The Portal

by Richard Bowker

  "Come," replied a voice from inside.

  He opened the door, and we saw a large, dark room, with a high ceiling and big draperies covering the windows. Like every room in this world, it stank of smoke. A gray-haired soldier sat behind a big desk, chewing on an unlit cigar and looking at a map. The lieutenant saluted, and the man gave a half-wave in return. His uniform was unbuttoned, rumpled, and stained, but when he raised his eyes and stared at us I knew this guy wasn't another Colonel Clarett; he was a general, and an important one. I figured he was the head of the whole army, and it turned out I was right.

  I thought Lieutenant Carmody had a cold stare, but the general's gaze was even harder and colder; it seemed to suck the breath right out of me. It made me want to run and hide. Kevin and I stood on the other side of the desk from him and waited.

  "These are the ones?" he asked Lieutenant Carmody.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Strange clothing too, eh? Let me see the thing again." The lieutenant went over, took out the watch, unwrapped it, and handed it to him. The general squinted at it and punched in a few numbers. "Fascinating. But not much use to us, is it?"

  "Might speed up artillery calculations."

  "That won't win the war," the general muttered. "And what's their story? Where did they get the thing?"

  The lieutenant took a long look at us. "Sir, they claim to have, er, arrived here accidentally from another world, similar to ours but much more advanced. On their world, this is simply an inexpensive timepiece that one of them happened to be wearing."

  He paused, and everyone was silent. "Of course. Yes," the general said finally. "Why didn't I think of that?"

  Lieutenant Carmody gave a few more details from Kevin's story. At the end the general rolled his eyes. "And do you believe this tale, lieutenant?" he asked.

  "Sir, I don't know. But as we discussed, this object is far beyond our ability to manufacture. Or the ability of anyone else, for that matter, including the Chinese."

  "We knew that already, Lieutenant. I sent you to form an opinion. Are they telling the truth?"

  For the first time Lieutenant Carmody looked uncomfortable. "It seems absurd, but... I can come up with no other satisfactory explanation. The accents, the clothes, the device... And the story itself. It's a tale beyond the ability of mere boys to concoct. In my opinion."

  "Hmmph," the general muttered. He returned his gaze to us. "What does the 'B' on that strange hat of yours stand for?" he asked Kevin suddenly.

  "For—for Boston," Kevin replied. He sounded as scared of the general as I felt. "It's a baseball cap."

  "And what is 'baseball'? Some sort of game?"

  "Yes, sir. It's a sport. Teams from different cities play it—Boston, New York... It's like cricket, I think. Maybe you play cricket here?"

  The general ignored Kevin's question. "Sit, both of you," he ordered. "Now, explain the rules of baseball. Tell me everything you know about it."

  I was grateful to be able to sit down. And Kevin looked really happy to be able to talk about baseball. "Well," he said. "there are nine men on a side, and the field is set up with three bases and what you call home plate..." He went over the rules, then he started in on how the major leagues were set up and the history of the game. He explained how you figured out an earned run average and slugging percentage and stuff like that. It was really boring if you ask me, but the general paid close attention.

  "Enough," he ordered finally. "A strange game, indeed. I think it's time for a drink, Lieutenant," he said.

  The lieutenant went to a cabinet and got a bottle out of it. He poured some dark brown liquid into a glass and handed it to the general, who gulped. "Feel free, Lieutenant," he said, gesturing at the bottle, but Carmody shook his head.

  The general poured more liquor into the glass. "Earned run average," he muttered.

  The rest of us waited.

  "We are not mystics, Lieutenant," he said. "We are not philosophers. We are soldiers. We do not always need to understand; but we do need to act."

  "Yes, sir."

  "If we don't win this war," he went on, "President Gardner may survive as a puppet of the Canadians and the Portuguese, at least until they can figure out how to carve the nation up. You and I, Lieutenant, will most assuredly not survive. Can these boys help us win this war?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  The general eyed him. "Not the right answer," he said.

