Puzzled, Turpin turned to Don Stanley. ‘I didn’t know we had any geologists.’
‘Ten of them,’ Stanley said.
‘Your astrophysicists have done all they can,’ Woodbine said. ‘Now that the observation satellite has been launched.’ Seeing that Turpin did not understand, he amplified. ‘Earlier this morning, a Queen Bee satellite and launcher were taken through to the other side, and the satellite was successfully put into orbit; it’s already sending back TV reports of what it sees.’
‘That’s correct,’ Don Stanley added. ‘So far it’s functioning perfectly. From that vantage point we can learn more about this other world in an hour than fifty surface teams can learn in a year. But of course we’re going to augment the TB’s data with geological analysis; that’s what Woodbine was referring to. And we’ve borrowed a botanist from George-town University; he’s over there right now, inspecting plants. And there’s a zoologist on the way from Harvard; he should arrive any time now.’ After a pause, Stanley said thoughtfully, ‘And we’ve contacted the sociology and anthropology departments at the University of Chicago to stand by in case we need them.’
‘Hmm,’ Turpin said. What did that mean, for heaven’s sake? He was lost. Anyhow, Stanley and Frank Woodbine appeared to have the situation well in hand; evidently there was nothing to worry about. Even if he did not quite comprehend the situation, they did.
‘I’m anxious to go over,’ Woodbine said. ‘I haven’t been there yet, Turpin; they asked me to wait for you.’
‘Then let’s get started,’ Turpin said eagerly. ‘Lead the way.’ He started toward the ‘scuttler.
Frank Woodbine lit a cigar. ‘Good enough. But don’t be too disappointed, Turpin, if it leads us right back here. This break-through may be nothing but a doorway to our own world, a connection with some remote spot, say the extreme northern part of India where I understand native trees and grasses are still allowed to grow wild. Or it may turn out to be an African bird sanctuary.’ He grinned. ‘That will upset my good friend Mr Briskin, if it’s so.’
‘Briskin?’ Leon Turpin echoed. ‘I’ve heard of him. Oh yes; he’s that political fellow.’
‘He’s the one who made the speech,’ Don Stanley said, accompanying the two of them through the small mob of engineers and researchers, up to the hooped entrance of the ‘scuttler.
Puffing out clouds of gray cigar smoke, Woodbine stepped through the hoop and into the tube. Assisting Leon Turpin, Stanley followed. The three of them were at once followed by a gang of TV cameramen and homeopape autonomic recording machines as well as human reporters. Already the data-gathering extensors of the media were busily at work, collecting, recording, transmitting all. Woodbine did not seem to be bothered, but Leon Turpin felt slightly irritable. Publicity was of course necessary, but why did they have to push so close? I guess they’re just interested, he decided. Doing their job. Can’t blame them; this is important, especially with Woodbine here. He wouldn’t have come if this wasn’t something big. And they know it.
Halfway down the tube of the Jiffi-scuttler Frank Woodbine conferred with a TD engineer and then stooped down. His cigar jutting stiffly ahead of him, he crept headfirst through the wall of the tube and disappeared.
‘I’ll be darned!’ Turpin said, amazed. ‘Can I get through there, Don? I mean, it’s all been tested, like you said; it’s safe?’
With the assistance of three TD engineers Turpin managed to kneel down and crawl tremulously after Woodbine. Felt like a kid again, Turpin said to himself, experiencing both fear and delight. Haven’t done anything like this in ninety years. The wall of the tube shimmered before him. ‘You in there somewhere, Frank?’ he called as he gingerly made his way forward. The shimmer passed over him, and now he saw blue sky and a horizontal procession of great trees.
Taking hold of him by the shoulders, Woodbine lifted Turpin to his feet and set him upright on the grass-covered soil. The air smelled of weird things. Leon Turpin inhaled, perplexed; the scents were old and familiar, but he could not place them. I’ve experienced this before, in my childhood, sometime, he said to himself. Back in the twentieth century. Yes, this certainly is Earth; nothing else could smell this way.. This is no alien, foreign planet. But was that good or bad? He did not know.
Bending, Woodbine picked a meager white flower. ‘Have a morning glory,’ he said to Turpin.
