A Galaxy Of Strangers

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  She walked away briskly, and the door whipped shut behind her, cutting off the blast of warm air from the street.

  Ann’s golden head bent studiously over an atlas. “There’s a Siret in Rumania,” she announced, “but it’s a river.”

  “I thought there was something decidedly fishy about her,” Allen said. He moved to the window and watched her cross the street and march confidently into the Gloob Travel Agency. She did not emerge, but as he continued to watch, a portly-looking gentleman came out, crossed the street, and followed an unerring path to the Globe Travel Agency. He paused inside the door, sniffed deeply at the air conditioning, and uttered a sigh of appreciation.

  “Feels good in here,” he announced. He walked to the counter and smiled down at Ann. “I’d like to arrange an extended tour of the United States. Could you handle it for me?”

  Ann caught her breath. “Yes, sir.”

  “This is what I’d like to do. Start out with a week in Detroit, and then move on to Chicago—”

  His voice rumbled on, and Ann took notes feverishly. “It will take a little time to arrange this,” she said. “Where can we reach you?”

  “At the Centralia Hotel.”

  “All right, Mr.-“

  “Smith. John Smith.”

  “Mr. Smith. We’ll get to work on it immediately.”

  “Excuse me,” Allen said. “Didn’t I see you coming out of the Gloob Travel Agency?”

  The gentleman turned and beamed at him. “Indeed you did. The young man there recommended you.”

  Allen returned to his desk, leaned back in his chair, and gnawed fretfully on a pencil.

  There was a brawny, bald-headed man who drawled with a foreign-sounding accent and seemed nervously anxious to get to Nilreb with all possible haste. There was a sedate, middle-aged woman who hovered in the background while two teen-aged girls inquired with assorted giggles as to whether Dnalsi Yenoc was actually anywhere near Kroywen, and whether they could go direct or by way of Nylkoorb. And there were others.

  Eventually Ann stopped fumbling with the atlas, and in time she even grew weary of explanations. She contented herself with pointing, and when people with odd destinations sighted along her unwavering finger and glimpsed Mr. Gloob’s Gloob sign, they invariably bounded away with unconcealed enthusiasm.

  In between these visitations, the Globe Travel Agency’s business boomed in a way that defied rational explanation. Allen made the down payment on the ranch house, and when Ann insisted that they were too busy for her to consider taking up housekeeping, he hired two new office girls. And the boom continued.

  “Have you noticed,” he said to Ann two weeks later, “that more than eighty per cent of our customers are not residents of Centralia?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

  “And have you noticed that we’re getting fewer inquiries from people with out-of-this-world destinations?”

  “There was only one yesterday,” Ann said.

  She paused as a white-haired, scholarly-looking man stopped on the sidewalk outside, scrutinized them doubtfully through the window, and finally entered to ask for reservations to Kroywen. Ann pointed at the Gloob sign, and he left muttering apologies.

  “Kroywen,” Allen mused. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “It seems to be one of the more popular destinations.”

  “Ann,” Allen said, “I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Mr. Gloob knows me, but I’ve noticed that he goes out to lunch at twelve-thirty. About a quarter to one I’m going over to the Gloob Travel Agency and see if I can arrange a fast trip to Kroywen.”

  “Not without me, you aren’t,” Ann said.

  They left the mystified Doris with instructions to carry on if they should be delayed, bank the money, and forge Allen’s signature on any necessary checks. At one forty-two they marched across Main Street, invaded the Gloob Travel Agency, and were met by Mr. Gloob’s smiling young assistant.

  “Kroywen,” Allen said. “Make it snappy.”

  “Two for Kroywen,” the young man said complacently. “That will be sixty-two dollars and fifty cents.”

  Allen counted it out. By coincidence, he had the exact change in his pocket.