  "Sir, if we believe them, they're too young to understand what they know about—airplanes, telephones, that sort of thing. But such things wouldn't help us in any case. We don't have the time or anything like the capability to reproduce them. But I have a suggestion."

  "Yes?"

  "Send them to Alexander Palmer. Have him find out what they do understand, and whether we can take advantage of it."

  "Palmer? He thinks we're all idiots."

  "Just the president, sir."

  "Well, he thinks the war is a disaster."

  "Yes, but that doesn't mean he wants to lose it. Imagine if Harvard College were to be turned into the University of Southern Canada."

  The general poured himself another drink. "Airplanes," he muttered. "Telephones. Wouldn't it be nice? What do you imagine His Excellency would think of all this?"

  "President Gardner would think it's insane. It would give him an excuse to fire you if he found out you were wasting time on it."

  The general nodded. "Precisely. Palmer's still over in Cambridge?"

  "I believe so. Holding out till the last minute, I suppose. Rather stubborn."

  "Bring them to him. See if he'll help. But for God's sake keep it secret."

  "Yes, sir."

  The general pointed his cigar at us. "On-base percentage," he said, as if he were accusing us of something. Then he picked up the watch and handed it back to Lieutenant Carmody.

  The lieutenant led us out of the room—which was a good thing, because I was about to hurl from the stench and the tension. We walked quickly back out into the courtyard. The night had gotten cooler, thank goodness. "I'll wager you lads are hungry," he said. "Let's see what we can find to eat."

  He was sure right about us being hungry. We followed him into another building across the courtyard, then through a door labeled "Officers' Mess." He roused a private who was dozing in a chair in the corner of the room, and in a few minutes we were served roast beef, bread, and milk by candlelight. The milk was pretty warm, but other than that the meal was fabulous.

  "I believe General Aldridge likes you boys," Lieutenant Carmody said as we ate. You could've fooled me. "I wasn't at all sure how he'd react to your story."

  "Who's Alexander Palmer?" Kevin asked.

  "An old professor of mine from college. Often rather ill-tempered, but the smartest man I know. I think he'll enjoy this challenge."

  "Are you going to take us to him now?" I asked.

  "Rather late for that, I'm afraid. Let's find you some accommodations here for the night and pay him a visit tomorrow."

  The building we were in also turned out to be the officers' quarters. When we were finished eating, the lieutenant brought us to a tiny, hot room in the attic. There was nothing in it but a couple of thin mattresses on the floor, an oil lamp on a rickety table, and a chamber pot in the corner. "This is where our servants usually sleep," he explained. "Except they're now on active service in the army, and we have to fend for ourselves. I'll fetch you in the morning."

  "Thank you, sir," I said.

  He gave us a wave and left.

  Kevin and I sat down on the mattresses. "A good meal and a better place to sleep," he said. "Progress, huh?"

  "Kevin, how are we going to help them win the war?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know, Larry. But we should be able to think of something."

  "What if we can't?"

  "I don't know," he repeated. And then he said, "I'm sorry, Larry. This is all my fault."

  That's what I thought yesterday when we first ended up in this mess, but I remem
bered the way Kevin broke down earlier as Lieutenant Carmody gave him a hard time, and I changed my mind. "No, it's not," I said. "We both screwed up. Anyway, we'll be okay."

  "Okay," he said. "Funny how they don't know that word. Anyway, I sure hope you're right." He stretched out on his mattress. "Good night, Larry."

  "Good night, Kevin." I lay down on my mattress and closed my eyes. My muscles ached from all the lifting I'd done. It had been a long day. At home, they were probably still searching for us. Maybe they'd found the portal by now and were trying to figure it out. How many worlds would they have to visit before they discovered this one? How long would they keep looking?

  Meanwhile, what was tomorrow going to bring for Kevin and me?

  I fell asleep with my mind full of questions.

