when it became obvious too many people stood between them and the front door. He held up a hand until all the clamor died down.
“Ah’m proud to say that the man who landed our flight safely today is a native Texan. We are taking him to the embassy right now. Our hearts go out to the families of the pilot and copilot. The Republic of Texas wishes the British people to know that we will extend every resource His Majesty’s government requests in the coming inquiry. We are ready to help in any way possible our longtime friend and ally. At this time, we ask for privacy as our hero here gets some well-deserved rest.”
Before anyone had a chance to respond, MacGraw pushed Rick through the crowd and made it through the door. Reporters followed them down the steps and out to the street, where a long, low limousine sat waiting.
A driver, wearing boots and a cowboy hat, jumped out and rushed to the rear door, holding it open for them. Rick noted a pair of longhorns mounted on the front of the car where the hood ornament should be.
As the limo eased out into the street, Rick glanced out the rear window. A few of the younger reporters ran after the car until they picked up spee
d. Two of the photographers shot some final pictures.
As they drove through the city, Rick took a look outside the windows. He was struck by a sudden realization.
“It was never bombed, was it?”
MacGraw said, “Hm? What? Sure, London was bombed during the war. Zeppelin and his blasted airships, mostly. Those proved costly to replace, though. Enough biplanes could always take one of them down. Big slow target.”
“Yes, but, uh, it was never seriously bombed. I mean, the Germans have developed the blitzkrieg, right?”
“Absolutely,” MacGraw said, nodding. “That’s how they were able to tilt the tide in Spain. They got involved in that civil war, and now Franco is Hitler’s puppet.”
“But they never used it against England. London has never been seriously bombed in an all-out assault.”
“No. Chamberlain made his peace with Adolf. The UK sat back and let the Nazis have whatever they wanted. So, they took most of Europe.”
With the annoyed tone of voice and spots of color in his cheeks, Rick could see this bothered the giant Texan. A lot.
“That’s bad,” Rick said. “Have they purged the Jews yet?”
MacGraw’s eyebrows shot up. He said, “Mah colleagues in Berlin have forwarded a report to Austin that Ah had the opportunity to read. Something about ‘the Jewish question.’ What do you know about it?”
“Let’s just say their ‘final solution’ involves the wholesale slaughter of millions of innocent people in death camps. How far east have they gotten? Do they control Poland yet?”
MacGraw’s eyebrows furrowed back down. He said, “No, they’re in a treaty with Russia over Poland. Both sides have a controlling stake in what goes on there. Now look, just where are you from, boy? And why are you asking questions anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock the last ten years already knows the answer to?”
“Well, I really was born in Texas.”
“Not in Dallas Baptist Hospital, you weren’t. No such place exists. We’ve got a Dallas Baptist College, and a First Baptist Medical Center, but no hospital by that name.”
“Well . . .” Rick cleared his throat nervously. “Not on this world.”
“Is that right? Well, you do have a big long tale to tell us, don’t you? But first, we gots to get you some clothes. Ain’t nobody dresses like that around here, boy.”
MacGraw pushed a button on the limo’s intercom and said, “Hey, Baxter!”
The driver, who Rick suddenly realized was walled off from their compartment, spoke back over his end of the connection. He said, “Yessir?”
“Detour through Savile Row and stop off at Louie’s, will ya?”
“Shore thing, boss!”
-+-
Louie turned out to be a tailor who specialized in suits for Texans making London their home. He absolutely was willing to help the ambassador on short notice, and took Rick’s measurements personally.
MacGraw asked if he had anything that would fit Rick today. Louie fretted over it, saying the suit would not be truly bespoke. But, he did have something that could be rushed if the ambassador and his guest were willing to wait half an hour.
Later he came back with an elegant gray suit that certainly felt bespoke to Rick. It looked sharp too, Rick thought, featuring the ‘London cut,’ which was spacious and comfortable around the shoulders and arms. It fit just right around his muscular chest.
Louie also brought out a pair of black cowboy boots for him, made from smooth ostrich skin, along with a light gray felt cowboy hat. Both fit Rick perfectly.
Staring in a three-panel mirror, he cleared his throat and self-consciously removed the chapeau.
He said, “I’ve never been a hats guy, myself.”
“It don’t matter,” MacGraw said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Keep it anyways. Goes with the outfit.”
MacGraw pulled out another wad of bills and handed most of them to Louie, then guided Rick out the door and back into the limo.
As they drove away, MacGraw smiled and said, “Nobody used Louie much when he first opened, ’cause he’s a Jew. But we don’t care about that. The other high-class tailors tend to stick their noses up when we come around, as you can imagine. ’Cause we ain’t from around here. But Louie was willing to help us out, so now we pretty much do all our clothing business with him. He also set us up with a milliner willing to import Stetsons, and a cobbler who can handle cowboy boots. That’s another thing these Brits are snobs about. But the Jews are more willing to do business with us. If we want a pair of boots that look a certain way, or a suit that goes with a cowboy hat, Louie and his boys can make it for us.”
