by Chris Dolley
Graham did as he was told, glancing up at the window from time to time, in case anyone was looking in from outside. The sky stared back through a line of black railings. Only the top quarter of the window was aboveground, the rest looked out on a dingy concrete well.
A man's voice boomed from the doorway. "What are you doing? Who's he?"
Graham jumped. He hadn't heard the man's approach. He swivelled round. Kevin Alexander filled the doorway. He was enormous, thick-set, huge hands.
"You don't recognize him?" Annalise asked the newcomer, sounding surprised. "This is Graham Smith."
Kevin Alexander seemed to crumple in the doorway, his face whitened. "What's he doing here?" He took one step back, glanced left, right, up the stairs. "Has anyone seen you? You've got to get him out now!"
"Why?" said Annalise.
"Because it's dangerous." He slipped back inside the room and carefully closed the door.
"Dangerous to who?"
"All of us. Just leave. I'll see if it's clear." He moved towards the window and peered across the street. Graham stayed in the corner out of the way.
"We're not leaving until you tell us what's going on," said Annalise. "We can help."
"You can't help," he said without turning his face from the window. "You don't understand. Now leave. Someone could be here any minute."
"No one followed us, if that's what you're worried about. Everyone thinks Graham's at work. No one saw him slip out the back."
"It's too risky." He pressed his face against the window pane and peered as far as he could up and down the street.
"We know about the parallel worlds."
He stopped looking out the window and turned towards her. He didn't say a word. He just stood there, an uncertain look in his eye.
"ParaDim scans all calls, right?" said Annalise, pulling out her mobile phone. "So what would they do if I start dropping your name into conversations—like, Kevin Alexander's meeting Graham Smith tonight or Kevin Alexander's found a way to stop the resonance wave? Or maybe I should just call Adam Sylvestrus."
"You wouldn't do that! You'd put yourself in danger."
She walked right up to him. He towered above her. A full head taller and twice as broad. She stood on tiptoe and looked him in the eye.
"Do I look like a girl who thinks things through?" She tilted her head to one side and rolled her eyes, playing the tortured psychic for all it was worth.
"Now tell me," she said. "Why is everyone so interested in Graham? Is it because he can move between worlds?"
Kevin Alexander's mouth dropped open. His head turned, he looked at Graham. "You can move between worlds?"
Graham nodded.
"We never imagined . . ." Kevin shook his head. "How?"
"We're asking the questions. Why is everyone so interested in Graham?"
"What? Sorry." He couldn't take his eyes off Graham. "Because . . . because he's everywhere. Every world we've looked at we've found him."
Annalise frowned. "Is that all? Graham exists across two hundred worlds and you think that's amazing?"
"Two hundred?" He laughed and shook his head. "More like two hundred billion. And those're just the ones we've found so far. The number could be infinite."
"Two hundred billion worlds?" It was Annalise's turn to be amazed.
"And every one of them has a Graham Smith born on the exact same date—the sixteenth of October, 1966. We thought it was just a crazy anomaly until . . . until other people started taking an interest." He glanced back towards Graham. "How do you move between worlds?"
"I'm calling," Annalise warned, waving the phone in Kevin's face.
He held up his hands. "Okay, okay."
"So what's weird about all the Grahams having the same birthday?"
"Because it just doesn't happen. Think about it. People have accidents, they die, they're never born. There's infinite variety across the parallel worlds."
He paused and stared at Graham.
"Except for you. You never change. You're everywhere. Every world we've discovered, there's a Graham Smith born on the same day of the same year in practically the same place. Harrow or Stanmore or Wembley or Edgware. Always somewhere in North London. Even when London isn't called London, even when it's been destroyed or never evolved beyond a village. You're there. Living in the same geographic location."
He talked with a sense of wonder, his eyes never straying from Graham's.
"How? It makes no sense. People just don't exist on every parallel world. Think about it. Think of the pattern of events necessary to bring a child into the world—then factor in the uncertainty of thousands of years of social evolution, migration, wars. And then try to bring two people together at the same time in the same place to create the same child. It just doesn't happen. Parents never meet, they meet late, they meet someone else, they go to war, they move towns."
"So Graham's parents existed across all the worlds as well?"
He turned his head slowly around and looked down at Annalise. "That's where it really gets weird."
"How?"
"Graham doesn't always have the same parents."
Graham's eyes widened. His other mother—Eileen Smith—the woman he'd never seen before. Had she been one of those other parents?
"You mean he has different mothers?" asked Annalise.
"I mean he has different parents. We can't explain it. Which is why we've been collecting DNA samples. From Graham and every close relative we can find. It's"—he shrugged—"unfathomable. Somehow, and for some reason, a Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and in some cases a Miss Smith, had a child on October sixteenth, 1966. And every one of them named that child Graham."
He glanced back towards Graham.
"And then there's your job. You're always a messenger, even in the high-tech worlds you're a courier or a delivery man. In the low-tech worlds you're probably a carter. How? Do you carry a messenger gene?"
Graham didn't answer, he looked down at the floor instead.