  Chapter 9

  Peter, Lieutenant Carmody's driver, came for us the next morning, just as we were waking up. He was a big man with long, bushy sideburns and a large mustache. "The Lieutenant would like for you to come to his quarters," he explained. He talked slowly, as if he wasn't sure we could understand him.

  We followed him down a couple of floors and along a short corridor, until we reached a door with Lieutenant Carmody's name on it. Peter rapped on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. We all went in.

  The lieutenant's room was large, with a bed, a desk, and a comfortable-looking chair, in which he was sitting. There was a rug on the floor and curtains on the window. On the desk was a vase with a single flower in it. The place looked pretty homey after where we'd slept the last two nights.

  The lieutenant got up from the chair and greeted us. Like yesterday, his uniform was crisp and clean. He wrinkled his nose when he got a whiff of us. "Peter, I believe we'll have to get these lads washed," he said. "Then let's have them put on their new clothes." He pointed to the bed, where a couple of outfits were laid out—dark pants, shapeless shirts, and clunky shoes. They weren't much to look at, but that was okay by me; it would be good not to have people staring at us anymore. "Bring their clothes back here, Peter," he went on. "I'll hold on to them. Lads, I'll meet you in the mess."

  "Yes, sir," Peter said. "Grab the clothes, lads, and follow me."

  We went downstairs and out a back door, into an enclosed area next to the stables. Laundry hung on lines, and there were buckets filled with water sitting on wood stoves that were tended by an enormous woman with sweat pouring off her. Next to the stoves were tables with towels and big blocks of yellow soap on them. A few soldiers were standing at the tables and pouring water over themselves.

  "Grab a bucket, lads, and go to it," Peter said. And to the woman he said, "Bessy, we need to get these lads cleaned up." I was a little embarrassed about taking my clothes off in front of the woman, but there was nothing to be done about it. Anyway, it felt good to wash. "Hand those clothes over when you're ready," he ordered us.

  We did as we were told. Peter was intrigued by our boxers—it turned out that only rich people wore underwear here—but he was totally fascinated by the zippers on our pants. We showed him how they worked, and he couldn't stop zipping and unzipping. "How the devil does it do that?" he asked.

  It was something else we couldn't exactly explain.

  My new shirt didn't fit very well. The pants were itchy, especially with nothing on underneath them. The shoes were incredibly heavy compared to my sneakers. "You look terrible," Kevin said.

  "So do you."

  But at least we were reasonably clean.

  Peter brought us to the mess, where Lieutenant Carmody had breakfast waiting for us—porridge and tea again, but also scrambled eggs, which tasted great. The lieutenant nodded his approval at our outfits. "You look like you're just off the farm. And you smell much better. Now finish up. We have to get you over to Cambridge."

  After we were done, he hurried us out to the courtyard, where Peter was waiting with the carriage. The three of us got in, and we rattled off over the cobblestones. The streets were filled with horses and carriages and big wagons and those strange-looking bicycles, not to mention a hog or two and some nasty dogs. Lieutenant Carmody tapped his fingers impatiently as we made our way through the noise and the traffic. "You'd think it was life as usual in the city," he said. "More refugees adding to the confusion, I suppose. It'll be midday before we get to Harvard."

  "We have Harvard in our world," I said. "My father went there."

  Lieutenant Carmody gave me a look, as if he still wasn't ready to believe this stuff about parallel universes. "What does your father do?" he asked.

  "He's a computer programmer."

  "And what is that?"

  "Well, he writes software programs that, um, make computers work."

  The lieutenant shook his head. "Software?" he asked. "Programs?"

  I tried, but I couldn't make sense of it for him; finally he waved me silent in frustration and turned away to stare out the window at the traffic.

  Finally we reached a river. I guessed it was the Charles River, which separates Boston from Cambridge, but it didn't look anything like the Charles in our world, which always seemed pretty peaceful and calm when we drove by, with joggers and rollerbladers whizzing around its banks, and lots of little sailboats out on the water. This version of the Charles didn't have much in the way of banks, with trees and bushes up to its edge, and only a couple of rowboats making their way towards the other shore. The bridge we crossed was small and rickety, and I got a little scared that if the horse became excited he could crash through the railing and send us all down into the water. But we made it across okay, and then we were in Cambridge and traveling along the Massachusetts Road, the lieutenant informed us.

