Regarding Ducks and Universes (11 page)

“I’ll spare you my speech, Felix,” James said, “though it’s quite a good one, if I do say so myself. Let’s just say that DIM may hold the rights to the pet bug events, but they were still Murphina’s and my fault. Gabriella had an idea—here, let me walk you back to your room and I’ll tell you all about it—”

We went out, leaving Bean staring after us.

“The fact that I’m being discharged first makes me feel even more guilty,” James went on as we headed down the hallway. “To make up for things, I’ve organized an outing to Carmel. We’re taking a flier down for sightseeing and dinner, with all arrangements and costs undertaken by me. Not everyone has said yes, people have prior commitments—”

We stopped at the door to my room.

“Gorgeous weather today,” James added. “No fog predicted.”

“Sorry, James, I have things to attend to.” I felt bad refusing the man. It sounded like he was having trouble getting others to come on his trip. But Carmel was the last place I wanted to be—according to Mrs. Noor, that’s where Felix was headed. It was the perfect opportunity to snoop around his life in San Francisco B without risking running into him.

As I watched James walk past the security guard and out the quarantine wing doors, it crossed my mind that I had thought of him only as a nondescript, friendly fellow with a too-inquisitive pet. It couldn’t have been easy to obtain a flier and accommodations in Carmel for a large group at short notice. Or cheap.

Dr. Gomez-Herrera dropped in exactly at noon, looked me over, and pronounced me free of pet bug symptoms and therefore not a danger to society at large. She shook my hand, said, “Enjoy the rest of your trip,” and left, having signed my discharge papers.

I changed out of the patient gown into a pair of knee-length shorts and a short-sleeve shirt. Just as I had finished stuffing most of my belongings into the backpack and was looking for a place to stash
Evans
, there was a knock at the door. Bean stuck her head in. “Are you still here, Felix?”

I waved her in. “I’m packing.”

“I haven’t been cleared yet. Dr. Gomez-Herrera had to attend to Quarantine Case 4, who’s come down with the pet bug. She’s a pet psychic and rubbed noses with Murphina.” Bean moved my jacket aside and plopped down on the bed. “So I have to wait some more.”

“Would a cherry candy help? They are over there on the table.”

“It might, thanks.” She took one of the cherry candies. “I hear James is issuing invitations.”

“For Carmel.”

She licked cherry juice left by the candy off her finger. “I didn’t get an invitation.”

“Hand me that shaving kit, will you?”

She handed me the shaving kit, along with a comb I had forgotten on the bed. “James already left the health center,” I said, “but maybe Gabriella will invite you. They seem pretty chummy.” I opened the backpack pocket, the one that used to house the Y-day photo—it was still missing—and put in the toiletries, then slid
Evans
in next to them. I looked up. “Bean, have more candy. In fact, have them all. I have a cherry allergy. In return you can tell me of a good place to buy chocolate. I ate all my chocolate bars.”

“A good place to buy—all right, I can’t take this anymore. There are some things you need to know. That it’s only
fair
that you know. Only—”

I zipped up the backpack and sat on it to squash it into submission.

“—only I’m not supposed to say. What a mess,” she said, thrusting her fingers into her chestnut locks and giving them a tug, a gesture I have always envied but which requires thick and plentiful hair. “Where to start…you’re not an undercover DIM agent by any chance, are you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Felix, you can’t go to Carmel. At least not with James and Gabriella.”

“Why can’t I? It sounds like a fun trip.” I finished with the backpack, placed it by the door, and turned back to where she was sitting on the bed.

“James is not who he seems.”

“A nondescript, friendly fellow with a too-inquisitive pet? Who is he?”

“Arni is looking into it. We’re not sure yet.”

I turned the room chair around to face the bed and sat down. “Go on.”

“This is not a good story, Felix,” she said, looking at me unhappily. “I’m embarrassed by everyone’s behavior.”

“It’s all right. You might as well know that I wasn’t planning on going to Carmel anyway.”

