No, that couldn’t be it; she knew perfectly well that contacting anyone in this universe was difficult, and only a handful of people had been sufficiently receptive to manage any sort of communication at all. Out of that handful, only three had been able to both send and receive.
Prossie hadn’t been in on all the initial contacts, but she had done her share, and had carefully studied the files on those she hadn’t personally attempted. None of them had been connected with law enforcement or government.
The chances of locating another new contact who just happened to know something about the fate of the crew of I.S.S. Ruthless had to be just about nil. Whatever Carrie had learned, she must have learned back at Base One, or through a contact somewhere else in the Empire.
Prossie tried to remember the conversation and spot just where it had begun to go sour.
When Prossie had first mentioned being freed, there had been a lack of certainty, but that was just an insufficiency of evidence—Carrie had been eager to be convinced, at that point. Then Prossie had gone on to describe her hopes for after her release...
That was it.
It was when she had mentioned going back through the warp that Carrie had started hiding something.
Any ordinary person would never have noticed it, but Prossie was a telepath; she knew how minds worked. Carrie would never have tried hiding anything from another telepath that way ordinarily, she would have known better, but where Prossie’s talent was stifled she must have misjudged.
It must be that Carrie knew something about the warp that Prossie did not, and Prossie did not have to think very hard about the situation to guess what it might be.
The Under-Secretary had said that there would be no rescue, that the attempt to contact Earth was being abandoned; the next step was obvious and logical.
They must have shut down the warp.
Prossie slumped back against the wall. They had shut down the warp. The opening between universes was gone.
It would be possible to re-open it, she was sure. It had to be possible.
But would they do it?
Chapter Seven
“Ted, this is Raven,” Pel said.
Ted held out a hand, but Raven was already bowing and did not see it. Discomfited, Ted pulled back his hand and stuck it in his pocket.
“Raven, this is our lawyer, Ted Deranian.”
“’Tis an honor, good sir,” Raven said, flourishing his hat as he rose from his bow.
“Uh, yeah,” Ted said. He glanced at Pel, silently asking what the hell was going on.
“Raven’s not from around here,” Pel said hastily. “I mean, he’s not just dressed up; that’s his native costume.”
Ted looked over the black velvet and elaborate embroidery, the sword and the bobbing ostrich plume. “I didn’t know they still dressed like that anywhere any more,” he said.
Raven cast a questioning glance at Pel, who quickly said, “Don’t worry about it. Come on into the living room and sit down, Ted, let Nancy get you a drink or something.”
“Sure,” Ted said. He turned toward the living room.
As he did, behind his back but in sight of Pel, Raven jerked his head toward the family room, down at the far end of the hall; Pel shook his head no. There was no need to bring Stoddard or Donald or the wizard into things at this point.
Ted accepted a scotch and water from Nancy, then settled into the fake-antique wing chair by the front window. Pel gestured for Raven to take the other armchair, while he seated himself on the couch and Nancy slipped out through the dining room, back to the kitchen.
“Look, Ted,” Pel explained, when they were all seated, “Raven’s got a problem. Some friends of his are in jail down in Rockville, charged with trespassing and vandalism. They’re probably more or less guilty, but it was an accident, nobody meant any harm, and they’re all foreigners, they don’t understand the American courts and they haven’t got any money for fines or bail or anything. We’d like you to go and look after them, get them out if you can—we need to talk to them, if you can arrange it.”
“Foreigners?” Ted pursed his lips and put down his glass. “Do they speak English?”
Pel glanced at Raven, who nodded. “Aye,” he said. “’Tis their native tongue.”
Pel improvised, “They’re from the backwoods of New Zealand someplace, I think.”
Ted nodded. “Ordinarily, I’d say no problem,” he said. “Do they all dress like, uh, Raven, here?”
Again, Pel glanced at Raven, who answered, “Nay, their garb is like neither mine nor your own.”
Pel shrugged.
Ted hesitated, and then said, “I can’t place your accent, Raven; where are you from?”
