Plank released his grip and stared at Winstead. It was one thing that the station master knew Arabic. But to know his name? Both fear and anger surged within him. "The cleric told you." But even as he said that, he knew that was impossible. Ithad to be.
"No, thecrubbin told me. It told me everything. Perhaps it’s best youdon’t know." He turned and acted as if he were going to throw the fruit into the inferno below.
"Stop!" Plank grabbed his arm and spun him around. Despite its harsh taste, the fruit wasn’t poisonous; he knew that much. And he was equally certain Winstead knew none of what he had just spoken before he ate the fruit. He wrested the crubbin from Winstead’s grasp. "This only delays your death, nothing more." And he bit into the fruit.
Winstead watched silently as he reacted, first to the acidic taste, then to the aftermath. He watched as Plank began to tremble, as slowly he fell to his knees, as he covered his face with his hands and began sobbing uncontrollably. Only then did he speak. "If you knew your Christian theology better, you would have known the Tree of Life is also called the Tree of Conscience," he said softly. He knelt beside the weeping Plank. "You know now, don’t you?"
Plank slowly looked at Winstead, rathertoward Winstead. The station master wasn’t sure if Plank saw anything at this moment. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his face was pale. "Lies," he choked. "All were lies." He closed his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from reliving everything he had done, what his comrades had done, over the past ten years. From hearing the voices of his leaders, messages filled with hate disguised and explained as holy necessity. Everything he had done in the name of his cause and Allah. Everything, he knew now, was an evil lie.
Winstead looked at him sadly. Plank, he was certain, had never felt remorse before. Every act he had justified or had justified for him. He didn’t want to, but he even felt some pity for the man. But there was nothing he could do now, no words or deeds that could console the terrorist. And he had no intention of doing that in any event. "You know what you have to do," he said softly.
"Yes." The voice was as cracked as a broken eggshell. Slowly Plank made it to his feet, then staggered to the railing. He looked down at the boiling surface below him. A surface that was still devoid of life. He began to climb onto the railing. At first Winstead reached out to him, but Plank pushed his hand away. "I shall do this myself," he said in Arabic. He nearly fell back twice before he finally was able to stand on the narrow wooden structure. It trembled beneath his weight as if it was eager to rid itself of this unexpected burden. "For Allah," he said. For my sins, he thought. And he leaped.
Even though the heat and stench did not penetrate, there was no barrier between the platform and the infant planet below. Winstead watched wordlessly as Plank tumbled downward, his body spinning in the noxious air. He was dead long before his body burst into flames in a rivulet of flowing lava.
Would Plank’s body serve as the chemical trigger for life on Earth? Winstead wondered as he stepped away. Or was this merely atonement for his sins, ones he only realized after consuming the crubbin?
But those questions disappeared when he turned and saw the man now standing at the other end of the platform. "You have performed well," the man said in Arabic.
"You," Winstead said, recognizing him because of his newfound knowledge courtesy of the crubbin. "You were the cleric who talked to Plank."
"Of course."
"You lied to him."
"It was necessary, although it was only a partial lie. Something he could understand so he would saveWestchester." The man walked to the railing and looked down. "He performed admirably as well." Then he turned back to Winstead and smiled. "You all have."
"You are in control ofWestchester?"
"In a manner of speaking. I am merely a representative."
"It wasn’t necessarily to kill him. Or to bring the others here. If you would have just told me…"
He held up a hand. "That is not how we do things. As you should well know by now. It was absolutely necessary we interfere, if you will. But we have no interest in controlling…anyone."
Winstead didn’t try to control his growing anger. "In that case you no longer need me. You will have to find another station master."
"No. You have performed adequately."
"I allowed a trainload of people to die!" He pointed at the man. "You could have prevented that!"
"You could do nothing about that. Neither could we. We guide others, including yourself, when necessary. We do not wish to control anyone or anything. Time, Fate, Free Will, whichever concepts you wish to accept, must be granted as much leeway as practical."
Winstead found the response encouraging although not totally satisfactory. "If you insist I stay, then you must give me more freedom. Allow me to remove Circe fromWestchester."
"She is serving a valuable function. The man you helped her entrap is not the only one who should remain. InWestchester, her influence is at least limited."
Winstead knew the representative was at least partially correct. But he was far from finished with his negotiations. "Mrs. Gannon needs medical supplies to save Huk."
"The one you call Huk will survive without them."
Winstead wanted to hit the man. Or at least what appeared to be a man. He was certain the representative was donning this body as easily as a suit of clothes. "You ask me to serve the station and you—whatever your are—yet you tell me nothing! You continually tie my hands."
"That is how it must be. It is not necessary or desirable that you know everything." Then he gave a shy smile. "It would destroy all the fun if you did, wouldn’t it?"
"I don’t find that amusing or sufficient."
"We still need you, Mr. Winstead. Westchester needs you. That will have to suffice." Then he pretended to look at his watch, although he wasn’t wearing one. "Mrs. Gannon and Huk are waiting for you in the garden. You should be on your way." With that he turned and walked toward the far end of the platform.