“Remember my meeting this morning with Arni and Pak—fellow graduate students—and Professor Max? We have a new candidate for prime mover.” She looked at me expectantly, as if I should have been able to understand what she meant, then jumped to her feet, knocking the candy box off the bed and spilling its contents onto the floor. “It’s like this—everyone believes that Professor Singh produced a copy of the universe on Y-day—but he didn’t—cause the branching between A and B, I mean—it’s theoretically impossible—he was performing the same experiment in both universes,
had
to be to get them to link.” She stopped and took a breath. “Let me start over. We have two universes, yours and mine, which used to be one.” She lifted her hands and held them palm-to-palm in front of her, then opened her palms to form a Y. “They diverged on January 6, 1986. Midday California time—11:46:01.”

“Right,” I said. “From then on we went our separate ways.”

“Singh didn’t cause the yabput.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“The divergence. Unofficially referred to as yet another branching point in the universal timeline. Yabput.”

“Yet another…many universes, you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a Passivist,” I said, scanning the room for any belongings I might have accidentally left behind.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “No. Listen. A universe branches off whenever a significant chain of events is set into motion—for instance, like me coming into this room to talk to you. In the old universe I’m still in my room packing, probably the smarter thing to do. And Singh—all he did was successfully connect two budding branches. He wasn’t the prime mover.”

“He wasn’t, you say?”

“Universe maker, if you like. Though that’s a misleading term—there is no intent involved in creating a universe, not in the way the Passivists claim.” Her eyes bored into mine. “We thought our database was complete, that we had everyone within the event radius centered on Professor Singh’s lab, but we haven’t been able to link anyone to the yabput. Then a new photo appeared on the Y-day photoboard—”

“Wait, don’t tell me,” I said.

She nodded. “I think James and Gabriella are searching for the prime mover as well, and that’s why we’ve all been circling you—and Felix B.”

“No, I mean, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Felix—”

I shook my head. “There’s been some mistake. Check your data again. You’re not laying this—this
monumental
responsibility—at my door.”

“But we need your help.”

“Did you take the Y-day photo from my backpack?”

“What? No. Felix—” She took a step in my direction.

“Sorry, I have to go.” I grabbed my things and, before she could say anything more, was out the door.

After much paperwork—“
released from the Palo Alto Citizen Health Center with an official diagnosis of false appendicitis brought on by food poisoning
”—apparently there had been a rash of those—I was able to get past the main desk of the health center and out the front door. As I strode away oblivious to the direction I was heading in, I asked myself why Bean kept saying things that bothered me to no end, though if I were to be perfectly honest I would have had to admit that she was only doing her job, and had said more than she was supposed to in order to clue me in on what was going on. Still. Bean had said that she was ashamed of everyone’s behavior—did that mean she had struck up conversations with me merely to fish for information about my past? And James too. Was Murphina even his pet or merely a borrowed prop, I asked myself as I maneuvered my backpack around pedestrians like a sidewalk slalom skier, keeping an eye out for a shop that sold omni batteries or chocolate among the stores that lined El Camino Real, the main thoroughfare of Palo Alto (or, as I knew it, Redwood Grove).

I passed a piano store, two Mexican restaurants, three tea shoppes, a movie theater advertising Gabriella Love’s
Jungle Nights;
also a tourist agency offering guided tours of “buildings lost in the Universe A quake but still here in Universe B,” according to the brochure thrust into my hands as I walked by and which I immediately dropped into the nearest trashcan. It occurred to me that had Aunt Henrietta done the same with the Y-day photo, right now I’d be at my desk at Wagner’s Kitchen immersed in melon ballers and breadboxes instead of traversing semi-familiar sidewalks and failing to find specialty sweets stores.

Universe maker—the very idea was ludicrous.

What could my six-month-old self have done that would have been
that
noteworthy?

Wishing for some measure of normality, however small, I realized that my feet had anticipated me. I was standing in front of Coconut Café.

T
here was nothing special about the low building. Peeling paint in places, staged pictures of entrées taped inside the windows, a couple of tables out front under umbrellas. The café was showing its age, having been in business forty-some years and, at least in Universe A, having been run by the same man in all that time: Samand was old, wiry, often rude, and served the best lunch special in town, entrée and beverage for eighty dollars. His Coconut Café had weathered many things, including runaway inflation and competition from seemingly better restaurants with fancier décor and a well-heeled clientele. Samand A had outlasted them all. I was glad to see that his alter had done the same.