  The young man smiled appreciatively. “Had it all ready, I see. Do you have any money to exchange?” “Why, ah—no,” Allen said. “No luggage?” “No. You see-“

  “I quite understand. It’s best that way. Now if you will receipt these papers—”

  With one deft motion he took Allen’s right hand, inked his thumb, rolled a thumbprint onto the paper, and wiped the thumb clean. “And yours, please,” he said to Ann. “Thank you. Did you have a nice tour?”

  “Very nice.”

  “But you found the people a bit backward, I suppose.” He chuckled, and Allen said cheerfully, “Just a bit.” “Most people do. Right this way, please.”

  They followed him through a rear door, rode an escalator down to the basement, and paused in front of a metallic bulge in the wall. He opened it.

  “Be seated, please,” he said. “Remain seated until the door opens.”

  They sat down, and he smiled and told them to come again. The door closed. They were in a tubelike chamber that had six rows of seats dipping across the curved floor.

  “Mr. Gloob is running a carnival,” Ann said. “Thirty-one and a quarter for a tour of the chamber of horrors. Or could this be a subway car?”

  “All things considered, it certainly could. But what’s it doing in Centralia, Ohio? I wonder if the Interstate Commerce Commission knows about Mr. Gloob.”

  There was a jerk, so insignificant that they would not have noticed it had they not been tensed in anticipation. A light flashed red and faded slowly. They looked blankly at each other as the door opened. Another smiling young man was peering in at them.

  “Some ride,” Allen said.

  “Destination,” the young man told them. “Kroywen Terminal. All out, please.” They stepped out and followed him.

  They paused at a desk marked “Customs,” and a young lady noted their lack of baggage, glanced in a cursory manner at the contents of Ann’s purse, and waved them past. They walked out into what obviously was the concourse of a large transportation terminal. There were ticket windows, travelers wandering about with bags, and an enormous board that listed arrivals and departures from and to tongue-twisting locations. Allen looked back at the door they had just emerged from and saw a large sign.

  BOOLG, INCORPORATED

  Specialists in Travel Curiosities

  “Understatement of the year,” he said.

  They settled themselves on uncomfortable seats at the far end of the concourse and looked about them. Allen glanced at a large clock, glanced again, and then stared. “Screwy time they have here,” he said. “That clock says five after eleven. My watch says five to one. How about yours?”

  “Five to one,” Ann said.

  “I guess we’ve proved there is such a place as Kroywen. What do we do now? Turn around and go back?”

  “It might look funny if we went back right away.”

  “True,” Allen agreed. “And even if we’ve proved there is a Kroywen, we still don’t know where it is or what it is. I’d like to walk around a bit. What’s the matter?”

  Ann’s elbow had dug sharply at his ribs. “The second hand on that clock is running backward,” she said.

  Allen studied it. “So is the minute hand,” he announced. A short time later, he added, “So is the hour hand.”

  Ann looked at her watch. “Then they have eleven o’clock when we have one o’clock. And when we have two, they have ten. It’s just like our time, only backward.” She turned to the distant Boolg, Incorporated, sign. “Boolg,” she said. “Now, if you spell that backward—”

  Allen did so, mouthing the letters slowly. “Gloob!” he exclaimed. “The Gloob Travel Agency!” “And this town. Kroywen. Could that be—” “New York!” “It must be.”

  “This whole
setup is someone’s idea of a joke.”

  “We’re here, aren’t we?” Ann asked.

  “But where are we? Something like twenty seconds from Centralia, and New York is nearly six hundred miles. And which way did we go? East, or west, or straight down?”

  Ann giggled. Allen looked at her perplexedly, and she said, “I was just thinking of something Gloob’s assistant said. Remember? He asked us if we found the people a bit backward. Referring to us, of course. So it shouldn’t be surprising that we find things a bit backward here.”

  “Shall we take a quick look at the town?”

  “We might as well. I’ve never been to New York.”

  “You still haven’t been to New York.”

  They rode an escalator up three stories and found an exit. A man in uniform called out, “Taxi?” as they went out the door. “They speak English,” Allen said. “How clever of you to notice,” Ann told him.