"Wait!" Winstead called out, then stopped. The man(?) was no longer there. "Damn it!" Nothing has changed! So many questions, but he was certain he would never be able to ask them. Or get answers even if he could. But they still need me . He realized he would have to be satisfied with that and gritted his teeth in frustration. Then he opened the trapdoor and started the long descent to the station below.
They were by the pool when he reached the garden. Huk was on his back, his eyes closed, his body covered with strips of cloth ripped from Gannon’s ruined slacks and bandages fashioned from woven grass. She was hovering over the primitive, a concerned mother guarding her child. "How is he?" Winstead greeted her.
She looked up and offered a worried smile. "Better. I think. But I can’t do much more for him here. I cleaned his wounds and all, but I need more than this. He could have a broken back, internal bleeding. No way I can know. Unless you are a faith healer, we have to get him back to civilization."
"You are the healer, not me."
"Where’s Plank?"
"He…got away. We won’t have to worry about him anymore."
Her eyes flared. "He was a terrorist. You saw that painting! He was partially responsible for that!" She looked beyond him back toward the station’s end. "He must be brought to justice!"
"He already has. We have to get back. I’ll carry Huk." He bent over the primitive and lifted him as carefully as possible.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?" she asked as they started out.
"Later. As you said, we have to get Huk back to my office."
They stopped once on their way out of the rearmost section ofWestchester. "I thought we were in a hurry," Gannon said as Winstead veered toward a short man seated at a table. He was writing in a large notebook; scattered about him were piles of magazines and newspapers.
"This is important." He set Huk carefully on the ground. "Be right back."
The man looked up at the sound of Winstead’s approaching footsteps. He was bald and wore thick glasses, glasses
that made his eyes look as large as a silver dollar. Gannon guessed he suffered from severe myopia. "Can I help you?" she heard him ask in a high, dry voice.
"You’re still working on your Universal Dictionary?" Winstead asked.
"Indeed. My life’s work! Unfortunately I somehow misplaced the original so I am recreating it as best I can."
"I have it."
The man clapped his hands and smiled. "You do? Excellent!"
"I’ll make sure it’s returned to you. But you must do me a favor."
"For such a welcome boon I will do whatever I can. What do you wish? Money?"
Winstead glanced at Gannon, then shook his head. "No. Once you told me about the crubbin."
He nodded. "A most unique and delicious fruit." Then he touched a finger to his lips. "But how did you hear of it? If I recall, I had removed all references to it in my Dictionary."
"Reinstate it, please. Make it extinct, but it is important that the citation remains."
"That is not how I do things. I am abrogating my responsibilities otherwise. Still…" He rubbed his lips with a fingertip. "The return of my original Dictionarywill save me a great deal of extraneous labor. You will do as you vow?"
"Most certainly. As soon as I return to my office, I’ll retrieve your book and get it to you."
"In that case I accept."
Winstead nodded and returned to Gannon. "What was that all about?" she asked as they started out again.
Winstead nodded at the small man he was carrying. "It was necessary to help Huk. Now we just have to make sure he survives."
They reached the second section in good time. Winstead was relieved to discover the maze had shrunk back to its original size, leaving ample room to pass by it on either side. He was even more relieved to find the thin black line blocking the exit, a line he had painted there years ago, was still intact.
"You’re going to have to tell me about this as well," Gannon said as they walked around the pattern.
"I suspect I have a lot to tell you," he said. "Later, I promise."
"I’m holding you to that."
Winstead merely grunted. I know you will .
When they finally reached the first chamber, they discovered that the residents and patrons had returned. The magazine stand was open, as was the ticket window. A small group of passengers had collected at one end of the station and the schedule board now read four arrivals and departures in the next six hours. A guard intercepted them and guided them to Winstead’s office. They were surprised to find Magdya and Green waiting for them.
"Who’s that?" Magdya asked when they entered.
"Huk. He helped us." Winstead set him carefully on the couch.
Magdya frowned as she looked at the primitive. "Whatis he? Some kind of pygmy?"
"Cro-Magnon I suspect. I’m glad you’re here. I thought I would have to get you."
"The maintenance dude showed up. Kicked our asses out." Magdya folded her arms. "After all we did for you!"
"Indeed. We couldn’t have succeeded without you. But thatis his job. Mr. Green, could you please put Huk in your room? He’s going to need a lot of rest."
Green nodded and carried Huk to his room and his bed. Gannon went with him. "Who is he?" he asked once he draped the small man in a blanket.
"He’s not from around here, that’s for sure. But he saved my life." She brushed back a strand of hair. Between the mountain lion and the explosion, the work of the stylist had been ruined. She vowed to make an appointment at her first opportunity. "I’ll stay with him."
Green nodded. "Is there anything I can bring?"
"Hot water. Some clean towels. A sandwich would be nice." She smiled. "I’m sick of eating fruit."
"A sandwich?"
She laughed. "Meat between two slices of bread. Named after the Earl ofSandwich. Perhaps after your time."
He nodded and whistled softly as he walked to the kitchen. He still had much to learn; too much of what he had seen was confusing at best. Yet thisWestchester, whatever it was: he was relieved he had found it. He could not think of a better place to be.
