Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

“We know,” Henry said.

“We’re conflicted,” John added.

“You should be.” Kyle wrote down a number and a name. “Professor Andropov, in the business department. He taught our business contracts class. Ask him to look at it.”

“A Russian?” Henry said.

“If you want a balanced opinion on Capitalism,” Kyle said, “ask an Americanized Russian.”

…

Andropov was a bespectacled man in a tweed coat. His office was lined with tomes, in Cyrillic and English.

“Here,” he said. He handed the contract to John. It was marked heavily with red ink.

Henry looked over John’s shoulder. “Are there any words left from the original?”

Two hours before, Professor Andropov had listened to their story with a blank face. John was certain he didn’t care at all.

“In four months, you have gone from prototype to moneymaking venture?” he asked.

“Some money,” John said.

“In quarters,” Henry added.

“And now you have an offer for four million for majority ownership.”

“Yes,” John said.

“And we don’t know what to do,” Henry said.

“Why should you? You are engineers,” Andropov said. “But engineers can do well in business.” He took the contract. “I’ll read it. Come back in two hours.”

“Did it suck?” John asked, flipping through the pages.

“No, pretty good,” Andropov said. He pulled a sandwich from his desk drawer. It was dark outside; John and Henry had spent all day in the law school and the business school. “Some weak language. One bad encumbrance. Otherwise, it’s okay.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “Oh, someone other than an American wrote this.”

“What?”

“The syntax is off in places,” Professor Andropov said. “Grammar is correct, but phrasing is odd.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

“They asked for fifty-five percent,” John said. “Is that too much?”

“For four million, they should have asked for ninety percent,” Andropov said with a laugh, the first John had seen from him. “It’s a good deal.”

“So we should take it?” Henry asked.

“That I can’t answer,” Andropov said. “But think of this. You made one company in three months. If this doesn’t work out, you can just make another one.”

On New Year’s Eve, John, Grace, and Henry sat at John’s table. The revised contract lay before them. Ermanaric Visgrath’s legal team had accepted nearly all of Andropov’s changes. A ballpoint pen sat atop the fresh contract.

“So,” John said.

“So,” Grace replied. She grinned nervously but otherwise had nothing more to say. Unusual for Grace.

John slid the contract in front of Henry.

He opened the contract to the last page. “Signing it all away for fifteen percent,” he said. He signed his name with a flourish.

Grace took the pen from his hand and signed her own name.

“Our new president,” Henry said.

John took the contract then. He smoothed the page. It wasn’t permanent. It wasn’t forever. And it was only binding in this one universe anyway.

He signed his name.

“Pinball Wizards, Incorporated,” he said, “is flush with cash.”

The barred door clanged shut behind him. In the two days he’d been in the Hancock County Jail, John Prime hadn’t learned to ignore the finality of the sound. But it would be over soon. Casey had found a bail bondsman to handle the bail. It was just a matter of time and he’d be out of there.

He stood for a moment looking for Casey in the visiting booths cutting the center of the room. None of the visitors on the far side of the Plexiglas was her. When he’d heard he had a visitor, he’d assumed there was some last-minute question on the bail agreement, or some consultation with his lawyer.

“Number three,” the guard said.

Prime took a step toward the third chair involuntarily.

A man sat behind the glass, a plain man wearing a wool coat, a hat, and glasses. A beard covered most of his face. Prime was sure the man was wearing a disguise. He looked too… different.

“Go on,” the guard said.

Prime paused again, then took three steps, pushing himself down into the plastic chair. He studied the man, but disguise or no, Prime was sure now that he’d never met him before.

“What?”

The man grinned suddenly. He leaned forward and spoke through the perforated opening in the Plexiglas.

“Too bad you can’t just leave all your worries behind,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know you,” Prime said. “What do you want?”

“We’ve spoken before.”

“When?”

“Not long ago.”

“Do you get your jollies off visiting prisoners in jail?” Prime said. “Because I really don’t care for it.”

“No, not any prisoner,” the man said. “But you, yes. This seemed like a very controlled way to visit. What with your volatile temper. I’m sure jail hasn’t relaxed you any.”

“Who are you then?”

“We spoke two days ago.” He paused, expecting Prime to guess. Two days ago he’d been arrested.

“So?”

“I called.”

A light dawned on Prime.

“Ismail Corrundrum,” he said.

“Yes!”

“You crank-called me. So?”

“I’m just surprised you’ve gotten away with this for so long.”

Prime thought for a moment he meant Ted Carson’s murder, then remembered what Ismail Corrundrum had said on the phone. He’d mentioned that the Cube usually came out in 1980.

“I don’t follow.”

“They watch for these things, you know,” Corrundrum said. “Any sort of technology like that. I can’t believe no one noticed. But maybe because it’s a game, and maybe because you screwed it up, they didn’t notice.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is this an exile?” Corrundrum asked. “Is that what you’re doing here? Me too, in a sense.”

Prime shook his head. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said. He stood.

“Wait!” Corrundrum called. “Maybe it’s not an exile. Maybe you’ve got a… way back.”

Prime turned, staring hard at the man.

“That hardly seems possible,” Corrundrum continued. “How could you have a device? Well, if you did, you don’t have it now, do you?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Maybe it’s at home with that lovely wife of yours,” Corrundrum said. “Does she have it?”

“You go near my family and I will simplify all your questions,” Prime said. He turned and walked to the barred gate, waving the guard to open the door.

Prime paced the corner of the TV room, his mind racing. He knew people were exiled in universes without devices. He’d run across them before; he’d killed two, Oscar and Thomas, when they’d tried to steal his device. What if there were exiles everywhere, in every universe? Who was exiling them? And why?

He kicked the bolted chair.

“Hey!” one of the guards yelled at him from the overhang.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He sat down.

Corrundrum was one of those exiles. Or he seemed to be. He seemed to know a lot. He’d indicated that Prime had made a mistake in marketing the Cube. That it would draw attention. Whose attention? Corrundrum was watching; he’d detected it. But Corrundrum had said they watched for any technology.

Damn it! He was just trying to get along! Why wouldn’t everyone leave him alone?

He felt the urge to hide, to run. But he wasn’t going to give it all up, not after he’d finally made it with the Cube. He and Casey had expenses now: the house, the cars, the nanny. He had a career. No way was he running out.

The fear of prosecution for Ted Carson’s death had faded away. Ted Carson was alive somewhere in the multiverse; if one of him was dead, so what?