by E. R. Mason
A light, steamy rain greeted Markman as he guided his sleek, black, Mustang 5-0 homeward. The slow sweep of the wipers added an eerie beat to the lonely, overcast night. The streets and sidewalks glistened in the wash of the car’s high beams, creating shadows that appeared and faded like creatures from a dark dream. Keeping his eyes on the road, he shifted in his seat and tugged at the shoulder belt; his discomfort caused more by feelings of misgiving than fatigue. He draped one hand over the steering wheel and wondered about the intriguing woman who had convinced him to help her. How had she managed that? She seemed to be a victim, but could just as easily be a suspect. Nothing that had happened since he had met her made any sense. A hidden laboratory with millions of dollars of unexplained equipment? An artificial doorway that led to a place that couldn’t possibly exist? And what had the trip through the mirror-door done to him? Was she using him in some carefully orchestrated scheme? To confuse matters further, he was strongly attracted to her. Very poor judgment. He squirmed in his seat as he reconsidered his promise. How could he have agreed to assist her privately? His exhausted mind could not fathom it all. Sleep would not come easily tonight.
The twinkling yellow-red fluorescent lights of an all-night convenience store beckoned through the rain. He pulled into the parking lot and headed for the entrance. Inside, he found the fogged over freezer doors and searched for the right brand of beer.
“Come back for your change, did you?” a gruff voice called from the cash register.
Markman glanced back inquisitively. He pulled out a six-pack and headed toward the elderly man and woman who waited behind the counter. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Your change, you left it here when you came in before.”
“I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”
The gray-haired clerk looked at his wife and let out a gritty laugh. “Well, he looked just like you, and he was wearing the same clothes,” he said with a shrug as he rang up the purchase.
“Honestly, I’ve never been in here before. It wasn’t me.”
“Mister, you got an identical twin or somethin’ then. I’d swore it was you,” the woman said.
“Yep, this guy dressed just like you came in, got an ice cream, and threw a twenty at us and kept right on goin’. I figured he thought it was a one,” the clerk added.
“Wow! Expensive ice cream. Sorry, wasn’t me.”
The couple continued to stare as Markman left the store. He felt far too weary to care and casually shrugged off the encounter. There had been enough mysteries for one day.
Markman followed the wet, black highway home, luminous green from the instrument panel reflecting off his tired face. The dwindling rain was barely spotting the windshield enough to satisfy the dragging wipers. He pulled into the dimly lit parking lot of his duplex, still contemplating the best way to withdraw from his promise to Cassiopia. Within the solitude of his own, modest apartment, he headed straight for the couch and collapsed on it in a tired heap. Sleep was almost immediate. The six-pack sat warming on the kitchen table.
He awoke with a start, wondering if the previous evening had been a dream. It seemed as though he had slept for only a moment, though the small alarm clock on the makeshift, orange-crate table insisted it had been seven hours. There would be no time for breakfast—black coffee on the road would have to suffice.
The morning was bright and clear, though a wisp of fog hung near the damp ground as moisture from the previous night’s rain returned to the cool morning air. A gray squirrel, balanced precariously on an overhead power line, chattered at Markman as he climbed into his car. He pulled onto the gray-white, shell rock pavement and headed east into the rising Florida sun.
Markman resumed his mental debate over the Cassell dilemma. Perhaps the old man would show up and there would be no further need of his services. It was possible he might reach the Cassells to find the problem had been solved. He nodded to himself hopefully. There were other matters to be concerned with right now.
The first stop of the day would be a visit to Aunt Vasal. She wasn’t really an aunt. It was a title of respect from the days when Markman was not allowed to accompany his military Dad to some of the more exotic places he'd been assigned to. Margaret Vasel had frequently filled in for the mother who had left long ago. She was the closest thing he had to a family now, and this visit was long overdue. He wished she had not needed to call him. He should have stopped by on his own.
Emit Street was on the east side of town. It was a crowded, lower class neighborhood where wetlands had once ruled. Barren of trees, the filled lots were bordered by drainage canals. Aunt Vasel’s home was tin-roofed and weathered but well kept. She was waiting on the porch for him, her graying brown hair in a tight bun. A flowered apron covered her dark blue, ankle-length skirt. Her bright blue eyes seemed to have that permanent smile drawn into them. He pulled into the driveway and waved, then climbed out and met her on the porch with a hug.
“My Lord, skinny as ever!”
“It’s the kata’s. I still do them, you know.”
“Of course, like father, like son.”
“Not really. He didn’t care so much for the oriental ways. You look well.”
“Been worse. Guess I’m better than some. Did you see the burned down place on your way in?” Aunt Vasel pulled at her rocker and slowly sat down. “Please sit.” She gestured at the wicker chair beside her.
Markman sat and smiled, “It’s good to see you.”
“Sometimes I think life is getting too tough for me. Sometimes I think the old ways were better. Kids nowadays, they think hamburgers come from MacDonald’s. Most of ‘em never seen a plow. The other day I had some folks visitin’ from the church. One of ‘em was this young engineer, supposed to be like the top of his class, a real genius-type. I served them sandwiches with pickles. He and me got to talkin’ about farming. You know what he asked me? He asked me if pickles were a member of the cucumber family?
