Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sausages

by Tom Holt

  As he walked through the door, a bell rang, like in a shop. He swung round, but the door had shut behind him: a shop door, with a glass panel, through which he could see pavement. He threw himself against it, rattling the glass, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he tried turning the handle, but that didn’t work either. The door wouldn’t open. Oh, he thought.

  He turned and looked around. He knew this place. A counter, and behind it a rack of clothes all done up in blue polythene. He grabbed at a book of tickets on the counter in front of him. On each of them was printed “SpeediKleen” over a number.

  So that’s what an interdimensional portal looks like, he thought. No swirly lights, slo-mo, dry ice; one moment you’re in one place, the next you’re somewhere else. No frills, like a low-cost airline. Nobody trying to sell you socks or filled baguettes while you’re hanging around waiting for something to happen. Serious travel, in other words, for serious people – a category, he reflected, into which I don’t really fit.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Mr Gogerty?”

  No answer. He hadn’t expected one. Better than even money that they’d gone (been sent) to different locations. He moved his head a little to one side and sniffed. He could have sworn he smelled cheese: Stilton, his favourite.

  “Hello?” he repeated. “Shop? Anybody there?”

  Apparently not. On the shelf behind the counter he saw a large, grubby-looking red ledger, corners bruised, pages well thumbed. He opened it and turned the pages back until he found what he’d expected to find: Miss P. Mayer, one dress, clean, mend and press. Thought so. It was the dry cleaners, the one that had suddenly vanished. Magic, he remembered, had retrieved Polly’s dress from here and delivered it to the flat. Worth a try. He pulled out a hair and blew on it. Nothing happened. But of course it wouldn’t. Mr Gogerty had the pencil sharpener and so, presumably, was now the master of all its extraordinary powers. A bit of a waste since Mr Gogerty had no hair.

  The cheese smell reminded him that it had been a long time since he’d had anything to eat. It seemed sadly trivial-minded to worry about food at a time like this. It depended on how long he was likely to be here. If the answer to that question was (for example) for ever and ever, the food issue would be far from trivial. It stood to reason that the people who ran the shop had access to food – but they weren’t here, were they? – A kitchen, he thought, or a larder. Or even a control centre or bridge. Taking a deep breath, he set off to explore.

  Ten minutes later he was back where he’d started. He’d found a kitchen, and in it a breadbin, and in that a couple of slightly stale brown rolls, for which he was truly thankful. No sign of a command centre, but loads of cleaning plant and machinery, together with a main bedroom, a spare bedroom, a bathroom, a living room which reminded him of Uncle Jim and Auntie Pauline’s house (shudder), a cupboard-under-the stairs full of coats and scarves, and a downstairs loo. Not exactly the Tardis. If it wasn’t for the fact that the front door was still firmly shut (he’d found a hammer in the cupboard under the stairs, but it hadn’t had any effect on the door glass) he could almost have believed he was in a perfectly ordinary dry cleaners somewhere in the real world. Which would have been nice.

  Something else that appeared to be functioning within normal parameters was his bladder, which was making a bid for his urgent attention. He’d done his best to ignore it for several minutes, but action would be required quite soon. Weeing in someone else’s house without asking first offended every convention he lived by; there was something inherently wrong with the idea. It was practically criminal – breaking and urinating – but, by the same token, so was helping himself to brown rolls from the kitchen. The owners wouldn’t mind, he told himself (it’s much easier to convince yourself of ethically dubious propositions when your legs are tightly crossed). More to the point, they’d never know. Awkwardly but quickly he retraced his steps to the downstairs toilet, barged open the door and pulled it shut behind him, and—

  “George,” said Eileen. “I want to go home.”

  They’d been walking for hours, and their feet were sore. It had been a long time since they’d walked more than a few yards or on any surface other than slightly threadbare carpet. The sun was still shining, but a few clouds had started to drift in – long, high, flat clouds that looked as though they’d been sat on by overweight angels. Eileen didn’t seem to have noticed that they’d been walking in circles all the time, and they were now back at the foot of the farm drive. Mercifully, no sign of the savage attack chickens.

