Orcas sat up and put a hand on his forehead, remembering. "I fell." He paused, looked at his horse: "We fell."
"But you never landed." The stranger was a thin, energetic man who gesticulated when he spoke, and he spoke quickly. He had a long, lean face with high cheekbones, a small straight nose, a mouth which seemed always tempted to smile and short blonde hair with a neat side parting. Dark glasses covered his eyes. His clothes were outlandishly bright: an emerald green shirt, a wide red tie and a yellow suit, with highly polished red shoes on his feet. He looked like a Court Jester. But Orcas' Sorcerer's perception saw something else: he was more than human. He seemed to have an aura about him, almost a glow; not in the physical sense, not manifested as light, but rather in the psychic sense. It was as if his soul was too large for the fleshy envelope it inhabited and the excess spilt out into the atmosphere around him. It was a subtle phenomenon, but it was definitely there.
"I never landed?" Orcas was still confused. The man in bright clothing - he looked like a man and spoke like a man so one might as well think of him as a man, Orcas decided - rose to his feet, walked over to the Scholar-King and bent down to shake hands with him.
"I am the Fixer," he said. Orcas shook but remained sat on the ground, feeling instinctively that he was in for a few surprises - being alive was already surprising enough! - and that it would be better to remain in a stable position physically.
"You never landed," repeated the Fixer; "neither you nor the horse, because we plucked you out of the air, out of the world indeed, and brought you here. It seemed best. Resurrection is always a tricky business, ethically and physically, especially after a long fall."
"You saved me," said Orcas. "I'm grateful, but why?" His eyes widened with enthusiasm and he half rose. "Can you put me back? My people need me in the fight against the invading Arabs. They need my sword and my sorcery. They need..."
"They can't have it, I'm afraid. You are dead, Orcas, as far as your own world is concerned. To put you back now would change the course of history, quite contrary to my responsibilities. My job is to keep the several histories of Earth on course, not divert them."
Orcas picked at the grass with his fingers, thinking regretfully of the friends, allies and relatives to whom he was no longer any use. The Fixer left him in peace, to adjust, and so there was silence for a while in the clearing, except for the munching of Vanoir and an occasional splash from the fish.
Finally, sighing, Orcas said, "So what do you want from me?"
"I want you to be a troubleshooter in the forty-two universes; a kind of caretaker for them."
Orcas said, "There are thirty worlds, not forty-two."
The thin man grinned. "There are more worlds in Heaven and Earth, my dear Orcas, than are dreamed of in your philosophy. Twelve more, to be exact."
Since this was entirely possible Orcas accepted it. "Why do they need a caretaker; a... troubleshooter? - strange word. And isn't forty-two worlds rather a big area for one man to look after?"
"There will be two of you and several other teams as well, for the work, so it's not all on your shoulders. And we have plenty of time for the job. All of time, in fact."
"The question remains, why does Earth need me and what do I do?"
"You're a sort of mechanic." The Fixer began to make a slow circuit of the pond, waving and gesticulating like a French artist as he chattered. "Yes, a mechanic. Do you think that something as complicated as one world, never mind forty-two of them, can run without maintenance from creation to the end of time? Do you think history rolls smoothly along its pre-destined path with never a hitch or a glitch or a breakdown? Even something as simple as a piston engine needs a little tinkering now and then.”
Orcas assumed that a piston engine was some sort of mechanical contrivance. In his era, the seventh century, no such device existed.
"I never thought about it, he admitted. “I’ve had many theological discussions with learned bishops but it never occurred to me that the universes needed maintenance."
"Oh, they do!" The man in the loud suit was emphatic. "Especially the early ones; the basic models where Natural Law isn't so firmly laid down and Sorcerers can bend it to their will. You're from one of those incidentally. They were the prototypes, so to speak; the first attempts. In the original ten sorcery is rampant, and there are even creatures powerful enough to be called Gods, by men. But after those He got a firmer hold on Nature, so the later universes don't have magic. Less fun, of course, but less likely to go wrong as well."