Markman blurted out a laugh. “Well, there’s some stuff that’s better, nowadays. The dentists are better.”
“Only if you still got your teeth.”
“People are living longer.”
“There’s too many of ‘em. That’s part of the problem. Used to be you could sleep with your front door unlocked. You could walk home through town at night and not think twice about it. Weren’t no drugs, ‘cept for the doctor’s elixirs. Now you ain’t safe even if your doors are locked. This place is getting’ too tough.”
“That was a long time ago, I’d say.”
“That’s right. A long time ago when we knew if you wanted to eat you had to either grow somethin’ or raise somethin’. We knew where the food came from, and we knew we needed to be grateful for it. I never saw a banana until I was nine years old. We took the train to the next town and some guy was walking up and down the isle sellin’ ‘em for five cents each. I bought one just to see what it was like. Had to ask the guy how to open it.”
Markman laughed, “That had to be a long time ago.”
“Not that long. That’s what I’m sayin’. We’re forgettin’ an awful lot, awful fast.”
“You’re usually right --about a lot of things.”
“So you didn’t answer me. Did you see the burned down house down the street?”
“Sure. What a mess.”
“The guy that lived there, Beauford his name was. He was a shady character. Lots of late night things always goin’ on. Strangers comin’ and goin’. Then last week I’m in bed sound asleep and these big booms wake me up out of my skin. Jump out of bed and there’s no electricity. Whole neighborhood is in the dark. Couldn’t see nothin’ out the window, so I go out the front door in my bathrobe and it’s like the fourth of July. Sparks shootin’ up in the sky settin’ the grass on fire in some people’s yards and a few minutes later Beauford’s house is lighting up the sky. Fire trucks got here real fast, but not fast enough. Place was gone. All they could do was keep it from spreadin.”
“Gosh, you sh
ould have called me. I would have come right over.”
“’Cept for the smoke it was all over in an hour. Nothin’ you could'a done. We set out flashlights and went back to bed. Didn’t find out that Beauford was killed until the next day. They said he got shocked or somethin’”
“Geez, I’m glad you’re okay. Did it scare Jimmy?”
Aunt Vasel snorted a laugh, “Scare him! I been holdin’ him back. He’s way too bold for his age. Reminds me of you. I’ll be glad when his folks get back from Venice. Think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew this time. And by the way, he’s why I called you. The little monster went climbing around in Beauford’s place after the fire. I should have tanned his hide. He came back with this odd little silver box. Says he found it in the ashes, but it don’t have a mark on it. That guy Beauford didn’t have no family that I know of, so there ain’t no one to give it to. It’s probably nothin’ anyway, but I thought maybe you could take it and see if it’s worth somethin’ and if it is then we’ll figure out what the right thing is to do with it. Sit right there I’ll go get it.”
Aunt Vasel soon returned leading a reluctant Jimmy out onto the porch where he pulled impatiently at her skirt.
“So how’s the throwing arm, Jimmy?” Markman asked, with a playful poke at the six-year-old.
“Ah, okay,” the boy replied, as though it were a question of merit.
“I should talk to you, you bandit.”
Jimmy stared back with raised eyebrows.
“You went past the police tape over at that burned-down house, huh?”
“Uh-oh!”
“You’re gonna get busted, buddy. It’ll be hard time at San Quentin.”
Jimmy eyes became wide. “Where’s that?”
Markman laughed. “It’s where they make you stay in your room all the time with no toys.”
Mrs. Vasel raised one hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh.
“Wouldn’t want to go there!” Jimmy answered with an exaggerated frown.
“Well, you better stay away from that house then. It’s dangerous. Okay?”
“Okay!” he yelled, and he dashed back through the front door without looking back.
“Was that of any use at all, do you think?” Markman asked.
“Believe me; it’s hard to say. Here’s what he found in the basement of Beauford’s place. I have no idea what it is, just a decorative piece, I would guess. I can’t tell if there’s anything in it. It won’t open.”
She handed Markman the small, silver box. He took it without paying much attention. After heartfelt hugs and promises, Markman returned to his car. He waved at Jimmy playing in the yard and was rewarded with a distrustful stare. He strapped in, glanced briefly at the reflective box, and decided it was of little interested. He tossed it idly on the passenger seat beside him, and after a final wave to Aunt Vasel, headed for the Cassell home.
The Professor’s place looked much more unkempt in the daylight than it had the night before. The lot was dotted with palmetto and pine trees and was much larger than the neighboring properties. Except for the weeds and pine needles, the pavement on the horseshoe-shaped driveway looked almost new. An old oak tree, decorated by dangling Spanish Moss sat in the center of it. Most of the lawn was borderline wilderness, and the tan, single-story stucco home had weathered areas that needed attention. A rusty lawn mower was submerged in weeds beside the house, as though the high grass had won the battle.