  “Me too,” George said, and realised rather to his own surprise that he meant it. Twenty-four hours ago his dearest wish would have been to escape from the shop and never go back; never to press another shirt or stare at the same implacably unchanging walls. He’d probably have stuck to his resolution if they’d been in a town, with proper pavements and buildings and lashings of people. The countryside was different, however. It was big and empty and scary, and he wished it would go away. Think of all the nice houses you could build on a wilderness like this.

  “I’ve had about enough of this walk.”

  “Can’t be too far now,” he replied diplomatically.

  “When we get home,” Eileen said, “I’m going to have a nice strong cup of tea and put my feet up.”

  He could try explaining, he thought, but what useful purpose would it serve? “Me too,” he said. “Maybe a nice hot bath.”

  “Did you remember to turn the immersion on?”

  “Yes,” he lied, and felt guilty about it even though it couldn’t possibly matter. “There’ll be plenty of hot water. You can have a nice bath and wash your hair.”

  “I’d like that.” She came to a halt and looked at him as though searching for something she’d lost. “Do you think we did something wrong?” she said.

  “What?”

  “All this.” She made a small gesture with her hands that nevertheless adequately indicated the entire universe. “Do you think it’s because we did something wrong? You know, something bad.”

  It was the first time either of them had said it out loud. “No,” he said, with practically no hesitation. “No, we’re not bad people. It’s just some stuff, that’s all.” He frowned, trying to think of comparables. “Like a burst water main,” he said, “or the plagues of Egypt in the Bible. I think somebody else somewhere may’ve done something bad, and we got sort of swept up in it. Or maybe it’s just one of those things.”

  She nodded, relieved to have her analysis confirmed. “Do you think it’s over now?”

  Hopeful, like a small kid in a car, Are we nearly there yet? They should make up a new range of words for times like this, he thought, words that mean the same things but with the nasty sharp edges taken off. “Wouldn’t have thought so,” he replied. “But you never know.”

  “Here, George.” She grabbed his arm. “We’re back at that chicken place again.”

  Again he’d hoped she wouldn’t notice. After all, they’d already been past it half a dozen times since the incident, but she hadn’t been paying attention. Women don’t take in their surroundings the way men do.

  “So we are,” he said.

  “Come on,” she muttered. “Let’s go back the way we just came. If those bloody chickens are still running about loose…”

  “I don’t think they are. I can’t see them anywhere.”

  “There’s one, look.” Her arm shot out like a harpoon into a whale, and she pointed. “There, see? Near that man.”

  “What man?”

  “That one there, see? Tall black man with a bald head.”

  Of course there are times when men are so busy taking in their surroundings that they overlook the howlingly obvious. “Oh him,” he said, and then the description registered. He peered more closely, wishing very much he’d thought to bring his glasses.

  “George,” Eileen said urgently, “let’s go back.”

  “Just a second, love.” Yes, now he’d seen him properly, as it were, there was no possibility o
f mistaken identity. The tall man standing by the big clump of nettles talking to a chicken was the same one who’d called to see him, the scary one who’d promised—

  Hang on, he thought. He’s talking to a chicken.

  Well, so what? People talk to animals: cats, dogs, budgies, goldfish even. Nothing weird or sinister about that. His gran on his mother’s side—

  “What’s he doing now?”

  Good question. He looked like he was typing something into a little gadget he was holding in his hand. Now he was bending down and putting the gadget on the ground, and the chicken was stooping like it was reading what he’d written (only chickens can’t read, of course), and now it was pecking at the thing like it was typing in a reply, and the man was picking it up and reading it.

  “Let’s go back,” he said firmly. “Come on.”

  But Eileen didn’t seem to hear him. “That man might know what’s going on,” she said. “You could ask him.”

  George’s heart withered inside his chest. Men don’t ask; it’s the rules. Correction: men don’t ask strangers. But the tall man wasn’t a stranger; furthermore, he was from the council or something of the sort, which made him official, so that was all right. And maybe he did know what was going on, at that. He’d seemed pretty clued up the last time.