Raven glanced at Pel, then turned up a palm. “I come from Stormcrack Keep, in the Hither Corydians.”
“Is that in New Zealand?”
Raven just smiled and didn’t answer.
“Listen, would you do me a favor?” Ted asked.
Raven looked politely inquiring.
“Would you say, ‘Yonder lies the castle of my father’?”
Puzzled, Raven looked at Pel, whose expression shifted quickly from thunderstricken to suppressed giggling.
“Yonder lies the castle of my father?” Raven said.
“No,” Ted said. “Declaim it, announce it—you know.”
“Ted,” Pel interrupted, “Raven isn’t Tony Curtis, and he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. The accent’s real, he can’t help it.”
Baffled, Raven looked at Pel, who explained, “It’s a line from an old movie... oh, never mind.” He turned to Ted. “So can you get these people out of jail for us? As soon as possible? I’ll stand bail, if it’s not too much, or agree to be responsible for them.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ted said, gulping the rest of his scotch. “If it’s just trespassing and vandalism—they broke something?”
“Tore up someone’s yard, I think,” Pel said.
Ted nodded. “Simplest thing, then, would be to get the complainant to drop the charges; are you good for the damages, Pel, if that’s what’s wanted?”
Pel had to think for a moment before reluctantly agreeing. “I guess,” he said. “If it’s not too much.”
Ted stood up. “Well, thanks for the drink, then, and I guess I better get down to Rockville and see what the story is. Ah... do you have names for these people?”
Pel looked at Raven, who said, “Tarry a moment, please.” He turned and hurried to the family room, leaving Ted and Pel standing where they were.
Pel looked apologetically at Ted. “Another drink?” he asked.
“No, no,” Ted said. “I’m working, and I’m driving, and it’s too early anyway.”
“Coffee, maybe, or water?”
“No, thanks.”
They stood, awkwardly waiting, for another few seconds; then Raven reappeared.
“Your pardon, sirs,” he said. “The captain of the crew is one Joshua Cahn; his second is Alster Drummond. The lady with them is Mistress Proserpine Thorpe. Is that sufficient?”
“Should be,” Ted said. “Joshua Cahn—how’s that spelled, with a K?”
“I fear I know not, sir,” Raven replied.
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll find him. Cahn, Drummond, and Thorpe. Got it.”
“My thanks, sir, for your efforts in our behalf,” Raven said, bowing again as Pel showed Ted to the door.
* * * *
“Somebody named Ted Deranian wants to talk to you,” Susan’s voice said. “He’s a lawyer, has an office in Germantown.”
“A lawyer? What does he want to talk to me about?” Amy asked, puzzled.
“About the people from the thing in your back yard. He says he represents a friend of theirs who’s willing to pay for the damages if you drop the charges.”
Amy looked out her kitchen window at the ship, still lying where it had fallen. The Air Force people had not come back; she hoped they never would, though that did still leave the question
of what she was going to do with the thing.
“I thought none of them knew any lawyers,” she said.
“I don’t think they do,” Susan said. “They got Jerry de Lillo from the public defender’s office appointed to represent them—he’s okay. This isn’t him. This Deranian person doesn’t claim to be representing anyone directly involved in the case; his client is just a friend of one of them.”
“If they’re supposed to be from outer space, how can they have friends in Germantown?”
“That’s a very good question,” Susan said.
Amy considered for a long moment, then said, “I don’t suppose it can hurt to talk to him.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Susan agreed.
“Maybe I’ll finally find out what the heck is going on.”
“Maybe. Should I send him out there?”
“Here? Oh, no. Not here. I can come to your office, or his office—I don’t want him here.”
“All right. I’d like to sit in, so how about my office? When can you be here?”
* * * *
“I want to talk to them,” Amy said. “The people who were in it.”
“Fine by me,” Ted replied, smiling.
“I mean, I’m making that a condition. If I drop the charges, I want to talk to these people. That’s besides payment for the damages.”