Ahead of them, TD space engineers sat at mobile highfrequency receiving equipment; they were no doubt accepting communications from the Queen Bee satellite somewhere overhead. The ‘scope of the central van revolved slowly, a peculiar presence on this pastoral landscape.
‘We’re particularly interested in what it obtains from the dark side,’ Don Stanley said. ‘That’s where it is, now.’
Glancing at him, Woodbine said, ‘Lights, you mean.’
‘Yes.’ Stanley nodded.
‘Lights of what?’ Turpin asked.
‘If there are lights,’ Stanley said patiently, ‘anywhere, in any quantity, it means that this place is inhabited by a sentient race.’ He added, ‘It’s found roads, already, on the sun side. Or at least what appear to be roads. The QB isn’t by any means the best observation satellite; actually it was selected because it’s the easiest and quickest to launch. We’d follow it up in a few days with more sophisticated equipment, of course.’
‘If a developed society exists here,’ Woodbine said, ‘it’ll be of enormous importance anthropologically. But it’ll hurt Jim Briskin. His whole speech took as its premise the unestablished fact that this planet is vacant and available for colonization. I don’t know which to hope for; I’d personally like to see the bibs revived and conveyed here, but . . .’
‘Yes,’ Turpin agreed. ‘We put a fortune into those language translating machines, decades ago, and never got anything back. Woodbine, where do you think we are?’
‘You figure it out, Turpin,’ Woodbine said with a spasmodic grimace. ‘After all, you people built the ‘scuttler. In fact, you invented it. I don’t work by a priori theory; I’m a data type. I have to gather a good deal of information before I can figure out what’s going on.’ He gestured. ‘Like those people who followed us over here.’ Behind them the media reporters had appeared, still hard at work at their job of scrutinizing everything in sight. They did not appear very awed by what they had found so far.
‘I don’t care about the bibs,’ Turpin said candidly. He saw no need to obscure his personal convictions. ‘And I certainly don’t care about what happens to that politician, whatever his name is. Briskett or Briskman—you know, the one who made the speech. That’s not my problem; I’ve got other things to worry about. For instance . . .’ He broke off, because a communications systems engineer was coming toward them, temporarily leaving the gear which monitored the satellite. ‘Maybe this man can tell us something,’ Turpin said. ‘But I’ll say one thing more: when I look around here all I see is grass and trees, so if it’s inhabited, its tenants certainly don’t have full control of the environment. That might leave room for limited colonization.’
The com-sys engineer said respectfully, ‘Mr Turpin, you don’t know me but I’m Bascolm Howard; I work for you and have been for years. It’s a great honor for me to give you the news that the QB satellite has picked up sequences and arrangements of lights on the dark side of this body. There’s absolutely no doubt about it; they’re assemblages of habitation. In other words, towns.’
‘Well, that’s that,’ Stanley said.
‘Not at all,’ Woodbine said sharply. To Howard he said, ‘Where are these conglomerations of lights? Where they’re supposed to be?’
Frowning, Howard said, ‘I don’t quite . . .’
‘At London?’ Woodbine said. ‘Paris? Berlin? Warsaw? Moscow? All the big centers?’
‘Some are in the right places,’ Howard said. ‘But some aren’t. For instance, we’re picking up no lights from the British Isles, and there should be colossal numbers, there. And, oddly, the image transmitted from above Afri
ca shows many lights. Many more than there ought to be. But overall there are distinctly fewer lights than we’re accustomed to; we noticed it right away. Perhaps only one third or one fourth as many as anticipated.’
‘As anticipated where?’ Woodbine said. ‘Back home? But we’re not back home, are we? Or don’t you believe that? What is your operating theory? Just where do you imagine you are?’
Flushing, Howard said, ‘It’s not my job to figure out where I am; I was told to come here and set up monitoring systems for a QB satellite, and that’s what I’ve done. We’ve had sufficient rotations already to assure us that we’re on Terra; we’ve seen all the normal land-mass outlines, all the familiar continents and islands. Personally, I’m content simply to accept the obvious fact that this is our own world, although somehow altered; as, for example, the reformation of light-clusters. And, in addition, we’ve not been able to pick up transmissions from any satellite except the QB launched earlier today. The air is dead.’
‘On what frequencies?’ Woodbine said.
‘On every frequency we’ve tried. Starting with the thirty-meter band and working on up.’
