The Empty Door

by E. R. Mason

“I’d better go back in and get that coffee,” said Markman. He made a forced smile and pointed inside. "Coffee--that's all," he said. Cassiopia did not answer except to drum her fingers in a baneful manner on the dashboard.

  The relieved cashier was down on one knee collecting some of the small plastic CD cases that were strewn across the floor of the well-stocked market. He stood as Markman entered and returned to the register, balancing an armload of recordings as he went.

  "Did I mention how glad I was you showed up?" he called out.

  Markman approached with a large can of drip coffee, stopping to pick up a few of the fallen CDs on his way. He placed them in the makeshift pile by the grateful proprietor, and as he did, something on one of the labels caught his attention. It was an old familiar album title he had not seen in some time.

  "I cringe to think of where that little discussion was headed," said the storekeeper.

  "That guy's probably the nicest person in the world when he's sober."

  "Probably right. That was wine he was drinkin’. He'll pay his dues tomorrow I'd bet. That'll be one good hangover."

  Markman pulled out his wallet expecting the cashier to ring up a charge.

  "Why don't we say that's on the house, officer? It's the least I can do."

  Markman smiled. "I’m not a cop, and I can't do that, my friend. First it'd be you; then the next thing you know everybody in the world would be wanting to give me everything free...."

  The storekeeper laughed and took the money reluctantly. "Well, you're welcome to come in here for those crunch bars, free, anytime."

  Markman had already started to leave the store. He stopped and looked back at the clerk. "What'd you say?"

  "Crunch bars free. I know they're your favorite."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Remember you bought a whole box of 'em a few days ago?”

  Markman could not conceal a confused expression. He nodded amiably and left the store.

  The atmosphere in the car was even more unsettled than it had been in the store. He climbed into the driver's seat and felt almost afraid to look in Cassiopia's direction. Finally, he dared a glimpse out of the corner of his eye and then tried his best consolatory tone. "Sorry about all that. I couldn't let that guy drive."

  "You really know how to show a girl a good time, Scott."

  "Well, it wasn't fun, I mean the guy drooled on my car and everything."

  She began to drum her fingers again and stared out the passenger side window.

  "Hey, that guy thought he knew you."

  She shot back a threatening glare. "Oh, right, you mean he thought I was a stripper, of all things!"

  "Oh don't worry. I know it couldn't have been you. After all, I was with you last night."

  "Keep digging, Markman. You're going to get yours."

  "Oh, yeah, by the way, I saw something in the store just now that made me think."

  "Well let's make a note of it on the calendar, by all means."

  "No, really, listen to this. There was a song on a CD case in there, the name of it was, 'A Dream Within a Dream.' I mean that fits perfectly doesn't it? When does a man wake but not wake? When it's a dream within a dream. Right?"

  Cassiopia seemed stunned. She immediately lost her combativeness. She pondered the idea for a long, quiet period as Markman twisted the ignition key and brought the rumble of the car's engine to life. They were on the road before she again spoke. "It's a better answer, a much better answer."

  Markman smiled immodestly, though she paid him no attention.

  "This whole thing is so incredible. The parallels between our world and Dreamland keep getting more and more intriguing. I almost feel as though I should be watching for the coffer of truth the Reverend told me about."

  "The what?"

  "Remember the Bible prophecy I told you about?"

  "Oh right. Sorry, but that one's a little bit too far out even for me."

  "Too far out? You think so? Well, I haven't told you this, but I spoke to Brenda. It is a fact. We were in her dream last night, as crazy as that sounds. There is no other explanation."

  "Nothing sounds crazy to me anymore. I like everything to make sense and have an explanation. Therefore, I'm in my own compulsive disorder version of hell."

  They pulled into the driveway of the Cassell home, this time not bothering to park in the back. Markman got out and stood by the open driver's window.

  "I've got to check the place out before you go in," he said, drawing the extra tie-wrap from his back pocket and handing it to her. "Would you put this in the glove compartment for me, please?" She responded by grasping it disdainfully with only two fingers as though it was poisoned.

  The house seemed undisturbed. Markman made a methodical sweep, covering inside and out. When he had convinced himself the place was safe, he returned to the car and leaned back into the driver's window.

  "It's okay," he said resting his hands on the top of the door, expecting her to vault from the vehicle and make a dash for the lab.

  "What's this, Scott?" She held up the small, silver box in her left hand. "It was in the glove box."

  Instantly Markman had a pained look. “Oh bother, Aunt Margaret. I forgot all about that thing. Bring it in with you."

  Cassiopia headed for the lab; her attention absorbed completely by the shiny container. She charged on ahead, staring intently at it, ignoring Markman's appreciative appraisal of her figure.

  Inside, Markman put away the coffee and then went to the living room window. He split back the curtain enough to scan the neighborhood. Far down, on the right side of the busy street was a very nondescript, tan auto with two individuals in it. One was reading a newspaper, the other staring blankly out the passenger window. He flipped the curtain shut and headed downstairs.

