Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

“It is privately owned,” Visgrath said.

“They must have filed some paperwork with the state,” Henry said. “We had to.”

“I don’t-,” Charboric began.

Visgrath cut him off. “John and Henry make a good point,” he said. “I will ask our legal team to provide a report. It is good to go down all avenues.”

Henry sat back, smiling. “Yeah, exactly.”

John nodded too, but he had no interest in letting EmVis do the digging on Grauptham House. Not after last time.

“I need help.”

“What? To spend your money?” Kyle said with a smile.

“No, that I can do fine,” John said. In fact, he had made a large purchase for his warehouse that day, a precision micrometer, light microscope, and X-ray machine. “This company. How do I learn about it?” He handed Kyle a sheet of paper with the name “Grauptham House” on it and the address from the affidavit they had filed.

“Pennsylvania, hmmm,” Kyle said. “We’ll have to send a letter to the state requesting information on its business license.”

“Can’t we just do a computer search?” John asked, before remembering that the Internet didn’t exist in this universe, that the smallest computers were used by the CIA and NSA here and still fit only in barns.

Kyle laughed. “Not with any computer I have access to. Do you have some resources I don’t know about?”

John almost said, Yes, but instead shook his head. Why had he stopped in this universe instead of one where they had decent computers?

“You’ll need to write a letter,” Kyle said. “Get the address of the secretary of state’s office. Just send them the name. Do you know their ID?”

“No, this is all I know.”

“It should be enough.”

“Thanks, Kyle,” John said.

“No problem. I love the game. I’ve been playing. Won the law school tournament.”

“Really? That’s great.”

“The machines on campus are packed. You guys really did something special.”

John wrote the letter as soon as he got home.

Six weeks later, he received a reply, an envelope from the secretary of state of Pennsylvania in Wilkes-Barre. He opened it, reading the list of vital statistics on the company of Grauptham House in Pittsburgh. The CEO didn’t happen to be Visgrath and Charboric wasn’t on the board of directors, but as John read the names, he began to suspect: Fritigern Wallia, Athaulf Chindasuith, Reccared Gesalex. No one he knew had names like that… except for the employees of EmVis. There wasn’t a single normal name or a female name on the list of owners and principals, unless Chintila Ardo was a woman, but he found it unlikely.

He dialed the number on the sheet.

“Grauptham House, Incorporated. How may I direct your call?” answered a female voice.

“Can you send me information on the company, please?”

“I’m sorry. Grauptham House is a privately held company not interested in seeking investors at this time.”

“I’d just like to know what you guys make.”

“I’m sorry, but that information is confidential.”

“Fine, thanks.” He hung up the phone.

A company couldn’t just be a black hole. How far was Pittsburgh from Toledo? Maybe five hours. It was time for a road trip.

For a moment he considered calling Henry and Grace, but then he would have to explain his suspicions. He’d have to excuse his push to take the capital from EmVis. He didn’t want to do that yet. If he could find evidence that Grauptham House was a front for EmVis, or vice versa, then he’d let his friends know and they could work against Visgrath’s plan, whatever that was.

That Friday, John drove across Ohio to Pittsburgh, windows down, radio blaring. He pulled into the tree-lined drive mid-afternoon, coming to a stop at a gate.

“Can I help you?” asked a stone-faced, blond-haired, hulking man.

“Is this Grauptham House?” John asked.

“Yes, what is your business?”

“I’m doing a report for school. Can I get some literature on what you guys do?”

“I’m sorry, no. Perhaps you should do your report on the ketchup company.”

“Please? It’s due on Monday and I can’t change the subject,” John said.

The guard stared at him, then turned around in his guard shack, rummaged around for a moment, and handed John a dog-eared pamphlet.

“That’s all I can do for you,” he said. “Turn your car around.”

John sighed, backed out of the gateway, and swung the car around. The entrance to the drive was across from a wooded, hilly area. There was a hunters’ road there, and he pulled into it, giving himself a clear view of the entrance road.

The pamphlet was unhelpful. “Grauptham House: Company of the Future” was involved in high tech. Defense, electronics, mining, and deep-sea salvage were listed as the main areas of activity. Otherwise, the pamphlet was all marketing mumbo jumbo.

He waited three hours, and not a single car came in or out.

“Is there a back entrance?” he asked aloud.

The building was hidden behind a hill and trees. He’d caught a glimpse of it from the guard shack.

John started his car and tried to circumnavigate the parcel of land the building sat on. The terrain of Pittsburgh was against him, however, and he found himself lost after the left turns that should have brought him back to the entrance. Grauptham House seemed hidden in a valley with just the single entrance, though he couldn’t be sure.

John stopped at a local bar at an intersection of two winding roads. A trailer park crawled up the nearest hill, and an old strip mall sat across the way. A half-dozen locals were drinking their afternoon away inside.

He ordered a beer, and when the bartender brought it he said, “You know anyone who works at Grauptham House?”

“Grauptham House?” The man rubbed his chin. “Is that a furniture store?”

“No, it’s a company up on Glencoe.”

“Glencoe? There’s not much up that way,” the bartender said.

“Glencoe?” someone else at the bar said. “There’s that one place. Charlie got run off when he went hunting up there.” He turned and looked for Charlie. “Said the place was surrounded by twelve-foot barbed-wire fences and motion detectors.”

“What good’s a motion detector when there’s deer running around?” someone else asked.

“Motion detectors between the fences,” the first one explained.

“Do you know anyone who works there?” John asked.

The bartender scratched his chin. “No, can’t say that I do.”

“It’s the fifth-largest company in Pittsburgh,” cried one of the regulars at the bar. “You must know someone!”

“Do you?” the bartender shot back.

The regular shrugged. “They have a plant in McKeesport. My brother has a friend who knew someone who worked in their plant. Sure did.”

“Right.”

John listened as the stories rustled around the bar. It was soon clear that nobody knew anyone personally who worked there but that there were plants and factories scattered around Pittsburgh, though no one could say what the factories made.

John got directions to McKeesport, paid for his beer, and drove the ten miles through the hills of Pittsburgh. He found the Grauptham House factory, this one fenced in and guarded too, but here cars filled a parking lot and people entered and exited the buildings. It was nearly five, so he drove to the nearest bar and again asked about people who worked for Grauptham House.

He was more successful. It seemed everyone in the bar worked in the Grauptham House factory. When he asked what they did, however, they turned their eyes toward their beers.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” John said.

The man next to him grunted.

The bartender spoke up. “I’ve never seen a group more close lipped about what they do,” he said. “You’d think they’re building bombs over there.”