The front door was locked. Markman rang the doorbell several times, but no one came. He drew a credit card from his wallet, looked around hesitantly, and wiped the card through the slot of the door. It opened easily. He shook his head at the thought that Cassiopia had spent the night alone here.
Halfway down the brown-carpeted hall, the gray metal door to the basement was blocked open as if she was expecting him. In the basement, he found the old trunk had been left with the lid up. Light and sound came from the tunnel below. He climbed onto the ladder and lowered himself back into the surrealism of the hidden lab.
Cassiopia stood with her back to the entrance, working on the robot near its empty base station. Using both hands, she was fidgeting with a small panel on one side of its chest plate. She glanced over her shoulder momentarily as Markman entered. “I thought you’d find your way in.”
“Master-key,” he replied.
She smiled and stopped briefly to appraise his appearance. Brown leather jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. Nearly identical to what he had worn the day before. But this time she approved. It was appropriate dress for the streets of New York and similar to the jeans and dark blue, hooded sweatshirt she had chosen for herself.
“I’ve been making improvements to this TEL. My father left him with only the most basic voice response programming. There’s a lot more I can do for his communication skills, but it’s got to be done a little at a time to avoid corrupting the resident stuff my father installed.”
She snapped the panel door shut, straightened up and looked at Markman. “He’ll answer to you now. You don’t need to know the program nouns and verbs. He’ll understand most spoken words, and he can initiate speech or action to a variety of conditions on his own. He’ll answer to the nickname ‘Tel’ now, also. Try saying hello.”
Markman instantly looked uncomfortable. He hesitated but finally spoke. “Hello, Tel. How’s it hangin’?”
There was a short pause. “Good morning, Mr. Markman. Please rephrase your inquiry.”
Cassiopia cast an annoyed glance at Markman. “Hardly an appropriate question for a robot,” she said.
He ignored the sarcasm. “What’s the plan?”
She headed for the Drack controls and spoke without looking back. “I’ll set the timer for one hour. We enter Dreamland and collect data. We concentrate on anything we can that might suggest the whereabouts of my father. Tel will remain here and monitor the equipment as he has. We’ll spend no more than fifty percent of the SCIP transformer’s operation capability, that should be enough of a safety margin to avoid problems with the time distortion that seemed to happen to you.”
“Are you kidding? You mean you want to go right back in there? Already! You don’t know what’s going on in there!”
Cassiopia looked tired and perturbed. “Listen, I’ve spent most of the night studying my father’s disjointed files. We’ll take just a short excursion to confirm some things. Do you have a better suggestion?”
Markman balked but decided he did not. “Tell me something. Why don’t you run some sort of cable and camera or something in there to take another look around first?”
Cassiopia shook her head. “Unfortunately that doesn’t work. My father’s notes give stern warnings about bridging the inner and outer doors. The void is like a buffer zone between two potentially very different environments separated by something like a surface tension almost. In the earlier experiments my father had Tel try to run a data line across that space, and it burned explosively when it contacted the other side. Bio-fields seem to be much more inter-compatible, but that’s something to keep in mind when we’re crossing over.”
Markman shook his head. He took a long breath, raised one hand and began to protest, but changed his mind and with a scowl waved it off. “What’s in the bag there?”
She knelt and began repacking items in a brown leather satchel on the floor beside the Drack. “A camera, tape recorder, and a few other data collection devices that might come in handy, plus some street maps of New York.” She paused and turned to the robot. “Tel, power up the SCIP transformer.”
The machine obeyed instantly. It whirred past Markman and took its place at the computer control station. Its metallic fingers raced across the keyboard and the SCIP began to groan to life. They watched as the man-made lightning crackled and burned until the mirror-door again dominated the room. A still, apprehensive silence followed.
Cassiopia cursed in a whisper as she struggled with the zipper on the bag. Nervously, she brushed back her hair with one hand, trying to con
ceal her apprehension. She stood upright, slung the pack over her shoulder, and marched deliberately up the ramp. At the top, she turned and waited with a haughty look at Markman.
He reached beneath his jacket, checked the snap on his holster, and came up the ramp to stand beside her. Standing so near, the smell of her perfume was mildly intoxicating. A wisp of her fine hair waved against his face in the transformer-created air current. He wondered what it would be like to wrap his arms around her softness and stand even closer.
“I’m ready if you are,” she said.
He stared into her eyes. “What?”
“Are we going or not?”
Markman snapped out of it. The stark reality of the mirror sobered him. He looked at his own reflection, took a deep breath, and leaned through it. Nothing had changed.
Half submerged, he blindly tapped on her arm. With a grimace, she forced herself through the mirror plane. Markman held her tightly as they stared together at the silent, unending emptiness. She squeezed into a better position, and with a nod to him, jump-stepped across the void. Her slim figure quickly disappeared through the second doorway. He jumped after her, expecting to emerge on a hard, concrete sidewalk in the back streets of the Bronx, where he hoped there would be no black sedans lying in wait.
Chapter 10