  “Good idea,” George said. “You wait here while I just—”

  Bad suggestion. “Not likely,” Eileen said briskly. “You’re not leaving me here with all them chickens wandering about.”

  There’s also a rule that says that women are allowed to be afraid of animals; they can make as much fuss as they like, and you’re not allowed to tell them to pull themselves together or get a grip. It’s one of those complicated rules, like men have to carry the suitcase at airports but opening doors is male chauvinism. “All right, then,” he conceded. “You know what,” he added, “I think I may have seen him before somewhere.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Eileen replied. They’re allowed to say things like that too.

  The man – Mr Gogerty, George remembered – was concentrating so hard on typing into his gadget that he didn’t realise he had company until George did some rather theatrical coughing, at which he spun round like a ballet dancer and stared.

  “Hello,” George said brightly. “Mr Gogerty, isn’t it?”

  A split second. Mr Gogerty was clearly an intelligent, perceptive man. He saw Eileen, registered the complication, and said, “That’s right. And you’re Mr…” He made a pantomine of trying to remember. “Mr Williams,” he said. “From the dry cleaners in Clevedon Road.”

  “Fancy you remembering,” George said. “You must have a really good memory. Eileen, this is Mr Gogerty, who came in our shop once. Mr Gogerty, this is my wife, Eileen.”

  Enough with the play-acting, said Mr Gogerty’s eyebrows. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. “May I ask…”

  “What we’re doing here?” George grinned sadly. “Funnily enough, I was wondering if you could tell me.”

  The chicken clucked. If it had been human, it would have sounded annoyed. Eileen jumped and looked terrified, and George had a flash of inspiration. “Get back, Eileen,” he said. “We’ll protect you.”

  Eileen backed away ten yards, her eyes fixed on the chicken’s beak. “Nice,” muttered Mr Gogerty, clearly impressed. “All right, what are you doing here?”

  “Dunno,” George whispered back. “The shop came here; we thought we’d go for a walk, and when we tried to find it again, it’d gone.”

  Mr Gogerty looked at him sharply. “Gone.”

  “Gone. Vanished. We’ve been walking round in circles ever since.” He frowned, added, “We keep going in a straight line, but we always end up here. It’s like—”

  “That’s right,” Mr Gogerty said. “It’s because it’s what we call a pocket universe. Infinite, like the real universe, but curved.” George gave him his number-one blank look. “Sorry,” Mr Gogerty said. “Thinking aloud. Oh sorry, this is Kevin Briggs.”

  “What?”

  The chicken clucked angrily, dislodging the penny, which dropped with terrible force. “What, that?” George said. “That’s a…”

  “As human as you or me,” Mr Gogerty said. “In fact, he came into your shop once. Actually,” he added, “I rather think that’s why he’s here.”

  Imagine the multiverse (Mr Huos read) as a series of concentric spheres, a set of spherical Russian dolls packed inside each other. Each universe comprised in the multiverse is by definition infinite; each universe is curved, in accordance with basic Einsteinian metaphysics.

  Mr Huos paused and scratched his head. He wasn’t a great reader at the best of times, and Mr Gogerty’s article in the autumn 1972 edition of Supernature was rather hard going. Still, he was beginning to get a glimmer of the basic idea.

  Each universe is infinite; how, then, can one fit inside another? To argue thus, we contend, is to allow ourselves to be confined within the bounds of a crudely materialist mindset, to envisage the boundaries of universes to be hard, solid, like the shell of an egg. Instead of a shell, let that boundary be a balloon, capable of inflating and shrinking and yet remaining essentially the same. If a universe is truly infinite, of course it can accommodate itself inside another universe; come to that, inside a football or a peanut shell. Infinite doesn’t just mean infinitely big. Infinite also encompasses infinitely small.

