crouched against the opposite door, a huddled shape in the dark interior of the car. “Are you sure that—that—”
“Look,” George answered, the utter craziness of the whole business abruptly dawning on him, souring his voice, “if this is some sort of nutty joke….” He let the threat hang, then snapped, “Of course I can find it again! High House, you’re talking about?
“Yes, yes. High House. The home I built for the woman who lives there, waiting for me.”
“For fifteen years?” George allowed himself to indulge in the other’s fantasy.
“She would wait until time froze!” Kent leaned over to spit the words in George’s ear. “And in any case, I have a theory.”
Yeah! George thought to himself. Me, too! Out loud, he said, “A theory?”
“Yes. I think—I hope—it’s possible that time itself is frozen at the moment of the fracture. If I can get back, it may all be unchanged. I may even regain my lost years!”
“A parallel dimension, eh?” George said, feeling strangely nervous.
“Right,” his passenger nodded emphatically. “That’s the way I see it.”
Humoring him, George asked, “What’s it like, this other world of yours?”
“Why, it’s just like this world—except that there’s a village called Middle Hamborough, and a house on a hill, and a building firm called Milton, Jones & Kent. There are probably other differences, too, but I haven’t found any yet to concern me. Do you know the theory of parallel worlds?”
“I’ve read some science fiction,” George guardedly answered. “Some of these other dimensions, or whatever they’re supposed to be, are just like this world. Maybe a few odd differences, like you say. Others are different, completely different. Horrible and alien—stuff like that.” He suddenly felt stupid. “That’s what I’ve read, anyway. Load of rubbish!”
“Rubbish?” Kent grunted, stirring in his seat. “I wish it were. But, anyway, you’ve got the right idea. Why are you stopping?”
“See that sign?” George said, pointing through the windscreen to where the headlights lit up a village sign-post. “Meadington, just a few miles down the road. We’re through Meadington in about five minutes. Then we turn left where it’s signposted to Middle Hamborough. Another five minutes after that and we’re at High House. You said it would be worth my while?”
Now comes the crunch, George told himself. This is where the idiot bursts out laughing—and that’s when I brain him.
But Kent didn’t laugh. Instead he got out his checkbook, and George switched on the interior light to watch him write a note for….
George’s eyes bulged as he saw the numbers go down on the crisp paper. First a one, followed by three zeros! One thousand pounds! “This won’t bounce?” he asked suspiciously, his hand trembling as he reached for the check.
“It won’t bounce,” said Kent, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “Fortunately, my money was good for this world, too. You get it when we get to High House.”
“You have a deal,” George told him, putting the car in gear. They drove through slumbering Meadington, its roofs and hedges silvered in a moonlight that shone through the promise of a mist. Leaving the village behind; the car sped along the country road, but after a few minutes George pulled into the curb and stopped. His passenger had slumped down in his seat. “Are you OK?” George asked.
“There’s no turnoff,” Kent sobbed. “We should have passed it before now. I’ve driven down this road a thousand, five thousand times in the last fifteen years, and tonight it’s just the same as always. There’s no turnoff, no signpost to Middle Hamborough!”
“Yeah.” George chewed his lip, unwilling to accept defeat so easily. “We must have missed it. It wasn’t this far out of Meadington last time.” He turned the big car about, driving on to the grass verge to do so, then headed back towards
“Look,” George answered, the utter craziness of the whole business abruptly dawning on him, souring his voice, “if this is some sort of nutty joke….” He let the threat hang, then snapped, “Of course I can find it again! High House, you’re talking about?
“Yes, yes. High House. The home I built for the woman who lives there, waiting for me.”
“For fifteen years?” George allowed himself to indulge in the other’s fantasy.
“She would wait until time froze!” Kent leaned over to spit the words in George’s ear. “And in any case, I have a theory.”
Yeah! George thought to himself. Me, too! Out loud, he said, “A theory?”
“Yes. I think—I hope—it’s possible that time itself is frozen at the moment of the fracture. If I can get back, it may all be unchanged. I may even regain my lost years!”
“A parallel dimension, eh?” George said, feeling strangely nervous.
“Right,” his passenger nodded emphatically. “That’s the way I see it.”
Humoring him, George asked, “What’s it like, this other world of yours?”
“Why, it’s just like this world—except that there’s a village called Middle Hamborough, and a house on a hill, and a building firm called Milton, Jones & Kent. There are probably other differences, too, but I haven’t found any yet to concern me. Do you know the theory of parallel worlds?”
“I’ve read some science fiction,” George guardedly answered. “Some of these other dimensions, or whatever they’re supposed to be, are just like this world. Maybe a few odd differences, like you say. Others are different, completely different. Horrible and alien—stuff like that.” He suddenly felt stupid. “That’s what I’ve read, anyway. Load of rubbish!”
“Rubbish?” Kent grunted, stirring in his seat. “I wish it were. But, anyway, you’ve got the right idea. Why are you stopping?”
“See that sign?” George said, pointing through the windscreen to where the headlights lit up a village sign-post. “Meadington, just a few miles down the road. We’re through Meadington in about five minutes. Then we turn left where it’s signposted to Middle Hamborough. Another five minutes after that and we’re at High House. You said it would be worth my while?”
Now comes the crunch, George told himself. This is where the idiot bursts out laughing—and that’s when I brain him.
But Kent didn’t laugh. Instead he got out his checkbook, and George switched on the interior light to watch him write a note for….
George’s eyes bulged as he saw the numbers go down on the crisp paper. First a one, followed by three zeros! One thousand pounds! “This won’t bounce?” he asked suspiciously, his hand trembling as he reached for the check.
“It won’t bounce,” said Kent, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “Fortunately, my money was good for this world, too. You get it when we get to High House.”
“You have a deal,” George told him, putting the car in gear. They drove through slumbering Meadington, its roofs and hedges silvered in a moonlight that shone through the promise of a mist. Leaving the village behind; the car sped along the country road, but after a few minutes George pulled into the curb and stopped. His passenger had slumped down in his seat. “Are you OK?” George asked.
“There’s no turnoff,” Kent sobbed. “We should have passed it before now. I’ve driven down this road a thousand, five thousand times in the last fifteen years, and tonight it’s just the same as always. There’s no turnoff, no signpost to Middle Hamborough!”
“Yeah.” George chewed his lip, unwilling to accept defeat so easily. “We must have missed it. It wasn’t this far out of Meadington last time.” He turned the big car about, driving on to the grass verge to do so, then headed back towards
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