‘Nothing?’ Woodbine persisted. ‘Nothing at all? That’s impossible. Unless we’re back before the days of radio.’ He glanced at Stanley and Turpin. ‘Back before 1900. But even so the U.K. should be lit up; it’s one of the most densely populated areas in the world and was such back in the 1900s . . . back for centuries. I don’t understand.’
‘Cloud layers?’ Stanley asked Howard. ‘Masking the surface?’
‘Possibly,’ Howard said. ‘But that wouldn’t explain the concentration of lights on the African Continent. Nothing explains that.’
‘We must have gone ahead into the future,’ Stanley said.
‘Then why no radio transmissions on any frequency?’ Woodbine said.
‘Maybe they don’t need to use the airwaves any more,’ Stanley said. ‘Maybe they communicate by direct mind-to-mind telepathy or something on that order which we know nothing about.’
‘But the sky map,’ Woodbine said. ‘The stellar charts which your astrophysicists developed distinctly set the time as being identical with ours. We’re coeval with this world, whether we like it—or can make up a theory about it—or not. Let’s face this fact and not try to weasel around it. But why waste time theorizing? All we really have to do is make physical contact with one of these illuminated settlements and we’ll know the answers.’ He looked extremely impatient. ‘Haul some sort of vehicle over here, a jet-hopper perhaps, and let’s get started.’
Stanley said, ‘There is a ‘hopper over here already. From the beginning, we intended to provide Mr Turpin with an aerial view. After all, this entire place, whatever it is, belongs to him.’
Snorting, Woodbine said, ‘The government may have something to say about that. Especially if Briskin is elected, which I understand is certain now.’
‘We’ll fight it in the courts,’ Turpin said. ‘Typical socialism, bureaucratic governmental interference in the free enterprise system; we’ve had enough of that. Anyhow, TD and TD alone has the means of getting over here. Or does the fedgov plan to seize the ‘scuttler?’
‘Very probably it does,’ Woodbine said. ‘Or will, after Briskin is in. Even Bill Schwarz may want to; he’s not that stupid.’
Bristling, Turpin said, ‘Look here, Woodbine, you’re working for TD; now. Our opinion is your opinion, whether you like it or not. This place is company property, and no one can come here without TD’s permission. And that includes you,’ Turpin said, turning toward the news media people. ‘So watch your step.’
‘Just a moment,’ Howard said. ‘The boys want me back.’ He hurried over to his post at the monitoring gear. Presently he returned, a perplexed expression on his face. ‘They’re picking up no lights from Australia,’ he said. ‘But a tremendous concentration from Southeast Asia and from the region of the Gobi Desert. The greatest concentrations yet. And all throughout China. But none in Japan.’
‘Where are we on the planet’s surface?’ Woodbine asked. ‘According to the QB?’
‘In North America on the East Coast. Near the Potomac. Where the TD central complex is located—or at least in that vicinity, give or take ten miles.’
‘There’s no TD here,’ Woodbine said. ‘And no Washington D.C. So that’s that. We haven’t gone through a circular doorway and found ourselves led back to a remote area of our own world. This may be Earth, but it’s obvious that it isn’t our Earth. In that case, whose is it? And how many Earths are there?’
‘I thought there was only one,’ Turpin said.
‘And they used to think that one was flat,’ Woodbine reminded him. ‘You learn as you go along. I’d like to get into that jet-hopper right now, if no one objects, and get started surveying. Is that agreeable, Turpin?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Turpin said eagerly. ‘What do you think we’ll find, Frank? Is this more or less exciting than exploring planets in other star systems?’ He chuckled knowingly. ‘I can see you’re all steamed up, Frank; this situation has got you hooked.’
Shrugging, Woodbine said, ‘Why not?’ He started toward the jet-hopper; Leon Turpin and Stanley followed. ‘I never implied I was jaded; I certainly am not about to fall asleep over this.’
‘I know what this is!’ Leon Turpin bleated excitedly. ‘Listen, this is a parallel Earth, in another universe; do you get it? Maybe there are hundreds of them, all alike physically but you know, branching off and evolving differently.’
Sourly, Woodbine said, ‘Let’s not go up in the ‘hopper; let’s just stand here in one spot with our eyes shut and theorize.’
