As the class was still going ahead, Battery and Mara moved to find seats. Mara would have liked to have sat near Dru, but Battery pulled her in the complete opposite direction. They sat near the timid-looking fellow who had asked Mara a question.
For Mara's benefit, as the students had certainly heard it before, Dr. Akub launched into his experience on the parallel side. He explained that he had only visited once and that it had been through sleep. Mara looked confused, but he continued.
Ten years previous, he had fallen asleep and had woken up on the parallel side. He remembered wandering around the empty streets at 2:00 a.m. All the sights had been so familiar—as if he were dreaming of places that he knew—but there were very minute differences. Objects, buildings, even plants were in slightly alternate locations. A street might turn at another angle than he recalled. He saw no one but felt certain that this was only due to the time of night.
Dr. Akub walked across a field and entered a lane of houses. He was not afraid of trespassing because this was the street on which he lived. He opened the door of what was his house but not his house. The driveway was paved instead of gravel and considerably longer. An ornate mirror in the entrance hallway reflected his image. He took in his reflection. His vestibule housed a tapestry and not a mirror in that very spot.
He reached out to touch the mirror. What had he expected? To go through like Alice? He realised that he was being silly as his finger left a smudge on the glass. He tried to wipe it out with his pyjama sleeve.
The professor continued down the hall to the living room. He lay down upon the couch and pulled a cozy sheepskin blanket over himself. What is the point of this dream? he wondered. And where was his cat, Minkey?
On the coffee table was a porto-talker. It was black plastic, had a solid antenna, an earpiece, and a mouthpiece. Akub reached out for it with his left hand. It was not curved and was much heavier than regular talkers. He held it tightly underneath the sheepskin. He felt it was important but had no idea why.
Beside the porto-talker on the coffee table had been a blue, leather-bound book entitled The Complete Tragedies of William Shakespeare. The professor flipped through the book with his right hand. He turned randomly at first and then with urgency to Hamlet, Act II, Scene II. He read, “I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth …” Akub shivered and quietly closed the book. He curled up again under the sheepskin, still tightly gripping the porto-talker. He began to doze off.
Light was starting to trickle in at about 5:30 a.m. when he awoke. A single bird sang, “Peeep oooh.” He was sitting up in the leather wingback chair in his study. His feet were propped on a matching ottoman. He was covered in his favoured sheepskin, which he kept for such occasions as a delightful afternoon snooze.
He had no recollection of his odd dream until he pulled up his left arm to glance at his watch. His hand was still firmly clenched around the peculiar porto-talker. The dream came flooding back. But it could not have been a dream as he had proof in his now-cramped hand!
The professor placed the talker down on the bookshelf behind him and massaged his numb hand. He rose and crossed the room to his treasured bookshelf—the one that held his most precious works. He had a slightly ominous, light-headed feeling. He lifted the glass door of the top shelf to pull out his two-hundred-year-old copy of Claus Threadsmeere's works. It was by no means original, as it was still at least three hundred years newer than Threadsmeere's first edition, but Akub valued it highly.
He cautiously flipped through the index until he found the play Prince Humphrey. He scanned Act II, Scene II, and his heart fell with a thud to his stomach. “I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth …”
The professor replaced his beloved book and then had a thought. He ran across the room and grabbed the porto-talker. Does it work? he wondered. He pressed the talk button, but there was no dial tone.
He spent the next few months going over and over his experience and trying to understand why it happened and what the possible implications were. He was not a theoretical physicist; he could not explain away time, space, and multiple realities. He was neither a neurologist nor a psychiatrist; he could not explain the chemical activities of the brain during dreams, nor could he interpret his dream. Dr. Kiran Akub could find no reason for this weird occurrence.
After months of speculating (and numerous albeit unsuccessful attempts to recreate the incident) his conclusions were such: A) he did not know what triggered the initial slip into the parallel place, and B) he could not forcefully make himself return.
Dejected, he felt that he was on the verge of unravelling an enormous mystery, but that the key to solving it had been placed ever so slightly out of his grasp. He knew unambiguously that there was a parallel world akin to his own. It seemed likely that the two worlds had developed concurrently with an information flow unconsciously bridging the sides. This explained the Shakespeare/Threadsmeere duplication.
The professor's ruminations became increasingly complex. Perhaps people on one side were intimately connected with those on the other—twins, doppelgangers, soul mates even? He became absorbed. When someone has a problem and then muses upon the solution in a dream, does the idea come from this parallel place? he questioned. Was it possible for physical articles to slip through—like the one missing sock in the dryer or the misplaced set of keys? He desperately sought proof of others having witnessed similar events.
His colleagues began to mock his new fixation. Had he not previously been such a respected academic, he would have been entirely discredited. His literature courses suffered as he pondered otherworldly questions. Only as a testament to his previous reverential status did the university finally humour him and provide a minuscule budget for him to investigate his “paranormal” theories. He was permitted to take a small group of students for eighteen months of research.
“And you Mara,” concluded the professor, “have brought us the ultimate proof.” Mara looked around at the small group. She realised that however strange they had initially seemed to her, they must be considered even stranger by the ordinary public. These were curious rebels willing to be looked down upon in order to investigate the mysterious. At once, she felt immensely grateful that Battery had found her.
The blue-faced lady raised a hand and then spoke.
“I propose that we keep Mara's presence and what has happened here today quiet.”
“Yes, of course you are right, Ms. Indiga,” corroborated Dr. Akub. “I trust that we are all in agreement that discretion–” The professor met eyes with Dru, and Ms. Noritova gave a disgusted sigh, “is the best thing for Mara and for all of us. A significant incident has transpired,” Dr. Akub spoke once again in that tone that denied any argument. The students all nodded their consent.
Dr. Akub suggested Battery take Mara home to rest. He invited students to stay after class to compose a list of questions for Mara to answer about her world. He knew the class was eager to discuss Mara's presence. This way, they could do so and not feel the need to divulge her presence to anyone outside their group.
The class chattered excitedly about today's experience. After saying good evening, only three people left the room: Mara, Battery, and Dru.