Ted leaned back in the chair. “Ms. Jewell,” he said, “that’s fine with me, but I don’t know whether they’ll say anything. I don’t represent them; I’m acting on behalf of a third party.”
“Who?”
“His name is Pellinore Brown. He’s something of an old friend of mine.”
“Pellinore?” Susan said, startled.
Ted swiveled in his chair and said, “His mother got it out of a book somewhere.” He turned back to Amy. “Ms. Jewell,” he said, “I can’t make them talk to you, but how about this—you come to Mr. Brown’s house, and I’ll bring them there, and the lot of you can talk to each other all you want or not, whatever suits.” He smiled. “It should be interesting; I’ve already met another of Mr. Brown’s guests.”
Amy considered for a moment, glancing from Ted to Susan and back. Susan shrugged.
“Okay,” Amy said.
* * * *
“Somebody’s put in for a writ to get those people out of jail,” the lieutenant reported, holding the phone.
Major Johnston looked up, then back down at the reports spread on his desk.
Design analysis—nothing. The unidentified machines can’t possibly do anything.
Field trials—nothing. The machines don’t do anything.
Materials analysis—nothing. Steel, glass, simple plastics and ceramics, polished redwood, assorted metals—copper, brass, gold, platinum. Nothing untoward, unless you asked what the gold and platinum were doing there. No unidentified or unusual substances. No petroleum-based plastics, which was odd, and no aluminum, which was even odder. Who ever heard of any sort of flying craft made entirely without aluminum?
Electronics analysis—nothing. Not just nothing comprehensible, like the other reports, but nothing at all. No silicon chips anywhere, not so much as a single printed circuit. Everything electrical was hardwired, with simple copper wires and connectors. No transistors, not even any vacuum tubes—the most advanced equipment aboard that was recognizable at all was solenoids. Good solenoids, but solenoids.
This all assumed, of course, that the stuff that looked like random bits of wire, metal, and crystal wasn’t some sort of circuitry, but whatever it was, it didn’t do anything.
Aerodynamics analysis—nothing much. No airfoils. The guidance vanes were just that—guidance vanes. They would provide no lift to speak of. You could drive the thing up to Mach 1 and it still wouldn’t fly, just fall. Air resistance would be very low, the streamlining was perfectly sound, there just wasn’t any lift built into it anywhere.
Tracking analysis—nothing. The ship appeared out of nowhere about three hundred feet up, just barely high enough to show up as a blip at the county airport, and immediately plummeted to the ground. It didn’t come in from above; if it had flown in below the radar, it had somehow done so without a single report being filed anywhere. No complaints from homeowners, no sightings by UFO spotters, nothing.
Document analysis—still to come.
Somebody was supposed to analyze the food that had been stored aboard the ship, but that hadn’t been done yet, either. At first glance it looked ordinary enough—canned goods, freeze-dried stuff, and so forth.
The thing didn’t really look like a hoax, exactly; he would have expected hoaxers to rig up fancy displays and use lots of electronics, for effect. Hoaxers wouldn’t use gold and platinum; they would use aluminum.
Unless, of course, they were very clever hoaxers indeed, trying to not look like a hoax.
The whole damn thing made no sense at all.
“The hell with it,” he said, shoving back his chair. He looked up to see the lieutenant still holding the line. “Screw it,” he said. “Tell ‘em they can let ‘em go. It looks like we aren’t going to figure this one out until someone tells us something, and if those people haven’t talked yet... just screw it.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied. He uncovered the mouthpiece and spoke into it as Major Johnston angrily shoved the reports to one side and glared at them.
* * * *
“Ms. Thorpe?”
Prossie looked up, startled. The jailer who brought her meals never called her that, never said “Ms.”, and it was too early for dinner, anyway—she had only finished her lunch an hour or so ago. She wasn’t expecting that wonderful Mr. de Lillo again until tomorrow.
And she hadn’t sensed anyone coming, and she still wasn’t used to that.