But I know I’m right, Leon Turpin said to himself. I’ve got a sure instinct, sometimes; that’s how I rose to be chairman of the board of directors of TD. Frank Woodbine will find out, pretty soon, and he’ll have to apologize to me. I’ll wait for that and not say anything more.
Together, Woodbine and Stanley assisted the old man in entering the ‘hopper. The hatch slid shut; the ‘hopper rose in the air and headed out across the meadow and over the nearby great trees.
If that’s true, Turpin realized suddenly, then TD owns an entire Earth. And, since I control TD, what Don Stanley said is true; Earth belongs to me. This particular Earth, anyhow. But isn’t one as good as another? They’re all equally real.
Rubbing his hands together with excitement, Turpin said, ‘Isn’t this a lovely virgin place? Look at that forest down below; look at all that timber!’ And mines, he realized. Maybe there’s never been any coal mined here or oil wells sunk. All the metals, all the ores, may still be buried, on this particular Earth—unlike our own, where everything valuable has been brought up long ago.
I’d rather possess this one than our own, Turpin said to himself. Any day. Who wants a worn-out world, thoroughly exploited over tens of centuries?
‘I’ll carry it to the Supreme Court,’ he said aloud, ‘with the finest legal minds in the world. I’ll put all the financial resources of TD into this, even if it breaks the company’s back. It’ll be worth it.’
Both Stanley and Woodbine glanced at him sourly.
Below them, directly ahead, lay an ocean. Evidently it was the Atlantic, Turpin decided. It looked like the Atlantic, at least. Gazing down at the shoreline, he saw only trees. No roads, now towns—in fact no sign of human habitation of any variety whatsoever. Like it was before the damn Pilgrims showed up here, he said to himself. But he also saw no Indians, either. Strange. Assuming he was correct, assuming this was an Earth parallel to their own, why was it so underpopulated ? For instance, what had become of the racial groups which had lived in North America before the whites arrived?
Could parallel Earths differ that much and still be considered authentically parallel? Unparallel is more like it, Turpin decided.
All at once in a hoarse voice, Don Stanley said, ‘Woodbine, something is following us.’
Turpin looked back, but his eyes were not good enough; he made out nothing in
the bright blue mid-morning sky. Woodbine, however, seemed able to see it; he grunted, rose from the controls of the ‘hopper and stood peering. By autopilot, the ‘hopper continued on.
‘It’s losing ground,’ Stanley said. ‘We’re leaving it behind. Want to turn around and approach it?’
‘What’s it seem to be?’ Turpin asked apprehensively. ‘We better not get too close; it may shoot us down.’ He cringed from the idea of an emergency crash: he was well aware of the brittleness of his bones. Any sort of unsafe landing would end his life. And he did not want it ended, just now. This was the worst possible time.
‘I’ll swing back that way,’ Woodbine said, returning to the controls. A moment later the ‘hopper had reversed its direction.
And, at last, Turpin could perceive the other object in the sky. It was clearly not a bird; no wings flapped, and anyhow it was too large. He knew, saw with his own eyes, that it was an artificial construct, a man-made vehicle.
The vehicle was hurrying off as rapidly as possible.
Woodbine said, ‘It won’t be long; it’s very slow. You know what it looks like? A boat, a goddam boat. It’s got a hull and sails. It’s a flying boat.’ He laughed tautly. ‘It’s absurd!’
Yes, Turpin thought. It does look grotesque. It’s a wonder it can stay up. And now, sure enough, the boat-shaped airborne vehicle was dipping down in increasingly narrowing spirals, its sails hanging limply. The vehicle held one single person who, they could now see, was working frantically with the controls of his craft. Was he trying to land it or keep it in the air? Turpin did not know, but in any case the vehicle was about to land—or crash.
It landed. In an open pasture, away from trees.
As the ‘hopper began to descend after it, the figure within leaped from the vehicle and scampered off to disappear into the closest stand of trees.
‘We frightened him,’ Woodbine said, as he brought the ‘hopper expertly down beside the parked, abandoned craft. ‘But anyhow we get to examine his ship; that ought to tell us a lot, practically everything we want to know.’ Immediately he slammed the cabin hatch back and scrambled out, to drop to the ground. Without waiting for Stanley or Turpin, he sprinted toward the parked alien vehicle.