Then he was out of the battered docking bay and deeper inside the vessel, with Oobla marching him up and down its corridors while narrating cheerfully. “Here is your engineering deck . . . and here is your weapons depot . . . and here is where the escape pods used to be.”
While Marshall, for his part, kept reminding himself of all the times in his life when he had been wrong. For if he had been wrong then, why could he not be equally wrong now? Maybe he wasn’t in a mangled hulk. Maybe the left winglike thing was supposed to be held in place with what looked like carelessly applied blobs of solder. And maybe he was supposed to begin floating occasionally, until something went clunk and he returned abruptly to weightiness.
For all he knew, this was a vessel in top condition. Indeed, how could he argue otherwise—he from a species that hadn't set foot beyond its planet’s moon?
There was one thing he did know, however: the ship was Zetan. Proof of this confronted him repeatedly in the form of gray coveralls and teaspoon-eyed masks, which hung from non-crumpled sections of hull.
And how could it be otherwise? he lamented, his effort to see things on the bright side beginning to fail, like the gravity. The Zetans must have chosen it so there’d be no possibility, once I was inside, of my ever coming out again.
“Now is that fair?” said Oobla, and abruptly his movement had stopped, and he could do nothing except listen to the chiding voice inside of him. “Igglbligg negotiated fiercely on your behalf,” it lectured. “In fact, he turned down several vessels and accepted this one only on condition they gave it a human-friendly atmosphere. Would you like to spend your every minute here in a space suit? I didn’t think so. So do yourself a favor and cultivate a positive outlook. It will improve your chances, for one thing, and without it I cannot see how you are going to win the confidence of your crew.”
Crew? He hadn’t even considered the possibility.
“Yes, of course, crew,” said Oobla, permitting him to resume walking. “You don’t suppose one individual could operate a machine of this complexity, do you?”
He pictured himself emerging onto a Star Trek-ish bridge to find a group of Zetans docilely awaiting his orders. A trace of laughter burbled in the background.
“Very good. We enjoyed that,” said Oobla.
“So I guess they’re not Zetans.”
“No, they’re not.”
“And they’re not Blurggit, I’m sure. So . . .” He was stymied. “Who?”
“Oh, please,” she said. “Do you want to ruin your every surprise?”
* * *
He heard them before he saw them, as he emerged from the elevator.
From Oobla he knew that this conveyance had taken him from the ship’s “central thing” to its “front thing,” which she also called its “command thing.” He guessed that meant its bridge and was therefore surprised to find himself not in a room full of consoles and viewscreens but in some sort of foyer or large closet. Across this enclosure stood a pair of sliding doors, and on the other side of these he could hear a tangle of voices that both troubled and mystified him.
They were yelling voices, agitated voices, and also, seemingly, human voices, although that might have been how his translator was rendering them.
Then he jumped away as a perforated square of metal fell inward from a wall, exposing a floor-level duct and . . .
A being crawling through it.
A being who then stood—who then revealed that he was . . .
Was?
Yes, was . . .
“Ethan!” cried Marshall.
Oddly, however, his old friend showed no surprise at encountering a familiar face after exiting a duct on an alien space vehicle.
“Marshall?” he said matter-of-factly. “Oh, I should have known. It makes total sense to find you here.”
“You know where you are?” said Marshall, incredulous. “I mean, you always seemed moderately intelligent, but that would take brainpower beyond—”
“Of course I know,” said the other. “Look at me. Where else would I be?”
Marshall looked, but could not figure out what Ethan meant. Certainly he was the same, physically, as always, and was dressed as he had been on the Zetan vessel: in paisley boxer shorts, white gym socks and a black sleeveless muscle shirt that made it admirably clear he devoted his time to more important things than cultivating muscles.
Marshall could not understand how such attire revealed anything about his present location, and said so.
“But it does,” said Ethan. “I’m at home, in bed. This is what I wear to bed. And my being dressed like this while seemingly in a bizarre and even womblike environment means . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Well, obviously I've become conscious in my own dream, and for a very specific purpose.”
He then took Marshall by both arms and stared into his eyes.
“Marshall,” he said. “I believe my unconscious is presenting me with an opportunity. You see, for weeks now, ever since the missing person articles appeared, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. And for good reason because, let’s face it, I’m the person you reached out to, aren’t I? I’m the one you confided in about that website and your generally declining mental state. And what did I do, besides doling out some facile advice? Nothing. Could’ve checked up on you—didn’t. Could’ve made sure you were getting help—didn’t. And, well, maybe this dream is the closest I am ever going to get to telling you how sorry I am.”
Marshall felt sorry that Ethan felt sorry, was so hard on himself, and had jumped to so many mistaken conclusions. “Ethan,” he said, “the first thing you have to realize is that you’re not . . .”
He stopped.
What was he about to do? Convince this poor, half-dressed abductee that he wasn’t dreaming? Convince him, instead, that he was light-years from Earth, in a situation he could not possibly survive?
“Almost could not possibly survive,” corrected Oobla.
“Almost could not possibly survive,” thought Marshall dutifully. Anyway, what would Ethan’s awareness of that accomplish? Would it make him happier? Calmer? More capable as a comrade?
Would it do any good at all?
“. . . crazy,” said Marshall, finishing his sentence. “The first thing you have to realize is that you’re not. I’ve written about lucid dreaming, you see. So I understand what your mind is doing. It’s working through your conflicted feelings so you can reach a state of acceptance that you were, in fact, an excellent friend to me, despite my disappearance, which, after all, does not necessarily mean I’m dead.”
“If only,” said Ethan.
“I think there’s a strong chance of it,” said Marshall. “But for now, since we’re in this dream, let’s make full use of it, shall we? Because, after all, it may have more to teach us—I mean you.”
“You’re right,” said Ethan. “I mean, I’m right. I mean—well, let’s not get lost in syntax. Since we’re inside the dream—”
“Let’s embrace it,” said Marshall.
“Exactly,” said Ethan.
“Excellent,” said Oobla. “This is a promising twist. Though I must urge you, Marshall, to pay equal attention to the others in your crew. We chose each for a reason, you know. And you may need them all.”
Again Marshall noticed the thumps and shouts coming from beyond the sliding doors. They were even louder now, and suggested desperation.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked Ethan, gesturing towards the hubbub.
“Not good. In fact, it’s why I escaped, once I found that air duct or whatever it is.”
“Well, we had better unescape,” Marshall said, and dropping to his knees, entered the conduit. “If we can observe for a while without being observed ourselves, then maybe—”
He noticed he was alone.
“Are you sure you want to stay there?” he called behind him. “In a strange place with confusing passageways, pursued no doubt by repressed urges masquerading as hideous alien beings.”
In another instant, Ethan was glued to him as they crawled along.