It was a uniformed officer speaking, and not the regular jailer. “What is it?” Prossie asked, concentrating on listening for spoken words.
The officer fumbled with the lock as he said, “Ms. Jewell’s dropped the charges, and there’s someone here with a writ, says he’ll take responsibility for you people, so we’re letting you all go.” He swung open the door of the cell and stood to one side.
“Letting us go?” Prossie blinked.
“Yeah,” the man said. “Letting you go. Get your things, if you have any, and come on.”
“Really?” She did not understand this; why would that woman drop the charges? Who would take responsibility for her, and the rest of the crew?
What was really going on here?
“Come on, already,” the officer said, annoyed. “Do you want to get out or not?”
Prossie didn’t dawdle any further. Whatever the explanation might be, she wanted out.
Chapter Eight
Three cars would be needed—Pel’s Ford Taurus, Nancy’s little Chevy, and Ted’s Lincoln—to transport the ten Imperials to the Brown home. Nancy was seriously unhappy about driving people who had just been in jail; Raven offered to ride along, or to send Stoddard to defend her, but that didn’t really help much. While she had met them, they weren’t exactly trusted friends.
Eventually she agreed to drive only on condition that Raven ride with her, that she transport only two of the ten prisoners, and that one of them be the woman, Proserpine Thorpe.
At first, Pel and Ted figured that that put four each in the other two cars, which was manageable. Unfortunately, it didn’t really leave room for Rachel anywhere except in Ted’s car, sitting beside a quondam prisoner, and Nancy objected to that. She wanted her daughter with a parent, not a lawyer—and certainly not home alone, or with the men from Raven’s world. The Lincoln could hold six; the Taurus could not.
That called for another shuffle. A prisoner was shifted in the plans, so that the Chevy would carry Raven, Rachel, and Proserpine Thorpe, with Nancy driving. Four men would ride with Pel, and five, including Captain Cahn, with Ted.
That settled, the next problem was that Nancy didn’t like the idea of leaving Stoddard, Donald, and Valadrakul unchaperoned in her
house. Accordingly, the three men vanished through the basement wall, and the door at the top of the basement stairs was locked.
“That won’t stop them, though,” Nancy said, fretting. “They can step right back through, and that big one, Stoddard, I’m sure he can break the lock without half trying.”
Pel sighed. “Nan,” he said, “a random burglar could break a window and get in just as easily. Why would anyone want to bother? We’ll be back in half an hour, probably. It’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, Nancy agreed.
Up to this point the discussion of transportation had been theoretical, taking place entirely in the Brown home; now the party moved out, Ted to his car at the curb out front, the others to the garage.
Raven marveled at the vehicles, and ran a hand along the roofline of the Chevy while Pel raised the doors. “So smooth!” he said. “Is’t lacquer?”
Nancy and Pel glanced at each other. “Um... yeah, I think they use lacquer,” Pel replied. He opened the door for Raven and held it, while Nancy let Rachel climb into the back seat from the driver’s side.
“Why do you build them so low to the ground?” Raven asked as he lowered himself in. “Would it not be better to sit higher, above the splashings of mud and whatnot?”
“Streamlining,” Pel said. “Besides, our roads aren’t muddy.” He slammed the door as Nancy settled in on the other side, then turned away, headed for his own car.
Nancy pulled her seat belt and shoulder strap into place, and looked over to see Raven stroking the upholstery and staring at the various accoutrements, his own straps untouched.
“Fasten your belt,” she said.
He started, looked up, and found the buckle. Awkwardly, he pulled it down and, after some fumbling, secured it.
“You, too, Rachel,” Nancy said, turning her head.
Rachel displayed her fastened belt. “Already did, Mommy!”
The Ford’s engine started up, and Raven jumped again; his hand fell to where the hilt of his sword would have been, had not the Browns convinced him to leave the weapon in the family room. His head snapped around, and he stared as Pel backed the Taurus out of the garage.
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