"Me," Kevin continued, "I'm a carpenter on one world, on others I'm an accountant, a soldier, a scientist, a teacher. I have many birthdays. I have different sets of brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles. On the worlds that branched away earlier it's impossible to find my counterpart. There are people with the same name, some with similar professions, but our lineage is so different."
He began to bring his hands into the conversation—the huge lobster hands that Annalise One had first noticed. One trait that obviously had no problem crossing the dimensions.
"I can't prove that the Kevin Alexander on 015 214 363 544 is me. The link is too tenuous. But the Graham Smith on that world is a courier for His Majesty's Ministry for Trade and lives in New Wealdstone. Most of North London was levelled during the Great War, millions were killed. But he survived and moved back during the rebuilding.
"And you don't do anything. None of you. You don't belong to any clubs or societies. You don't vote, you don't drive, you don't marry. The only place we find any mention of you is on census returns, tax returns, medical and employee lists. Otherwise, you're invisible.
"Which again is strange. Most people have at least one famous counterpart across the billions of parallel worlds. Even if it's only a lottery winner. But you—"
Annalise cut him off in midsentence. "Why are you so interested in lottery numbers?"
He looked confused. "I don't understand."
"Your counterpart on one of the other worlds—he wanted to know all the winning lottery numbers. Why?"
"I have no idea."
"I've got the phone," Annalise warned, waving her mobile at him for the second time. He held up his hands, showing Annalise two huge palms.
"I still have no idea. Didn't he say?"
"He said it was a test. But what kind of test? Why would he want the winning lottery numbers from one hundred and ninety worlds?"
"One hundred and ninety? I thought there were two hundred of you?"
"There are, but ten were in London."
&
nbsp; He was silent for a while, thinking.
"What did he say the next time he contacted you?"
"Nothing. He just gave us a contact name and address. That's how I found you."
"And he did that for all one hundred and ninety of you? Gave you a contact name and address?"
"Yes."
"But the ten in London already had contacts?"
"That's right."
He shook his head. "It shouldn't be enough."
"What shouldn't be enough?"
"Six numbers. There are only six numbers in a lottery, aren't there?"
She nodded.
"You'd need more. Did he ask for . . ."
"He wanted the results from thirty-seven states. Would that be enough?"
He grinned. "More than enough. I never realized I was that clever."
Annalise rolled her eyes. "So the whole numbers thing was just a way to find out who our contacts should be?"
"Exactly. Thirty-seven sets of six two-digit numbers would easily guarantee a unique match. He could download the lottery information from the ParaDim database and match your world against it. Then he'd know where you were and who your contact should be."
He smiled to himself and then stopped. Something must have caught his eye for he suddenly glanced to his left, towards the window. Graham followed his gaze. There were two men on the steps, deep in conversation. They didn't look like workmen; both wore suits, both looked important.
"Nobody move," hissed Kevin.
Graham froze by the stack of boxes, watching the two men, their eyes thankfully locked on each other's faces. One movement from inside the room and all that could change.
One man clapped the other on the shoulder and they moved forward. They were coming inside.
"Quick! Follow me!" hissed Kevin as he bounded for the door. Graham and Annalise followed. Kevin opened the door, swift and silent, gliding through on tiptoe, his head turned towards the stairwell.
Graham heard the front door close and footsteps from the lobby above, a man's voice, a laugh. Kevin took off. Graham and Annalise snaked after him, turning right and right again, weaving around the crates and obstacles, along a narrow corridor at the back of the building.
He led them through a labyrinth—the corridor dark, no electric light or windows, a grey light feeding in from in front and behind. The corridor turned left. There was a light up ahead, bleeding through the gaps left between Kevin and the wall.
They reached an old panelled door—half glass, half wood. Kevin opened it, waved them through. There was a yard—roses, cobbled paths, high brick walls, a small gate.
"The gate opens out onto an alley at the back. Take it and keep going."
Kevin stayed in the doorway, his back to the corridor.
"What about you?" asked Annalise.
"I've got to get back."
"Why?"
"Because I have to. Just go!"
"No, not until you tell us what a resonance wave is."
Kevin glanced back inside. Graham thought he could hear someone calling.
"There's not enough time," Kevin whispered.
"Then make the time. We're not leaving."
Annalise grabbed Graham and pulled him towards her on the step. Graham looked longingly over his shoulder towards the gate.
Kevin clenched his huge fists and glanced once more into the corridor.
"Schenck's Law," he said. Just the two words. "That's all you need to know." He grabbed the door handle with one hand and pushed Annalise with the other, propelling the two of them into the yard. The door closed. A lock turned.
Graham looked up at the back of the Georgian terrace. There were windows everywhere. Someone could look out any second. A thought shared by Annalise. They turned together and ran for the gate, pulling it open and forcing themselves through.
Twenty-Seven
They stopped running at the end of the alley.
"We've gotta get back to Redfern Street," Annalise said, in between breaths, "check for Schenck's Law on the net."
