Regarding Ducks and Universes (8 page)

“You mean even though it’s environmentally irresponsible? I have a car too, bought it secondhand. From a bubble-gum maker. But how would I get around without my Beetle?”

“The public transportation system in San Francisco A works quite efficiently.” As soon as I said it, I realized that it wasn’t a particularly diplomatic statement to make. Almost pompous, in fact. Hoping she wasn’t offended, I said, “Well, you’ve seen it. No private vehicles allowed downtown, only people movers and bicycles. It’s clean, safe, and efficient.”

Bean gave up on her soup and picked up a donut from a plate on her tray. “But is it faster?”

“It is if the alternative is that you are stuck in crawling traffic.”

“All right, I’ll give you that.”

“Though I did take a bus tour of the city this morning and discovered I disliked that particular mode of public transportation,” I admitted, following her lead and pushing away the remnants of the turkey sandwich and reaching for the pudding instead. “Too bouncy. Seasickness inducing. I mean bus-sickness inducing.”

“I recommend a boat tour of the bay. Oddly it’s not too seasickness inducing. Speaking of which,” she added, gently shaking the powdered sugar off the donut, “do either of you have any pet bug symptoms—sneezing and such?” She took a careful bite. “Remind me to avoid donuts while in here. Powdered sugar can be a major nasal irritant.”

After the dishes had been cleared away, Dr. Gomez-Herrera and Chang returned with the evening dose of the medication. There was something somber about the procedure and, as I waited in line, I was keenly aware that this little, patient-gown-clad group of people may have brought with them a new disease to Universe B and changed the course of history. At least it was an inconvenient rather than an incurable disease. Bean, clearly struck by the same thought, commented in an undertone from behind me in line, “One of these days, I bet, there’ll be a deadly epidemic. Not a good thing in itself, obviously, but it would lead to a race for the cure between Universe A and Universe B scientists, and that would have the effect of loosening DIM’s hold on research.”

“Even so, I’m glad Murph and I aren’t responsible for anything like that,” I heard James say.

I took two paper cups, one with the medication, one with water, and proceeded to drink them in turn. Bean was right. Surely not even DIM’s Council for Science Safety, charged with enforcing Regulation 19 (science & research) could stop such a scenario. Not once people started dropping like flies. But there had to be a better way, I thought, barely managing to avoid gagging on the medication, which would have been embarrassing, a better way than waiting for a deadly epidemic to free up the sciences a bit. I crinkled the two empty paper cups together, threw them in the trash bin, then turned to hear Dr. Gomez-Herrera say, “Let me know if you experience any side effects,” and realized I had tuned out part of her speech.

I stuck around the cafeteria for a while, listening to twenty-one citizens fervently discuss the day’s events. Not surprisingly, everyone was highly dissatisfied with the unexpected detour from normal life, especially Gabriella Love, who declared, “This is
absolutely
unacceptable. I have a new
project
I’m working on.” She spotted me and gave me a long look, probably because I was standing next to James, to whom she still hadn’t spokena word.

I exchanged a few words with Quarantine Case 11, the teenager with the spiky eyebrows, who was bewailing a party she was missing, and also with the more-mature Quarantine Case 3, who admitted to being an insurance salesman in town for a bi-universal convention but did not reveal further details about himself, as his alter was also in town for the same convention and they were not on speaking terms. Prodded, I introduced myself in a couple of terse sentences, one of which was, “I’m just a tourist,” a phrase I was becoming tired of saying; but it would have been unthinkable (though it would have surely generated more interest in my audience) had I said, “I’m here to spy on my double. It’s illegal, but a lot of things are.”

Although nobody flung any direct accusations at him, it all must have been very uncomfortable for James. After a while he moved to the back of the room and stood there silently, arms crossed across his patient gown, meeting everyone’s stares and winning my admiration. Me, I would have been a nervous wreck.

When Gabriella Love finally walked over to him, I overheard her say, “This proves that you should never take
pets
on a business trip, don’t you think?” which struck me as outrageously rude even for a movie star.

He held his ground. “I have a feeling things will work out for the best.”

“And what about the other?” I heard her say, but James’s reply was lost as the teenager Quarantine Case 11 shrieked loudly, having put two and two together and realized that she would be missing Sunday night’s party as well.

My backpack awaited me on the health center bed, along with a handwritten note from the Queen Bee Inn. Mostly it was the usual get-well-soon stuff, but Franny had added a P.S.:
I’ve enclosed an item that might help pass the time nicely.
I sat down on the bed and unzipped the backpack, which someone had repacked with far more care than I put into it originally. The item Franny had enclosed was lying on top of my folded clothes.

No one had ever given me a paper book as a present before.

The cover had the title
Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?
on it, and a man stepping over cliff edge into sea-mist nothingness. An Agatha Christie, one I hadn’t read in years. I seemed to recall that it was a perfect companion on a cold and rainy winter day, preferably in a comfortable armchair in front of a warm, crackling fireplace. Probably not bad for a medical quarantine either.