  The egg metaphor, of course, begs the great teleological question, Which came first? But for that question to have any semblance of meaning…

  Mr Huos groaned, reached for his sandwich, peeled off the top slice of bread, shook half a dozen aspirins from the bottle on top of the amply mustarded roast beef, replaced the bread and bit largely. Such was his remarkable constitution that he could eat aspirin like sweets and come to no harm. Such was his bizarrely different physiology that he could munch aspirins all day without any effect on his headache. Still, it did no harm to try.

  He skipped a page and tried again.

  Let us consider Suslowicz’s fifth proposition. What, he asks, is an egg but a compilation of ingredients – water, calcium, proteins – drawn from the body of the hen, matured inside her and expelled in the act of laying. Although the egg is not the whole chicken, the egg is wholly made up from the chicken. At the instant of laying every part of it is derived from the chicken; thus, by any meaningful criteria, the egg is the chicken, or at least of the chicken, and the separateness that ensues from the act of parturition is merely a geographical irrelevance. If a man’s arm is cut off, Suslowicz argues, the arm is still a component of the man’s body. That the egg then proceeds to hatch into a wholly separate life form is beside the point. Even the newly hatched chick is wholly composed of its mother until it takes its first externally derived bite of food and sip of water (Suslowicz ignores the fact that the eggshell is permeable, and therefore air not supplied by the mother is absorbed by the chick from the moment of laying)…

  Naughty Suslowicz, Mr Huos thought. In fact, he was so cross with Suslowicz he skipped the whole of the rest of the page, just to teach him a lesson.

  It therefore follows that the egg inside the chicken is entirely comparable to the concentric universe inside the multiverse. An egg, containing an unborn chicken, is in itself an infinity of possibilities. Within its first sixty seconds of life the chick might stand up or sit down, turn right or left, cheep or not cheep; in its entire lifetime the chick encompasses an infinity, a universe of potential choices, of moments when the continuum bifurcates and new universes are formed, each infinite but contained within the other, like our spherical Russian dolls. The hen is, by the same token, equally infinite, but when she contains the egg she contains the future infinity that will soon be the chick. Therefore, to ask the question “Which came first?” is to ignore the…

  Mr Huos yawned and turned back to the list of contents at the front of the journal. Someone, the editor presumably, had put it rather well: “P.376 ‘Suslowicz reconsidered; the argument from internality.’
A nice try by Stanley Gogerty.”

  Indeed. A nice try but drivel nonetheless. Mr Huos closed the journal, ate the rest of his sandwich, glanced at his watch. A quarter past five, the time when, according to his usual routine, they brought him the day’s letters to check and sign. His fingers itched for the pen, the way a missing tooth sometimes aches. The office felt very big and empty with just him in it.

  He’d had no choice, however. Sack the lot of them, it had been the only way. Close down the entire business, cancel all the contracts, pay them all off, every single one. He winced at the thought. A few days ago, before it all went wrong, he’d been a rich man, so rich he had no idea how much money he’d got. Now, having bought himself out of all his liabilities, he was left with about fifty thousand pounds sterling, say a hundred thousand US dollars, an evocative figure, he couldn’t help thinking. A hundred thousand bucks plus the clothes he stood up in. The difference this time was that he didn’t have a little brass ring, slightly worn on one side. Big difference.

  He sat very still and listened. There are few places on earth as quiet as a fully soundproofed modern office suite with nobody in it and the phones all disconnected and the computers and the air conditioning switched off and nobody using the plumbing. You could have heard a pin drop, except there was nobody around to drop a pin. Mr Huos frowned. Maybe he could ring the job centre and hire someone to come in and drop pins, just to ease the silence. Better not, though; he couldn’t really afford indulgences like that any more. He still had Stan Gogerty’s bill to pay, and he had an idea that a hundred thousand dollars would only just cover it. No, belay that. Symmetry demanded that a hundred thousand dollars would cover it exactly, leaving him with nothing because that was how it should be. Often he’d wondered why he’d had the money bestowed upon him when he was put there in the Caucasus for the monks to find. Now he knew. It was to pay Mr Gogerty’s bill, when the time came.