Graham led the way, selecting a route parallel to the way they'd come, not wanting to risk being seen by whoever might be parked outside the new ParaDim offices.
They reached Redfern Street. Graham hung back by the entrance to the cafe and let Annalise go in first. He followed her inside, scanning the faces of all the customers, looking for that young man—the one who'd been so helpful, the one with the ready smile. He was relieved not to find him and ashamed that he'd taken the time to look.
They took the same station as before. Annalise took the keyboard and started to type.
"How do you spell Schenck? S-C-H-E-N-C-K?"
Graham shrugged. "Can you try various spellings?"
She tried Schenck first, tapping in Schenck's Law. Most of the hits were to do with legal matters. She sampled a few before giving up and trying other spellings.
Fewer hits but the same legal bias and a dearth of anything remotely relevant.
"Could it be lore as in folklore?" asked Graham.
Annalise reframed the query, paging through screen after screen of folk tales and sites that seemed to bear no relation to either Schenck or lore.
She added resonance to the search, tried every combination of resonance and wave, Schenck and Shenck, law and lore. She found hit after hit on medical scanners and legal actions and genealogical sites. She persevered, clicking on every reference that offered even the slightest hope.
None provided the answer they were looking for.
What was a resonance wave? What had Schenck's Law got to do with it. Who or what was Schenck?
And had Kevin Alexander thrown them a red herring? Anything to get them out of the building?
"Perhaps we should try Schenck and ParaDim? Maybe he works for them?" asked Graham.
Annalise waded through another series of matches. There were passing mentions of ParaDim in articles written by people called Schenck. There were college track scholarships provided by money from ParaDim to students called Schenck—so many tenuous links that could be vitally important or nothing more than the vaguest coincidence.
Graham's attention started to wander. He was feeling hungry and thirty minutes of disappointment and furious scrolling were making his eyes hurt. Annalise hit the back button and started a new search. She typed in Schenck and parallel worlds; a new screen popped up, she started scrolling and stopped.
Halfway down the screen, there it was.
The Search for Parallel Worlds by Jacob Schenck.
Annalise let out a scream and clicked on the link.
A new page appeared. It was a book review. Graham flicked through the details, looking for any mention of resonance wave. There wasn't any. He went back to the top and started to read more thoroughly. It was the second in a series of popular science books by philosopher Jacob Schenck.
Schenck's ability to make complex subjects easy to digest remains his greatest asset. If only there was more substance to his writing. By the end of the book I was left with more questions than I had at the beginning. Schenck, as usual, is more interested in discussing why people need to believe in the existence of parallel worlds than in the science itself.
If you're looking for a book with hard facts, this is not the one for you. But if you're looking for an entertaining introduction, and occasional unsupported tangential leaps of imagination, then Schenck is always good value.
"Do we have to buy the book?" asked Graham.
"Not yet. Let's see what else we can find on him."
Annalise tapped in a new search on Jacob Schenck. The first page didn't look promising—several Jacob Schencks but no author philosopher. The next page came up. Annalise clicked on the third entry—University of North London, Philosophy Department.
They both waited for the screen to load. There was a list of faculty staff—professors, fellows, readers and lecturers—their specialities and publications. At the bottom was Jacob Schenck, a lecturer specializing in the philosophy of mathematics, free will and per
sonal identity. His publications included The Search for Parallel Worlds.
They'd found him.
"Where's . . ." she scrolled back to the top of the page, "Russell Square? Is it far?"
It wasn't—one change and six stops on the tube. They stopped for a couple of hot dogs at a stall in Victoria and shared a bar of chocolate while changing trains at Green Park.
"What if he's not there?" asked Graham as they left the Russell Square station.
"Then we search his rooms."
Graham looked hard at Annalise. Was she serious?
"You don't have to look at me like that, Graham. This is the day we solve everything."
* * *
The Department of Philosophy was situated off Russell Square in a Georgian terrace—white-painted stone this time, though otherwise very similar to ParaDim's new office.
They followed a small group of students inside. A few people looked enquiringly at Annalise—probably more to do with her bright orange hair than questioning her right to be inside. Graham followed in Annalise's wake. No one gave him a second look.
They found Jacob Schenck's name on the fourth-floor notice board. He was in room 410. Graham hesitated by the door. What if Schenck wasn't in? He could be on holiday or at a lecture. Graham checked his watch—1:30—he might be at lunch. Or worse, what if he wasn't alone? What if he had people with him, a class?
Annalise didn't seem to have such thoughts, she sailed up to the door and knocked. There was a delay of a second or two.
"Enter."
They went in. Jacob Schenck was in his fifties, with greying hair that looked as though it hadn't seen a brush for a week and an eclectic choice in clothes. A gravy-stained plate sat on a pile of papers on his desk and books filled every available surface in the room. Five chairs were randomly placed around the room that, but for the clutter, could have been called spacious.
"We've come to ask you about Schenck's Law." said Annalise.
Schenck looked surprised. "Are you from the publishers? I thought we'd agreed to delay publication."
Graham glanced at Annalise, trying to read her face. What was she going to do? Bluff it out?