  The street was a brightly illuminated tunnel, with a high, arched ceiling. There were throngs of people on the walks, and throngs of vehicles in the street.

  “The underside,” Ann said. “Maybe like reflections in the water. Maybe somewhere straight up is the real New York.” Allen had stopped to watch passengers boarding a bus. “We can’t take it,” Ann said. “You didn’t get any money changed. Remember?”

  “How was I to know what we’d find here? Anyway, I was just looking. The traffic moves on the left side. And the bus drivers sit in the rear. How do you suppose they see where they’re going?”

  “Maybe they have front-view mirrors.”

  They turned away as the bus rumbled off. They walked for what seemed to be miles along the tunneled streets, wandering about aimlessly, spelling the names of buildings and places and streets backward and finding some that they recognized. They found Broadway, and Fifth Avenue, and the Etats Eripme Building, one hundred two stories deep and the second lowest building in the world. They resisted the temptation to visit the meditation gallery on the hundred and second level, remembering at the last moment that they had no money.

  “It’s just another big city,” Ann said. “Too many people and too much noise.”

  “And no blue sky,” Allen said. “They must have some sky somewhere. Where do you suppose they keep it?”

  When they next thought about the time it was after five—or before seven, Kroywen time. They were tired and hungry and definitely

  ready to leave. They found their way back to the terminal and rode the escalator down to the concourse. Ann turned suddenly and clutched Allen’s arm. “How are you going to buy tickets?” “I’ve got plenty of money.”

  “Dollars. But you didn’t get any money changed. What if they won’t take dollars?”

  “Anyone will take dollars,” Allen said. “They took dollars at the other end, didn’t they? And if they won’t, there should be somewhere we can get them changed.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Ann said. “Thinking backward is all right for one afternoon, but I’m too old to try it permanently.”

  Allen grinned down at the young face she called old, and they walked hand in hand across the concourse to Boolg, Incorporated. At the door they halted in consternation. Boolg, Incorporated, was closed. “Hours three to seven,” read the crisp sign on the door.

  Allen counted on his fingers. “Which means nine to five. My watch says five-twenty.”

  “So what do we do now? Sit in the station all night?”

  “Certainly not. We’ll go to a hotel.”

  “How are you going to pay the hotel bill?”

  “I can get some money changed in the morning.”

  “All right,” she said.

  They advanced self-consciously on the registration desk of the Notlih Reltats Hotel and faced the suspicious scrutiny of the room clerk. He looked them over, noted their lack of luggage, and said with a sneer, “I suppose you’re married.”

  Allen spoke indignantly. “Of course we’re married. We’ve been married for three years.”

  He was not prepared for the reaction. The clerk’s face reddened, and he sputtered and waved his hands menacingly. Two more clerks came to his aid. The first clerk pointed a finger. “He says they’re married!” he blurted. “The idea—at a first-class hotel, too. Call the police!”

  Allen grabbed Ann’s arm, and the two of them rushed for the exit. Outside the door, a bellhop caught up with them, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and handed it to Allen.

  “Try this place,” he said. “It’s small, but it isn’t a bad hotel, and they aren’t so particular. But it’s best not to tell them you’re married. It doesn’t matter what they think, but when you come right out and say it—”

  “Thanks,” Allen said.

  “Don’t mention it, fellow. I was married once myself.”

  The little hotel was clean and primly respectable in its atmosphere. The room clerk snickered when Allen signed the register but said nothing. Allen told him they would be staying one night.

  “One double room, fifteen rallods,” the clerk said, and turned them over to a cheerful-looking bellhop. They entered a depressor and dropped downward.

  “It seems all right,” Ann whispered. “So what are you worried about now?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how to tip the bellhop,” Allen whispered back.

  That worthy individual escorted them to their room, took a quick turn around it to see that everything was in order, and as Allen self-consciously turned his back to him, he thrust something into Allen’s hand on the way out.

  “Of all the insults!” Allen exploded as the door closed. “I didn’t make any move to tip him, so he tipped me three rallods!”