"He?" Orcas queried the vague pronoun.
"Him," affirmed the Fixer, "with a capital H. The big cheese; the head honcho; the fellow in charge; the Supreme Being. He has nine billion names so use whichever one you like."
"What does go wrong with the world then?" Orcas rose to his feet, feeling that the worst of the shocks were over now and he could cope with the rest upright.
"Well, as you know, or you may not, in its initial phase each universe is expanding; and when things expand the material, stretched out of shape, can develop holes. That happens quite a lot. All these universes are next to each other - like pages in a book, to use the favourite analogy - with some points where they intersect, folds and so forth, and other points where Sorcerers and
Elves have created intersections for their own purposes; usually for mischief in the case of the Elves. With all these holes and crossroads we are constantly having things fall out of one universe into another, causing trouble. Then, of course, there's the old problem of Free Will."
"Versus predestination?"
"Exactly. The main course of history is predestined, obviously. The world is not a lunatic asylum run by the inmates. There's a plan. However, He...”
"The big cheese," interjected Orcas with a smile.
"Yes. He, in his infinite wisdom, decided that man, and Elf for that matter should have free will, and rigged circumstances so that in exercising this generous gift each individual would nevertheless follow the plan."
"I have never understood that," said Orcas. "In fact, no-one has that I know of."
"It's beyond you," said the Fixer. "It's beyond me, and now and then it goes wrong. Just occasionally some...nuisance of a human being uses his free will to make the wrong choice and puts things out of whack."
"So I have to put them back," Orcas hesitated before using unfamiliar slang, "into whack?" The Fixer nodded. "Why me?"
"You have been chosen, so you're the man for the job." The Fixer saw by Orcas' expression that this was not a very satisfactory answer and went on: "We need someone who can use his initiative; someone capable, responsible, intelligent and decisive. You will have to go to strange places, sometimes very strange to you, find out what the problems are and then try to set the world back on its proper course. Your world always, Earth, but forty-two different versions of it, and nearly all of time to play with. You'll be busy!"
"Why should I do it?" demanded Orcas. The Fixer grinned confidently: "Because you want to; you will love it. You're a scholar, a historian and a philosopher who also likes action and adventure. A chance to roam through space and time in forty-two different versions of your own planet...How can you resist?"
Orcas smiled. "I don't think I can. But what are the rules? Faced with these assorted problems, what can I do? What can't I do?"
The Fixer regarded him appreciatively, and with an air of pride too, like a man who's picked a good racehorse and smiles when it shows its form. "You're a shrewd one," he said. "I chose well."
He paused, then raised a hand and began counting off points on his fingers:
"Number one: you should try not to kill anyone. Firstly, one death in a world's distant past can wipe out hundreds of important descendants. Secondly, it's unethical, damn it." He frowned and added, "Sometimes, unfortunately, it might be necessary. Number two: you must try, it won't always be possible, to restore the status quo; make things as they would have been if the problem had not ar
isen. Above all, avoid changes to the cultural, economic and sociological pattern. Don't go around abolishing slavery, or turning monarchies into democracies because you think democracy is better."
"I don't. I am...was, a king, remember."
The Fixer nodded. "Three: sometimes there are restrictions. You're quite an adept magician but in some worlds sorcery is limited. In quite a few it doesn't work at all. But even in those places where you have your full abilities, or more in the first few Earths - God, they're chaotic! - you mustn't use raw power to put things right. Don't go around moving mountains. Use your brains. Be subtle. You can do it; that's one of the reasons why you were chosen."
"Number four?" Orcas raised an inquiring eyebrow. He was stood beside his horse, stroking its hindquarters affectionately.
"Three is it," said the Fixer. "Do you accept the job?"
"What's my alternative?" Orcas had every intention of accepting but asked the question from genuine curiosity. The Fixer was blunt.