  In the lab, Cassiopia stood facing the robot by the cluttered desk near its base station. Tel was holding the strange box up near its visor, rotating it smoothly in the upright position. From time to time the robot would pause, change the object's position and then continue the meticulous process of scanning.

  Cassiopia glimpsed Markman as he entered but quickly returned her full attention to the robot's work. He took a position next to them and stood with his hands in his hip pockets, feeling inadequate, and awaiting what he hoped would be a layman's explanation of the box.

  "Metallic container, 20.0000 centimeters by, 10.0000 centimeters by, 5.0000 centimeters. Hollow. Alloy unknown. Mass inconsistent with current database. Weight disproportionate to mass. Seamless, uni-body construction indicated. Indentation at 2.0000 centimeters from one edge, encompassing circumference. Dimensions of internal compartment unreliable," Tel reported briskly.

  "Man, that thing is a walking laboratory," said Markman.

  "Scott, please, be quiet a second. Tel, describe contents of internal compartment."

  "Scanning of interior inconclusive. Reflective distortion of scanning radiation equal to or greater than .5000."

  "Wow! Someone went to a lot of trouble to make a hollow container with no way to open it!" said Cassiopia. "Where did you get this?"

  "A little boy found it in a house that burned down mysteriously. Why?"

  "Because if the Tel can't ID it, it must be something quite rare."

  "Man, maybe I should turn that thing into the police. It's probably more important than I thought."

  Cassiopia raised an eyebrow and spoke in her most musically persuasive tone, "Let me have it for just a while longer, and I might be able to tell you more."

  Markman balked. "How long--would you want?"

  "Just a few hours. That wouldn't change anything, would it?"

  Markman paused, thinking he should protest. "Okay, but before you become completely lost in that thing, there's something else we need to talk abou
t. Something that's been bothering the hell out of me."

  "Deal. What do you want to talk about?" she said as she took a seat at the paper-strewn desk.

  "The drunk, who thought he knew you."

  "As a stripper? Really, Scott...."

  "You say you saw your father here last night, right?"

  "As plain as day."

  "And I thought you were dreaming. What if you weren't?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "What I'm talking about is that people keep seeing us in places we can't have been. Not only you and your father but me too. On at least two occasions someone has told me they personally saw me somewhere I haven't ever been. Believe me; it's way beyond coincidental."

  Cassiopia hesitated. "What are you saying, that somehow duplicates of us are being generated by the SCIP, and we haven't realized it? I mean I know everything that's happened has been beyond crazy but isn't that idea really too much?"

  "Well just think about it a minute--. We were in Dreamland last night and you were seen at the Forum, of all places, about the same time. Before that, some kind of ghost went through your bedroom and spilled ice cream all over the kitchen. If I tried to pin down my own sightings, I have a hunch they would coincide with Dreamland trips also. So you tell me, is it possible?"

  There was a shared moment of apprehension. Cassiopia blinked. "People who look like us, coming out of Dreamland, like our subconscious selves exchanging places with us?"

  "Have you ever watched the door when I went through, I mean did you ever see anything--unexpected?"

  "No, not that I recall. I was always preoccupied with other things. There was some strange data from the tests I ran on the SCIP door. I thought it was some product of the time distortion." Suddenly she looked up with reassurance. "Wait, Tel! He's monitored almost everything we've done, and he's never indicated anything like that."

  Markman turned to the robot. "Tel, during Cassiopia's sleep period last night here in the lab, did you see anyone else at all or detect movement of any kind, other than hers?"

  The robot answered, "No other visual motion detected."

  "Okay, did you hear anything at all while she slept?"

  "Random environmental function noise from upper areas, laboratory ventilation noise, normal Drack automatic systems noise, standard keyboard entry patterns. End of requested file search."

  Markman's attention perked. He looked to Cassiopia with curiosity and then back to the Tel. "Tel, I said only those sounds that occurred during Cassiopia's sleep period."

  The robot did not understand, though it recognized the vaguely-worded address. "Last verbalization acknowledged, no inquiry derived."

  Markman quickly rephrased the question. "Tel, did you say there were keyboard sounds while Cassiopia was asleep?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Tel, who made those entries?"

  A pause followed in which it seemed the robot itself was unable to justify the data. "No data is available," was the chilling response.

  Cassiopia stood from her seated position, a shocked expression on her small face. She exchanged an intense stare with Markman.

  "That can't be--."

  Markman walked over to the Drack columns and stood over one of the operator positions. "Where did you see your father, exactly?"

  "Right there, the B-station. It had finished running its tasks and was idle."

  "And so could you tell if anyone had typed at this keyboard then?"

  Cassiopia became almost breathless. "Why, yes, it hasn't been used. Any entries would still be in the keyboard buffers." She lurched over to the station and furiously began entering commands. A moment later there was a gasp as she looked up at Markman, stunned. They stared at the impossible telltale message that had appeared on the screen:

 

  CASS KEEP THE DOOR OPEN

  Chapter 28