HOW THEY MET THEMSELVES

Daniel Marc Chant

 

The Inventor, in one of his rare moments of inactivity, took it upon himself to read The Time Machine, the latest scientific romance by Herbert George Wells with whom he frequently corresponded by post. Ensconced in a remarkably comfortable chair in front of a gas-powered fire of his own devising, he speedily read the entire book in a little under two hours. Upon finishing it, he threw the thing into the fire and pronounced his verdict. “Poppycock! Stuff and nonsense.”

He would, he decided, write to Herbert first thing in the morning and put him right on a number of scientific matters, not the least being the feasibility or otherwise of time travel. Having spent a number of years researching the matter, he could prove beyond all doubt that movement through time was strictly forbidden by the laws of physics.

“Sideways,” he muttered, rising to his feet and stretching. “That's the way to go. Isn't that right, Bruin?”

At the mention of his name, the old dog's ears pricked up. The faithful Labrador was lying on a rug beside his master's armchair, no doubt grateful for the relief the fire gave to his rheumatic bones.

“Mister Wells,” the Inventor went on, “shares the delusion suffered by most thinking men that creation is bound by four dimensions. But if four, why not five or six? Or even an infinitude of them?

“Had dear Herbert my knowledge and intellect, he would not have called his latest work The Time Machine. Rather he would have entitled it The Interdimensional Machine.”

So saying, the Inventor turned to look proudly at the absurd-looking contrivance that occupied over half his living room. It was a copper sphere mounted on an iron platform and equipped with an airlock and a porthole. If it resembled a diving bell, that was due in no small part to the fact that a diving bell it had been until the Inventor had rescued it from a scrapyard and refurbished the interior with advanced gadgetry, the workings of which only he could understand.

Two cables, each as thick as a strong man's arm, snaked between the sphere and a Diesel engine which had been pumping electricity into the sphere's batteries for the best part of the day. Thanks to a few yet-to-be-patented modifications the Inventor had concocted, the Diesel made barely enough noise to be audible. If one did not know better, one would suppose it inhabited by a host of contented cats purring in unison.

An electric bell, such as might be seen at a train station to warn of the approach of a locomotive, could be discerned through the porthole. It was affixed to the wall above the main control panel. As he had on several occasions over the past few days, the Inventor gazed fixedly at it, and though he was no believer in telepathy or telekinesis, he projected his thoughts into the sphere, willing the bell to ring.

“Oh well,” he said, conceding defeat, “I think we best call it a day, Bruin, and take ourselves off to bed.”

Bruin pleaded with his eyes to be allowed to stay by the fire for a little longer. The thought of climbing the stairs with legs that didn't much want to make the effort in no way appealed to him.

“I know,” said the Inventor. “I'm not so young myself, Bruin, and the bedroom at this hour tends to be less than cozy, but we must sleep. Perhaps tomorrow I will purchase a small bed and then we need not bother ourselves with the upstairs. Until then, however, I am afraid we must—“ The Inventor was cut off in mid-sentence by a sudden clamor that once he'd gotten over his initial shock seemed to him the most joyous din he had ever heard. With childlike glee, he skipped over to the sphere and pressed his face to the porthole. “It's happening, Bruin! Just like I said it would!”

It was perhaps fortunate for Bruin that he was hard of hearing, otherwise the clanging of the bell might well have caused his weary heart to give out. He watched without very much interest as his master climbed into the sphere and closed the door behind him.

When the sphere began to glow and hum, Bruin took it in stride. Having been the Inventor's constant companion for many a long year, he was accustomed to accepting the unusual as usual, the bizarre as mundane. Even the sudden disappearance of his master from within the sphere caused him no concern whatsoever.

The glow and hum disappeared, and the bell ceased its awful clanging. Thankful that he wouldn't be forced to leave the warmth of the fireside any time soon, Bruin closed his eyes and was soon dreaming about chasing rabbits.

 

Lights cascaded around the Inventor. They came in multi-colored streams and spheres that pulsated. He could taste the spectrum and smell it too.

The journey lasted a matter of seconds. He knew it was over when the lights disappeared and his interdimensional engine shut itself off.

Had it worked?

“Of course it has!” he hissed at himself, annoyed by his momentary lack of faith in his own abilities. Every part of the machine had been thoroughly tested. He’d gone over the equations a hundred times. Nothing had been left to chance.

He peered out of the porthole and had the fright of his life when he found his own face staring back at him. His fear quickly turned to elation as he realized the significance of the sight. “I was right! There are many mes scattered throughout the universe! Perhaps even an infinitude. Oh think how it would be if myself and my alter egos could communicate en masse! Think of the good we could do; the problems we'd solve.”

His doppelgänger seemed to have been struck by much the same idea, for he returned the Inventor’s look of delight with one of his own before stepping to one side, thus affording the Inventor a view of a living room much like the one he'd just left.

The furniture was identical to his own and laid out in the same meticulous pattern. He was delighted to see an exact duplicate of his gas fire blazing away.

If ever there was an indisputable case of great minds thinking alike, he told himself, this is it!