"Death. I saved you from certain death so if you don't take this position, outside the time stream, you go back to your natural destiny. In short...” He made the classic throat-slitting gesture with his right hand.
"And death means?"
The Fixer grinned. "Aah, wouldn't you like to know. Sorry, my friend, you have to make that journey to find out about the destination, and there's no coming back either."
Orcas patted Vanoir again then knelt down next to the pond. He dabbled a hand in the cool water, looked up at the Fixer. "Is this fit to drink?"
The thin man nodded. "W.C.Fields would object to it because of the fish but for you, it's plenty good enough."
Orcas formed a cup with his two hands and drank. Vanoir, in imitation of his master, ambled forward, bent his head down and slurped noisily. Orcas sat back on the grass and looked at the Fixer again.
"I'll take the job," he said.
"Naturally. You've just decided to freewill down your predestined path. Don't frown. It's too tricky a metaphysical problem for mere mortals; just accept it."
"As you said, for a historian the chance is irresistible." A thought struck him and he voiced it immediately: "Do the forty-two worlds have the same history?"
"No." The Fixer was brief.
"Hmmm. Could you elaborate on that answer, please? How different are they?"
"Some are similar to others and some are very different, and some are just a little bit different."
"You are not," said Orcas, "very clear."
The Fixer frowned and began to pace back and forth, looking agitated. "I don't want to tell you more than you need to know," he said and continued to pace while Orcas patiently waited. "On the other hand, I suppose if you're going to work here you should understand the basic setup."
"It might be wise."
"Right." He stopped pacing and walked around the pond to sit on the grass beside Orcas. "I'll explain it in a very rough, simplified kind of way." Orcas nodded. "Think of them as numbered. Say that the first created universe is universe one, the last created is universe forty-two."
"Right."
"Right. It would be incorrect, and even blasphemous, to call any of the universes a failure. They are all perfect. They are all basically the same structure - galaxies, suns, planets, etc. - but with differences in the pattern; variations on a theme. Think of it as a work of art which has gone through forty-two versions; a novel, say. The first draft is good but a little roughhewn. The writer does a second; makes changes in the plot; moves this character; takes that one out completely; changes the emphasis. Then he does a third draft and changes it all again; thinks of a different ending, let's say, and alters the entire plot to suit it."
Orcas said: "What's a novel?"
"A fictional narrative of forty thousand words or more. A story, like a play. You've seen plays? The Greek if nothing else."
"I've read stories too - the Iliad and the Odyssey for example - but not by that name; novel?"
"We digress. The point is that from number one to number forty-two the story has changed considerably. He made the world and saw that it was good, sure; and then he saw that it could be even better so He made another one. Then another and so on."
"So they're all different."
"Yes; but sometimes subtly. Look: number two is very like number one. Number forty-one is very like forty-two, but very different from one. Number twenty is quite different from both. Some are completely different from all the others: wild cards; universes where he really went to town and tried everything. Those are very exciting."
"Will I ever see them?"
"Oh yes. They are guided, just like all the rest, though in a looser fashion." The Fixer rose to his feet. "Since you accept the job I can introduce you to your partner. He lives in a cottage just a short walk from here, so if you'll come this way..." He indicated a narrow footpath which led away into the wood.
Orcas stood up. "A partner, you say. What's he like?"
"Orph? Oh, he's a jolly little chap. Rather too much in love, I think, with the gadgets and gizmos of the more technological Earths; they're the ones where Natural Law is more rigid and sorcery doesn't work very well. Orph was born and raised in the twentieth century of such a world and it has influenced him in many ways. You'll see at his house."
Orcas followed the garishly garbed Fixer down through the green wood. The gravel path crunched softly under their feet; the leaves rustled in the slightest of breezes and many birds sang, a cuckoo close by. At length, they came to another small clearing and here sat a stone cottage from a fairy tale. It had a thatched roof which overhung the building so much it seemed keen to touch the ground, small windows with myriad tiny panes, and a black oak lintel over the tiny doorway. There was a neat lawn in front, bordered with roses and a stone path led from the low wooden gate in the low, white picket fence straight to the low front door.