It struck me that Samand B, should this still be his café, would be the first familiar face I’d see in three days. Reciprocity didn’t apply; he would not know my face. It didn’t matter.

Noticing that the windows were maybe a tad more in need of a good cleaning than my Samand would have allowed, I went in.

It was past one, so the lunch crowd had come and gone. I headed for the counter, imagining the aroma of simmering onions and spices filling the air, but, as usual, smelling nothing.

A young woman, presumably one of Samand’s daughters, stood behind the counter arranging baked goods. She was not the same person as any of Samand A’s daughters, which was odd for me but nice for her. “Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.

“I’ll have the Italian wedding soup.”

“Sorry, today’s soup is chicken noodle.”

I almost dropped my identicard onto the counter. “I beg your pardon?”

“Chicken noodle.”

I couldn’t believe it. The name was the same, the pictures in the front window were the same, why weren’t the daily specials the same? Italian wedding soup was Monday’s soup, it always had been—I often picked up a bowl on the way back from work and biked home with it balanced on my handlebars. Chicken noodle was only for when you were feeling sick. It wasn’t a whole meal.

“Well?” she demanded, continuing to layer coconut bars onto a plate.

“I’ll have”—I glanced at the menu on the wall to make sure they had my other favorite dish—“the Persian stew.”

“Certainly.” She took a step to the sales register and rang up the order. “That will be eighty-five doll—why, Felix, hello!”

“Er, hello.” I was fairly sure I had never seen the woman before in my life.

“Why didn’t you call to tell us you were dropping by?”

“Uh—you must mean—I’m not him—that is, I
am
Felix, but—”

“How are things at the Organic Oven? Monday is your day off, isn’t it? I thought you had Japanese lessons.”

It was time to put an end to the misunderstanding.

“I’m not Felix B. I’m Felix A.”

She gave a peal of delight. “Felix, you dog. I know you owe Lake and the other busboys money at cards, but really. What a great joke to play on everyone. Wait ‘til I tell Dad. And here I was, wondering why you were dressed in those strange clothes.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Listen here—”

“And we won’t mention your haircut, not a word.”

“Sorry, he really isn’t your Felix,” a voice behind me said.

“No?”

“Felix A here is just a visitor to Universe B,” James added smoothly.

Samand’s offspring covered her mouth with one hand, aghast at her mistake, or perhaps trying not to laugh. It was hard to tell. In any case, she clearly found James a more trustworthy source than me. “Oops. Felix never said anything to me about having a—well, I am surprised. Please accept my apology, citizen.” She gasped. “Are you—”

“Am I what?” I said.

“No, her.” Samand’s daughter pointed behind James. “Is that—?”

“I’m not her,” snapped Gabriella Short.

“Eighty-five dollars, please,” said Samand’s offspring, by now thoroughly abashed. She added the amount to my identicard and handed it back to me along with a paper receipt.

I studied James and Gabriella across the table as we waited for our meals to arrive.

James cleared his throat. “Is there something you’d like to ask, Felix?”

“No,” I said irritably, “I merely want my lunch.”

“We understand completely, Citizen Sayers,” murmured Gabriella. “We’re here because we hope to enter into a business arrangement, one lucrative to you as well as to Past & Future.”

“Lucrative to who—to whom?” I said despite myself. I remembered that Past & Future had been the name on the business card they’d given me.

“I am glad you asked that, since it demonstrates your interest in our services and thereby provides a legal basis for continuing this conversation. I will go ahead and give you—”

“—our sales pitch,” James said.

“—a few more details. Past & Future is the company that employs us. Our research and development department is particularly interested in your personal history. I would be happy to provide you with promotional materials—”

“Not interested.”

“All we want,” Gabriella continued as if I hadn’t said anything, “is to make sure you don’t enter into any arrangement that would not be advantageous to
you
, Citizen Sayers. Past & Future can offer you substantial compensation.”

