Lawrence Watt-Evans - Out of This World

Cahn blinked. “I see,” he said. He turned his attention to the road ahead, marveling at the number of different vehicles that were using it.

It had been clear to him that none of the police agents or other, unidentified personnel he had spoken with since his ship’s unfortunate arrival had believed a word he said. No one had come out and called him a liar; in fact, they had never denied anything, or disagreed with a single datum. They had also virtually never asked him to clarify anything, but had simply noted everything down, with assorted pens and typers, and with their mysterious recording gadgets.

It had become abundantly clear, within a few hours of his arrival, that they all thought him either insane or part of some elaborate conspiracy of deception.

Whether this was because the whole idea of other universes was held to be unacceptably fantastic in this culture, or because agents of Shadow had already infiltrated the society and somehow made sure the Imperial mission was not believed, he could not be certain. Or perhaps the explanation was something else entirely; this was, after all, an alien culture. They might speak good Imperial English, most of them might look white, but they were in truth more foreign than any of the wogs back home. He kept that always in mind; these people were alien.

Whatever the reason for their disbelief, he had resigned himself to a long imprisonment, and to the failure of his mission.

But now he and his crew were unexpectedly free, and in the hands of this person who seemed completely undisturbed by mention of the Galactic Empire. He didn’t display the annoyance or resignation the law officers had shown.

Captain Cahn did not know what to make of it. Was this man, perhaps, one of Shadow’s creatures?

If they had been back in normal space, where telepathy worked, Prossie Thorpe would have been able to tell if the man was truthful, if he meant them harm-but here, in this strange, warped reality, how was anyone to be sure of anything?

The wisest course of action, he decided, was to be noncommittal, to go along and see what developed.

He sat and silently watched the traffic; his men, taking their cue from him, did the same.

* * * *

First Lieutenant Alster Drummond watched Pel Brown out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be seen doing it.

It was obvious that the Earthman was nervous, having the four spacemen in his vehicle; he had said nothing during the drive, and had refused to look at any of his passengers. Drummond had respected the man’s emotions and had kept quiet, and the others had followed his example-though it was plain that they, too, were nervous, especially young Peabody, who was seated in the middle of the rear seat and who kept swiveling his head from side to side, like a scanner turret when an ambush is expected.

It might have been useful to say something to soothe the driver-Drummond had not heard his name-but the officer had no idea what to say. He knew nothing about this man, or about his society. Saying the wrong thing would be easy, and finding the right one might be impossible. It seemed better to just stay quiet and see what happened.

They had been in the vehicle for several minutes now, first on the streets, then on a great highway-these people, Drummond saw, having no anti-gravity, had performed miracles of highway engineering to compensate-and now they were on the streets again, cruising past shops and houses, all scattered among large expanses of grass and trees. Drummond wondered whether this was considered city or country, and whether these people had any true cities.

The groundcar was slowing; Drummond assumed they were nearing their destination, or at least a transfer point.

“That must be her,” Pel said, suddenly.

“Who?” Drummond said, startled.

“There,” Pel replied, pointing.

Drummond followed Pel’s finger and saw two women, one tall and fair and the other small and dark and somehow exotic, standing on the sidewalk behind a blue vehicle that was slightly smaller than the one he was in.

A little farther along the curb a big brown groundcar had parked, and Drummond could see Captain Cahn climbing out of it on one side, the Earthman who had driven it on the other.

Then his view was blocked by the garage wall, as Pel pulled the car into place and killed the engine.

Drummond discovered, when he turned to open his door, that the red car that had carried the ship’s telepath, Thorpe, was already in the other bay of the garage. He fumbled with the latch and got it open before anyone could come to his assistance.

The men in the back seat did not manage any such feat, and Pel opened the door for them. They emerged, somewhat reluctantly.

People were getting out of the other car, as well-a woman in a peculiar costume of jacket, blouse, and skirt, a man in an even more peculiar and very archaic outfit of black velvet, a little girl in blue pants and a simple red shirt, and, finally, Prossie Thorpe.

“Thorpe,” Drummond called. “Report!”

Startled, Thorpe turned and saw him and threw a quick salute. “Telepathic silence continuing, Lieutenant,” she said. “Still totally dead, both reception and transmission. No other news; an interesting ride.”

He nodded, and noticed that the others, the Earth people, were all staring, with various expressions.

Was that fellow in black an Earth person? His clothing did not seem consistent with the others.

But then, there was a great deal of variation in what the Earth people wore, as well as in their skin and hair-they were clearly a very mixed society, with no proper standards of racial discrimination. There had been black men in police uniforms and working at the jail who were apparently treated as equals.

This was an entirely new universe, Drummond reminded himself, with its own rules.

“I saw someone out front,” Pel called to Nancy as he crossed to the overhead door. “I think it must be that Jewell woman.”

Nancy nodded, while Drummond threw Pel a questioning glance.

“The woman who owns the land where your ship crashed,” Pel explained, reaching for the handle. “Out front, there.”

Drummond suddenly understood. “What about the other woman?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Pel said, shouting over the rumble of the descending door. “Her lawyer, probably.”

Drummond nodded. That would seem to make sense. This society obviously made extensive use of hired advocates and elaborate ritual confrontations.

“Shall we all go inside?” Nancy suggested from a small door at the back of the garage. The little girl was beside her, tugging at the handle and hauling the heavy door open.

“Come on,” Pel said, making a herding gesture.

The crewmen obeyed.

Once inside, Nancy directed them all to the family room, while Raven slipped away and headed for the basement. Pel opened the front door to admit Ted, Captain Cahn, the remaining crewmen, and two women.

One was small and dark, younger than the other-no more than thirty, surely- with Oriental features. She wore a grey plaid blouse and black wool suit and carried a large black purse. “This is Susan Nguyen,” Ted said, gesturing to make it plain that he was introducing her to everyone, rather than to a specific individual. Drummond noticed that he made no mention of her national origin, though she was the only Oriental he had yet seen here on “Earth.”

The other woman was of medium height, with thick honey-blonde hair cut fairly short but elaborately curled. Pel judged her to be in her late thirties, or at most a well-preserved forty-five; her skin was pale, and she hadn’t bothered to use make-up to disguise the fact. She wore a floral print dress, belted tightly. “This must be Amy Jewell, then,” he said.