"I want out of here. Now!" Magdya slammed her fist on Winstead’s desk as soon as the others left the room. "I’ve done what you wanted."
"Yes, you have. We couldn’t have succeeded without you." Winstead looked at his manifest. Now it was filled with names and destinations. "According to this, you’ll be leaving on the next train."
"Good." She stood another minute in silence, then her voice softened. "Green has to stay, doesn’t he?"
He looked at her. "What do you think?"
She grimaced. "It’s not right, you know. Kidnapping him like you did. Like you did all of us."
He sighed. "As I said before, I don’t make those decisions." And it’s obvious now I never will. "But you understand: he would be dead right now if we hadn’t."
She nodded slowly. "He said as much. Take good care of him."
"I plan to." Then he sat back and smiled wanly. "You will not be coming back toWestchester."
"I have no intention of doing that." She leaned forward. "And if you’re ever inPhiladelphia, please. Don’t look me up."
"Agreed. Your train leaves within the hour." He held out his hand. "Travel well."
She shook it reluctantly, then turned to leave. She was at the door when he called out. "What?" she asked, pausing.
"You might want this." He approached and handed her the clear plastic ball. "As a souvenir."
She took it reluctantly. The toy was now nothing more than that, not a doorway between worlds. She started to put it in her purse, then abruptly handed it back to Winstead. "No. I want no reminders of this place."
Winstead nodded and accepted it. "Travel well."
"You, too, I guess." As soon as she was outside the office, she leaned against the wall and sighed. First she had to buy a ticket, then make plans. One thing was certain: she would never run her psychic scam again.
"How’s our patient?"
Gannon looked up when the station master entered the room. "Okay as far as I can tell. He’s going to need some time to recover, though. He could have a broken back for all I know. Damn, you’ve got shit for medical equipment around here."
"Yes, I know. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about." He sat down on the bed. "Would you be willing to stay until our friend here has recovered?"
She brushed back a wayward strand of hair. "I don’t know. That could take a good month or so at least." Then she looked at him. "I’m not leaving here, am I?"
"I don’t know about that. You are not listed on the manifests I have currently. That doesn’t mean things won’t change in the future."
She glared at him. "Is that how things work around here? You kidnap people and never let them go?"
"No. Actually, Sarah Goldsmith, uh, Magdya, is leaving on the next train." He patted her hand. "I’m sure this will not be anything permanent."
"Yeah, right." She turned her attention to Huk. His breathing was stronger although he had yet to wake up. He needed her, there was no question about that. And I do owe him . "He has to stay in your room, of course, until he recovers." Then she stopped. "Are you going to send him back?"
"I don’t think that’s possible now. Not with what he knows. And Mr. Green as well." Then he smiled at her. "To my knowledge,Westchester has never had a nurse."
Are you saying I can’t go back, either? But she knew what his answer to that would be. "I’ll think about it." She looked at Huk one more time. "He’s going to be like this awhile. I’ve got to go see Venus. See if she can do something about this hair."
***
As always the weather on the boarding platform was cool, the wind still, the night sky clear, and Winstead could see no less than three moons hovering above, each in a different phase. The train was waiting impatiently while the passengers hurried aboard, assisted eagerly and competently by the station staff.
He saw both Huk and Green loading baggage into the rearmost car. Since Huk had recove
red, the two had become nearly inseparable. Two strangers in a strange land; only right, he figured. The station master tried to spend an hour each day with Huk teaching him English, but his duties often prevented that. Fortunately, both Green and Gannon were eager and capable tutors.
He was checking his manifest for the final time when Gannon approached. Thus far her name had not appeared on the list of departures but she had ceased complaining about it. Indeed she was finding herself nearly as busy as he, tending to minor scrapes and bruises or the occasional flu suffered by staff and passengers alike. "They’re nearly ready," she told him.
"Good, we’re running out of time." He started down the line of cars, Gannon behind him, as he locked and checked each door. "We’re all set," he said when they reached the caboose. "Now it’s up to the signalman."
They could barely see him standing at the front of the platform. The light from his lantern silhouetted him against the gray mist that hovered at either end of the station. Winstead and Gannon remained silent as they waited, unconsciously afraid they might alert those beyond that a train was preparing to leave the station.
Then, without warning, without any sign that anything had changed, the signalman began waving his lantern frantically. The train shuddered once, as if waking from a deep sleep. Then it started forward, steel grinding against steel, smoke pouring from the stack, as it rapidly picked up speed. The signalman never stopped waving the lantern until the caboose disappeared into the darkness.
Only then did Winstead let out his breath. "They’re safe." He put his arm around Gannon. "Let’s get back inside."
"You know," she said as they headed for the station, "you still owe me."
"$4,000. Yes, I haven’t forgotten."
"And a new pair of pantyhose. But not only that. You promised to tell me about your first time inWestchester. About that maze, that painter. I’m still waiting."
He laughed. "Do you have a few minutes?"
She released a fake heavy sigh. "I can make some time in my schedule."
"Well, it all started when I was inChicago," he began. "I was taking a flight to Schenectady when the mother of all winter storms blew in."
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