After a futile effort to fluff up the health center pillow, I settled back as comfortably as I could and, after sending silent thanks to innkeepers Franny and Trevor for remembering that I liked mystery classics, began reading the adventures of one Bobby Jones, fourth son of the vicar of Marchbolt, and his sleuthing partner, Lady Frankie.

S
unday morning a sharp buzz woke me up. Wagner.

“Felix,” he boomed, “I heard you’ve been quarantined, what an unusual thing to happen on your vacation. Are you all right?”

Cranky and blurry-eyed and not in the mood for answering questions, I pulled the blanket tighter around me and muttered into the omni, “I’m fine, Wagner, do you mind if I call you back?”

“Are you sick, then?”

“No. Just—not up.”

“Sorry. Well, get back to me.”

I let the omni fall back on the bedside table and willed myself out of bed and into the narrow shower. The hot water slowly brought me back to life and a thought entered my brain—how had Wagner found out I was quarantined? Privacy Regulation 3 prohibited the Palo Alto Health Center from releasing our names to the media, or at least I hoped so, because how uncomfortable would it be if Felix B dropped by to bring flowers or a fruit basket? Most likely, I reassured myself, Wagner had heard about the quarantine from one of his professional contacts and not read about it in the news.

There was a more sinister possibility—that Wagner was one of the out-of-uniform DIM agents peppered around San Francisco A (and no doubt around San Francisco B as well) whose job it was to make sure DIM’s rules and regulations were adhered to. They could be accountants, hot-dog sellers, sidewalk sweepers, mortuary workers, pizza delivery persons. And my boss? Being in charge of a company that designed, marketed, and sold quality culinary products, from spatulas to toaster ovens, all with user guides supplied by yours truly, was as good a cover as any. Wagner, who went around the office brimming with new ideas and infecting (though I didn’t like to use that word in a health center) everyone with his enthusiasm, a DIM agent. Impossible.

I turned off the water and reached for a towel. What with Chang and other nurses coming in every few hours to check my vitals, the night had passed in strange, fragmented dreams. One particularly vivid episode had a busload of alters chasing me as I worked furiously on the first pages of my mystery novel. I was a pet in the dream, a biologically unlikely cross between a dog and the partially extinct elephant, and kept trying to type with my paws while staying ahead of the alters, until I finally woke up with a start.

Sadly, I couldn’t remember the plot of the chase-worthy novel.

I put on a clean patient gown and picked up the omni off the bedside table. The neck strap was tangled up and, as I untangled it, I noticed that the little green light that was always on was not on. Now that I thought about it, I seemed to remember that the omni had been displaying increasingly urgent messages that its battery was waning; the brief call from Wagner must have drained the last few drops of power. I shook the omni in a last-ditch effort to fix it the low-tech way, failed, and left it on the bedside table.

The cafeteria was mostly empty, with sullen faces taking up one or two tables; early risers had breakfasted already and the lone health center employee staffing the cafeteria told me crabbily, “I’m clearing everything away in ten minutes. I’m not running a hotel here.”

Bean and James were nowhere to be seen. I hoped they hadn’t come down with the pet bug.

As I sat down with my food, Chang swooped in with a paper cup, watched me drain it, then left. I washed away the grainy feel of the pet bug medication with orange juice and hastened to finish breakfast under the ill-humored stare of the cafeteria employee. No doubt Felix B was having a more enjoyable Sunday breakfast, damn him. If only I’d been able to find out something about the guy beforehand—like where he lived and where he worked and if he had a fancy car and a house and a girlfriend…DIM regulations clamped down on information dispersal, which was a good thing when it came to keeping your own life private but a pain when you wanted to burrow into someone else’s.

“Citizen Sayers?” Gabriella Love was standing next to me, hair matted, eyes puffy, but still stylish in the satiny pink robe and high-heeled slippers. She was clutching two mugs. “Did James find you? He’s looking for you.” She offered me one of the mugs.

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the mug and wondering what I had done to merit her attention. “I haven’t seen him. I just got up.”

“It’s tea. Peach.” She made a face. “I’m planning on talking to someone about that—I
need
coffee to get me started in the morning. And also about getting a different room. I prefer to wake up to natural light, and my room doesn’t have a single window. The situation is
intolerable
.”

“The quarantine must be especially difficult for you.”

“Well, yes—what do you mean?”

“You said that you had a project you’re working on, a new movie, I assume? Everyone must be relying on you to be there.”

Her face reddened from chin to forehead and nothing came out of her mouth for a moment. Then she screeched, “Are you trying to be funny?” and, turning, stormed out of the cafeteria, sloshing a beige dollop of tea onto the floor on her way out. The cafeteria employee sent a displeased look after her.

I’d heard movie stars were temperamental. For a brief moment I was glad there was only one of
her
. Just my luck to be in the same universe.

Once back in my room I saw the omni lying on the bedside table where I had left it and remembered that its battery was dead. Before heading out to find an infoterminal to contact Mrs. Noor of the Noor & Brood Investigative Services, something made me open my backpack. I had taken to studying daily the photograph which had accompanied Aunt Henrietta’s porcelain dolphins, probably in an effort to convince myself that it really was real. I unvelcroed the side pocket of the backpack and reached in.

The photo was gone.