“Today’s soup should be Italian wedding soup. It’s not. Wedding soup, by the way, is more filling than it sounds. Meatballs, veggies, pasta. Good with crusty bread. Did you know it’s not served at weddings? The name comes from the delectable marriage of ingredients—”

“Before I can tell you more, Citizen Sayers,” Gabriella’s voice rose, “we need your signature on this contract.” Out of nowhere she produced a sheaf of papers about two digits thick, with
Past & Future
printed diagonally across the top page.

“It’s just a formality to keep the guys in legal happy,” James said.

“Who gets the Greek lamb?” Samand had appeared next to our table and was one-handedly balancing three dishes on a large round tray. James whisked the Past & Future packet out of sight and accepted the Greek kabob plate. Gabriella received her chicken noodle soup, and I my artichoke-chicken khoresh. “Be back with your salads and drinks,” Samand said with a brief glance at me and left. I was grateful to him for not mentioning my alter or making jokes about my hair.

We were three A-dwellers lunching in B world. The khoresh, tender chicken pieces and artichoke hearts in a lemony sauce over jasmine rice, looked heavenly. It probably smelled heavenly too. I decided I was damned if I was going to have my lunch ruined.

“Look,” I said, pushing away the Past & Future packet, which was back on the table. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not interested in doing this.”

Gabriella frowned. “Your alter, the other Citizen Sayers, has already signed a contract and has been compensated. He’s being interviewed at a Past & Future office as we speak. I wanted to interview him
myself
, but—”

“Yes, yes, Murphina caused a bit of a detour. I accept the blame,” James said calmly. “Felix, we’re close. Computer models are showing a very promising result, but there are gaps in our data. We need your help in recalling the events of Y-day.”

“I was six,” I said, “and that’s months, not years. I doubt I could help you very much.”

Gabriella made another attempt as our food sat untouched on the table. “It would be to everybody’s benefit if we pooled our resources and knowledge. Especially
yours
, Citizen Sayers, if we succeeded in proving it was
you
and Felix B who started everything all those years ago—”

“Doesn’t this violate Regulation 3?” I interrupted. “Citizen privacy.
Personal
privacy. I’ve always thought that it was redundant, calling it the personal privacy regulation. What other kind of privacy is there other than personal?”

“We aren’t violating Regulation 3,” she replied sharply. “Citizen Felix Sayers B gave us his permission to research his personal history, and now we’re asking for permission to research yours.”

“Again,” I said, “my
personal
history? Do I have any other kind?”

“It’s all quite legal,” James said, reaching for a fork and sliding lamb chunks one by one off the kabob skewer. “Now what ideas one might generate while researching your past, that’s a different question. It’s a bit of a gray area, to be honest. DIM doesn’t authorize new ideas easily, and the idea that people create universes—well, that’s a biggie.”

Gabriella sent him a cautionary look. “Your signature on this contract will permit us to freely look into your past, Citizen Sayers.”

“How did you arrange it?” I asked.

She seemed taken aback by my tone.

I raised an eyebrow at James. “Did you bring a pet-bug-infected pet into this universe just to secure some time with me?”

“Of course not, Felix. Had I known Murphina was sick, I would have taken her to the vet as soon as possible, not on a trip. She’s outside, in the car. We parked in the shade and left the top down.” He shifted in his chair. “Look, like I said, this didn’t work out the way I planned. I use Murphina in my job because she is a good icebreaker. On occasion we need to interview subjects who are less than forthcoming about their lives, downright uncooperative. Having a friendly pet around makes people more willing to talk.”

I got to my feet. “The Y-day photograph. I want it back. I’ll take my lunch over there,” I said to Samand, who had reappeared with our drinks and salads.

Samand didn’t miss a beat. “Certainly.”

I carried my lunch over to a window table and ate alone, my back toward James and Gabriella. I enjoyed the khoresh more than I thought I would, and even pulled out the paper copy of
Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?
After struggling a bit with the mechanics of holding the book open while wielding a knife and fork (and of avoiding greasy food spots, hand-flicking not being a page-turning option), I managed to read a couple of chapters over my meal.