"Low isn't it," said Orcas.
"You'll have to mind your head." The Fixer rapped on the front door. Faintly, from within, a sharp banging sound could be heard, repeated intermittently. Orcas had never heard anything like it before.
"What's that noise?" he asked.
"Gunshots; and he hasn't heard our knock so he must be watching a video with the sound up loud. We'll take a chance on being ill-mannered - Orph is not a stickler for protocol - and walk on in."
The Fixer twisted the doorknob and entered a short, white painted hallway. A few framed prints hung on the walls; bright, colourful scenes of well-muscled, sword-wielding men with scantily clad maidens at their feet. Some of the pictures also featured dark, scaly monsters with gaping jaws and many sharp teeth, usually about to devour the half-naked humans. Once again a puzzled frown marred the features of the Sorcerer-King.
"They're by Frank Frazzeta, mostly," the Fixer explained. "Cover paintings for stories about Ummm...” - he waved a hand vaguely - "oh, battles and things. It's another one of Orph's twentieth-century hobbies." He knocked on a door to the right from whence gunfire and shouting could be heard. "And here you'll see his greatest enthusiasm; videos." He opened the door. "Good morning, Orph."
Orcas did not immediately see his partner to be, only the back of a wide, low armchair. It was facing a black cube with a glass front in which an image in tones of black, grey and white could be seen. There was a man climbing some sort of scaffolding, laughing like a lunatic.
A stubby-fingered hand waggled above the chair in greeting. "Come in, come in. It's nearly finished."
They entered, stood either side of their host and watched the scene in the cube. Orcas had used a crystal ball in his own world, now and then, to catch vague glimpses of the future, but the images had always been so cloudy that the practice was virtually useless. This picture, be noted, was as clear as life, except for the strange lack of colour.
The man had now reached the top of a large metal dome, still laughing and waving some small device in his hand. The scene ch
anged abruptly to a crowd of men watching him, evidently from far below, then back to the man on the dome. He pointed at it with the device in his hand.
"Made it, Ma!" he shouted exultantly. "Top of the world!"
There was a huge explosion on the screen. Orph, who had been leaning forward eagerly, tensely, became relaxed and limp, slumping back in his chair.
"Brilliant!" he declared. Then, turning his attention to the visitors, he stood up. "Good day, men."
The Fixer said: "Orph, this is your partner to be, Orcas."
The two men shook hands. "Howdy, partner," said Orph.
Orcas said hello and then pointed to the TV screen, which now showed the rolling credits for the saga just concluded.
"What was that?"
"White Heat: a film starring James Cagney and Pat O'Brien. They don't make 'em like that anymore, alas."
Orcas looked helplessly at his new employer. "I'm none the wiser."
"It's a twentieth-century technological device," said the Fixer; "but it looks like magic, no doubt, to a man of your era."
"A motion picture is worth a thousand words," said Orph. "At least. Why try to explain when you can see for yourself? Sit you down, rest you, and I'll put on another." He shuffled through a stack of videos at the foot of the television and held one up triumphantly. "Here: The Roaring Twenties, with Cagney and Bogie. I can think of no better introduction to the delights of Hollywood. Sit," he repeated, for Orcas was still standing there looking bemused at the string of unfamiliar terms. "I'll use the other chair. Boy, are you in for a treat!"
"I'll leave you to get acquainted," said the Fixer, and with a theatrical snap of his fingers, he vanished.
Orph winced: "I hate it when he does that."
"I don't believe he is human," said Orcas.
"Oh, certainly not." The little man was emphatic in agreement. "He's from one of the higher echelons, though how high I wouldn't care to guess. I just think of him as an Angel. Mind you, I have no idea what an Angel is; it's simply a convenient label. But never mind him. Let's get the entertainment started."
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