“This is a really good fit, for less than an hour,” Rick said.
MacGraw nodded. “Louie is the man. Love that fella.”
“I already feel indebted to you for extracting me from the airline bureaucracy back there. Now I probably I owe you a small fortune for this outfit.”
MacGraw made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Don’t worry about it, boy. It’s a rounding error on our business expenses. That’s taxpayer money, anyway. You really owe the people of Texas. But I think you prepaid us when you landed that plane safely.”
The limo stopped at an entrance gate in a long stone wall. The guard looked in the driver’s side window and hurried to open the gate. The limo drove through and followed the road to a huge mansion.
The cobblestone driveway circled a fountain. In the middle of the fountain, a statue of three wild horses in full gallop stood in the middle of the pool, with water flowing from their nostrils.
MacGraw said, “Welcome home. As of now you are officially on Texas soil.”
Baxter hurried to open the door for them.
One of the ornate double doors leading into the building opened and a pretty young woman stepped out. She stood about five-seven, Rick estimated, with shoulder-length brown hair and eyes. She wore tasteful makeup including mascara, dabs of rouge on her cheeks, and bright red lipstick. She greeted MacGraw as he climbed up the steps to the entrance.
He said, “Hello, Angela. Rick, this here is Angela Dorn, one of our employees on the embassy staff.”
Angela said, “Thank God you’re safe, Mr. Ambassador. We’ve been following the reports on the radio.”
She looked over at Rick and said, “Is this our mystery pilot? The news announcers are going nuts about you. They keep playing that clip of you saying, ‘They’re just trying to do their jobs!’ I think the press likes you.”
MacGraw said, “Yup. He rescued us, so Ah rescued him. He’s got an interesting story to tell. Ah want a meeting with key personnel in the main conference room, pronto.”
When they stepped inside, Rick found himself in a large room worthy of a palace. A 30-foot high ceiling was festooned with chandeliers and the walls were lined in gilt. Luxurious carpets with expensive chairs and tables were scattered about. Art Deco reading lamps helped chase away any hint of gloom.
Somebody at one of the tables scooted his chair back and stood up when they entered. Rick instantly recognized the wispy gray hair and scholarly face.
He said, “Albert Einstein! What are you doing here?”
The old scientist’s eyebrows furrowed. He said, “I’m sorry. Haf ve met?”
“Well, uh, kind of. In, well . . . Somewhere else. A, uh, long time ago.”
MacGraw said, “Dr. Einstein is visiting King’s College for a series of lectures. He’s on loan from Rice, where he’s been teaching and conducting research ever since he was granted asylum in Texas. The Germans kicked him out along with a bunch of other Jewish scientists. It seems they like Jews even less than the Brits.
“Dr. Einstein, may Ah invite you to our little meeting? You might find it interesting. It seems our guest here claims to be from a parallel world.”
-+-
An hour later, Rick stopped for breath. He gazed out at the table where the ambassador, Angela Dorn, and half a dozen top embassy personnel stared at him. Albert Einstein sat at the other end of
the table, gazing calmly back.
Rick had explained everything as best he could. There were thousands of universes, he said, and his team travelled among them. Thanks to an attack on the group’s headquarters, several people were sent scattered among the alternates. That was how Rick got here, “falling into” the ambassador’s airplane. He also had no way of contacting anyone back home.
Each world deviated somewhat from Original Earth, some more than others. This world, Rick explained, deviated considerably without a United States, no Second World War (yet, at least), and a successful Nazi empire.
As he paused, he looked around the table. Angela stared back with a dubious expression on her face.
She said, “You’re asking us to believe a lot, Mr. Strickland.”
Rick raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and said, “I know. And, I’ve got no proof to offer, either, other than my word. But, I can almost guarantee that your world is headed toward disaster. You’re way overdue for the Second World War.”
“We managed to dodge another war,” MacGraw said, “Thanks to Prime Minister Chamberlain.”
Rick said, “That just delayed the inevitable. And by letting Germany marshal its resources, the coming conflagration is likely to be worse than it would have been otherwise.”
The Texans shifted in their seats, uncomfortably. Rick suspected he hit a nerve. Perhaps it was a heated topic of conversation among them.
MacGraw turned to look at the other end of the table. He said, “What about you, Dr. Einstein? Does this notion of parallel worlds hold any scientific water?”
Einstein nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Rick. He said, “Haf you met my doppelganger on another world, Herr Strickland? My doppelganger?”
Rick said, “Yes sir, I have.”
“Und, vat vas he like?”
“Well, I didn’t really get to know him. I was too busy trying to help save him and my world’s Oppenheimer from an attempt on their lives.”
The mention of Oppenheimer raised some eyebrows around the table.
“Und, vat vere ve doing, Herr Doktor Oppenheimer und myself?”