I want it wiped out, erased, neutralized, and cured. Right now.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Max.” Boles sounded genuinely apologetic.
“You can’t? Why not?” His voice rose. “I’ll sue!”
“That won’t change things or put the universe back the way it was before I activated the field. You can’t litigate physics, Max. I can’t fix things because I don’t know precisely how the effect was generated, much less how or why it locused in you. I was trying to open a gate, not make you into one. I can’t fix what I don’t understand.” When the downcast reporter turned to stare worriedly out the broad picture window behind the couch, Boles was moved to comment further.
“Don’t look like that.” The inventor pleaded with his guest. “I know this has to be disconcerting for you. I’m not trying to dismiss your condition as hopeless.”
“Oh, now that’s encouraging,” Max mumbled disconsolately.
“It’s obvious that you’ve got a problem. But I’ll work on it, I promise you that.”
“Great!” Max dropped his head into his hands and used the heels to rub hard at his forehead. “So what am I supposedto do in the meantime? While you’re trying to figure out how to reverse this, or terminate it, or whatever?”
“Do?” Boles eyed him curiously. “Why, the same things you always do. Live your life, write your stories. Are you in pain? Have you suffered injury because of the effect? Has your health deteriorated?”
“Only my sense of confidence in the stability of the world around me.” The reporter looked up. “Otherwise, I feel okay.”
The inventor looked satisfied. “Then what are you bitching about?”
Max considered before finally offering an indignant reply. “I lost my TV. If those—what did you call them? If those paras hadn’t shown up and decided to cooperate instead of fighting for dominance, I wouldn’t have lost my stereo and my computer.”
“I’ll buy you new ones. I am sort of responsible for what’s happened to you.”
“Sort of!” Max sputtered.
“Would you like a drink?”
“Sure, why not?” Max mumbled. “Anything’s okay, so long as it’s cold and full of alcohol.”
Boles carefully filled two glasses with ice and amber-colored liquid from a corner bar, in the process answering Max’s earlier question about whether or not the inventor was too health-conscious to consume liquor. He presented one glass to his guest and kept the other for himself. Max swallowed urgently.
“This is all so very interesting.” Boles was thinking aloud again.
“So were the first A-bomb tests, but I don’t know anybody who wanted to study them from ground zero.” The harsh yet sweet liquid burned the reporter’s throat.
“I’m pondering possible ramifications. If two of your nocturnal visitors were paras, then that means they have gone missing on two parallel worlds. The same holds true for the four ‘sisters,’ only their absences are much more likely to be noted. Because they’re here and this world is apparently so analogous to their own, they will all be familiar with it. Oh, there’ll be plenty of confusion when they try to apply for the same job simultaneously, or pay bills with one bank account, but I suspect they’ll manage to sort it out. By way of explanation, each of them will ascribe their personal situation to confused memories or some such. That’s what people do.
“But they will have left behind holes in the para worlds they were drawn from. Disappointed boyfriends, angry employers, puzzled parents, and more. It would be fascinating to be able to visit those parallel worlds and observe exactly what the effects of such disappearances are.”
“I’ve got it,” Max informed him sarcastically. “Why don’t you fire up that monstrosity in the basement again and see if it will infect
you
with the unsolicited ability to attract people from parallel worlds?”
Unperturbed, Boles smiled. “For a tabloid reporter you have a
J.A. Konrath, Bernard Schaffer