  Ann took one of the bills. “That’s a pretty good picture of Notgnihsaw,” she said. “Do you suppose this would buy us a meal?”

  “Probably not. Maybe we could have our dinners sent up and added to our room bill. See if there’s a menu for room service.”

  They found the menu and ordered. Their food arrived, accompanied by the same grinning bellhop. Allen cringed in embarrassment at the thought of offering the man his own three rallods as a tip, but the bellhop gave him no opportunity. He deftly slipped some currency onto one tray and hurried out.

  “He tipped me again,” Allen yelped. “This time it’s five rallods.”

  “Don’t complain,” Ann said. “Maybe we can work it into enough to pay our hotel bill.”

  “Nothing doing. Here—I’ll put it all on the tray. The least we can do is offer him his money back.”

  But when the bellhop came for the trays, he carefully removed the money and placed it on the desk. And when Allen picked it up later, the eight rallods had increased to eleven.

  The day had been exhausting, and they slept well. It was after nine when they awoke—not quite three, Kroywen time—and they went down and ate breakfast in the hotel dining room to avoid further insults from the bellhop, having the check transferred to their hotel bill. Then Ann returned to their room, and Allen strolled down to the terminal to change some money and arrange their return to Centralia.

  The young man at Boolg, Incorporated, was kindly sympathetic and utterly unyielding. “The rules are strict,” he said, “and we couldn’t possibly permit an exception. Dollars must be changed into rallods at the other end. So I can’t help you. The financial basis of our business is extremely complex, you know, since we have to deal in two currencies.”

  Allen found himself a chair and sat down slowly. The travel agent seemed perplexed at his stricken expression. “If it’s as important as all that to get rid of the dollars,” he said, “why don’t you take another trip and spend them?”

  Allen brightened. “Yes. That’s the thing to do. How many dollars for two tickets to Centralia?”

  “As I told you,” the young man said patiently, “foreign currency is handled only by our foreign terminals. Here we deal only in rallods. One thousand rallods for two tickets. When would you like to leave?”

  “I’ll think about
it,” Allen said.

  Back in the hotel room, Allen and Ann sat staring at each other. “Thanks to the bellhop, I have eleven rallods,” Allen said. “Our hotel bill will be fifteen, plus the price of two meals. And we need a thousand to get back. Any ideas?”

  She shook her head. “It looks as if we’ll have a long stay here. We’ll have to work and earn the money.”

  “We might as well go up and check out and confess to the manager,” Allen said. “Maybe he’ll give me some help in getting a job.”

  “Couldn’t we just stay here?”

  “Too expensive. Over a hundred rallods a week for the room, and that doesn’t include meals. And we’ll need clothes. I haven’t any idea of how much people are able to earn in this crazy society.”

  Grimly they advanced on the room clerk. “Checking out, I see,” he said. “Accounts settled at that window.”

  A young lady itemized their bill and read off the items. “Room, one day, fifteen rallods. Dinner, by room service, eleven rallods.” Allen winced. “Breakfast, three rallods. Total, twenty-nine rallods. Please receipt this bill.”

  “How was that again?” Allen asked.

  Before he quite knew what was happening, his right thumb had been inked, impressed, and wiped clean. Ann contributed her thumbprint, and as Allen was groping for words to explain that he had only eleven rallods, the young lady briskly counted bills across the counter to him. “Twenty, twenty-five, twenty-nine. Thank you very much, sir. I hope you’ll stop with us the next time you’re in Kroywen.”

  They staggered away from the window, somehow made their way out of the hotel, and walked half a block before either of them spoke.

  “They paid us,” Allen said.

  Ann said nothing.

  “And the bellhop tipped us.”

  Ann stopped and pointed at a shop. “Women’s apparel. I need a change of underwear.”

  They entered the shop. Ann made a few modest purchases. The clerk paid her six rallods. They went out.

  “Another hotel, I suppose,” Allen said.

  “Yes. We’ll get the most expensive room we can find.”

  “We might ask for the bridal suite.”