  Cambridge wasn't anything like our version either, of course. We passed by the usual farms and small shops; when we reached the part where the college was, the houses got nicer, and some of the buildings were pretty impressive, but there was nothing like the craziness of Harvard Square, which my dad brought us to a couple of times. In fact, the place looked pretty deserted, especially compared to Boston.

  "That's where I lived when I attended Harvard," Lieutenant Carmody said, pointing to a large brick building. It was exactly the sort of thing my dad said when he brought us to Harvard Square. Big whoop, Cassie would reply, and she wouldn't even look at his dorm.

  "Where is everyone?" Kevin asked.

  "The students are all in the army," the lieutenant replied. "And most of the townspeople have retreated across the river into Boston. Cambridge will not be defensible if the Canadians choose to advance on it. And they will advance before long."

  "Why is Professor Palmer still here?"

  "Because he's a contrary old sod," the lieutenant muttered. I didn't exactly understand the words, but I got the idea.

  We kept going, and eventually Peter pulled up in front of a big white house down a dirt lane. We got out, and the lieutenant went over and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He shook his head and walked around back. We followed him.

  In front of a red barn a gray-haired man with a small beard was tossing apples into what I figured was a cider press. My family went apple-picking a couple of times, and they'd had gizmos like it in the orchards. We approached. "Good morning, Professor," the lieutenant called out.

  The professor looked up. "Ah, William," he replied. "Nice to see you." He didn't seem at all surprised. "Don't you have a war to fight?"

  "Ninety percent of war is preparation."

  "So you're preparing?"

  "You might say so."

  Professor Palmer glanced at us with little interest. "And who are these fellows?" he asked.

  Lieutenant Carmody introduced us. The professor gave us a brief nod and offered us a cup of cider. It was delicious.

  "Don't you have friends to stay with in Boston?" the lieutenant asked him. "I can't imagine you'd enjoy having the Canadians show up at your doorstep one morning to take you prisoner."

  "I have every confidence that President Gardner will find a way to make this entire u
npleasant episode go away," Professor Palmer replied, and I was pretty sure he was being sarcastic. "He's still talking to the British, isn't he?"

  "Yes, but there's that little matter of the naval blockade to deal with. The British ambassador can agree to whatever we want, but he still has to find a way to inform Parliament of the agreement. And as to whether they would accept his recommendations... " The lieutenant shrugged. "We don't have as many friends in London as we used to."

  "William, I was having a very pleasant morning here, and now you've gone and ruined it," the professor said. "Are you telling me His Excellency doesn't have a plan to extricate us from this disastrous situation he has allowed to develop?"

  The lieutenant smiled. "Like you, I have every confidence in His Excellency."

  "Pah." The professor spat on the ground. "Now, there must be a reason for visiting me with these young men in tow."

  "Indeed. We have something to show you, professor, and a story to tell."

  Lieutenant Carmody took out the watch and handed it to the professor, who studied it while we waited. He didn't touch any of the buttons at first, just turning the thing over in his hands. Then Kevin showed him how to use it. After that the professor sat down on a tree stump and started playing with it. "Square roots," he muttered. "To eight decimal places. Remarkable." He stood up finally. "And what is the story you have to tell, William?" he asked.

  "It's a very strange one—if you choose to believe it." We all sat down, and he repeated what we had told him, the way he had to General Aldridge.

  The professor scratched his head and stared at us as he listened. "Do you remember your philosophy courses, William?" he asked when Carmody was finished.

  The lieutenant smiled. "How could I forget them?"

  "Do you recall the discussion of Occam's Razor?"

  "The principle of parsimony," he replied. "The simplest explanation is generally the best."