Giddy with excitement, he opened the door of the copper sphere and stepped out into a universe not his own. The Doppelgänger greeted him with a laugh and a hug that was fondly returned.

“We did it!” cried the pair. “The greatest scientific breakthrough ever!”

They laughed at the synchronicity of their remarks. It occurred to the Inventor – as it must have to his double – that they were more identical than even the most identical of twins in either of their universes.

“Come,” said the Doppelgänger, “let us swap notes. You must tell me of your world, for I have no doubt it differs to my own in many crucial aspects.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Inventor. “It is my–our–contention that each world differs from those adjacent to it by a small but significant degree.”

“And that the further apart the worlds,” the Doppelgänger cut in, “the greater the difference.”

“Exactly what I was going to say!”

“I know, dear boy. I know.”

 

Two great scientists sat by the gas fire sipping a most agreeable sherry.

“I have no truck with spiritualists and mediums,” said the Doppelgänger after a few minutes of fevered chat that none but they would have much understood, “but I would not rule out some kind of psychic connection between the two of us. How else would one explain us building the two machines necessary to make travel between our worlds possible?”

The Doppelgänger was referring to the fact that though it might be supposed that the Inventor’s Interdimensional Machine had effected a jump between two adjacent worlds, no such thing had occurred. It was only the Inventor who had been thus transported. He had left in his own machine and arrived in its exact double in a parallel universe.

In effect, his machine had acted as a transmitter which would have been useless without the Doppelgänger version of the machine to receive him.

The bell which had summoned him to what he called Earth II had been set off by a signal from the Doppelgänger to announce that all was in readiness for the Inventor to journey between worlds.

“We need not resort to the supernatural to explain the phenomenon,” said the Inventor, wondering at his other self's folly. “If there are an infinite number of us scattered throughout the universe, then it is inevitable that one would do as you have done and build a machine complimentary to my own in the knowledge that another such machine must exist in the multiverse. In fact, there might well be an infinite number of us doing so.”

“Dear Lord!” The Doppelgänger slapped his forehead and laughed good-naturedly at his faux pas. “You are right, of course. Why ever did that thought not occur to me?”

“Because amongst the infinite wes who have built an interdimensional machine, it is a mathematical certainty that an infinite number of us will think and act as you do.”

“All those infinite infinities within an infinity of infinities. It fair boggles the mind.”

The two scientists talked like old friends catching up on one another. They said relatively little about their respective machines as they both knew as much as the other on that subject.

“Do you by any chance have a prominent physicist by the name of Moriarty in your world?” the Doppelgänger enquired.

“I don’t believe so. The only Moriarty that comes to mind is a fictitious villain.”

“So you have no General Theory of Relativity?”

“Certain of our more eminent scientists are working towards one, but I would say they are some years away from succeeding. Perhaps if I lent them a hand...” The Inventor gave an apologetic shrug. “Alas, I already have more irons in the fire than I can comfortably deal with.”

The Doppelgänger picked up the sherry with the laudable aim of recharging two glasses recently drained. He saw at once that it was empty. “No matter, dear boy. I shall have Bruin fetch some more.”

At the mention of his beloved dog’s name, the Inventor’s heart skipped a beat. He was thrilled to discover that his was not the only Bruin in creation, that in fact there were an infinite number of Bruins, giving love and comfort to reclusive old men like himself who might otherwise suffer the trials of loneliness.

And how wonderful was it that the Bruin of Earth II had been trained to fetch and carry!

The Doppelgänger put down the decanter and replaced it with a hand bell which he rang briefly but vigorously. Moments later, footsteps could be heard in the hallway and the Inventor braced himself to greet the interdimensional double of his loyal companion.

An African dressed in a hotel page boy style uniform entered. “Master?”

“Bruin,” said the Doppelgänger, “fetch the bottle of Amontillado I put aside for a special occasion. And see if you can find a copy of today's Times. I'm sure my guest will find it most edifying.”

The African looked first at the Doppelgänger and then at the Inventor. And then back to the Doppelgänger. His face was a study in bewilderment.

The Doppelgänger lost his patience. “Go, damn you! And mind your own ruddy business.”

The African hurried away.

“That's your Bruin?” asked the Inventor after a few moments of shocked silence. “A human?”

“Well, I'd hardly call him human. Scarcely more than a domesticated ape, really.” The Doppelgänger sensed his guest was disconcerted. “Is your slave called something other than Bruin?”

“Slave?” The Inventor could scarce believe his ears. “There are no slaves in my world.”

The Doppelgänger frowned. “How then does the British Empire function?”

The Inventor explained about the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833 which had done away with slavery in the British Empire and forced other parts of the world to follow suit. He was onto the topic of the American Civil War and the ensuing emancipation in the States when Bruin returned bearing a bottle of Amontillado sherry and a newspaper.

The slave placed the broadsheet on the small table beside the Inventor's chair then began to decant the sherry.

“Are you telling me,” said the Doppelgänger, “that despite having the might of the British Empire behind it, the Confederacy was vanquished?”

“Well, that's just it. The Empire stayed out of the conflict.”

“You know, the more I hear about your version of Earth, the more amazed and intrigued I become.”

Having filled the decanter, Bruin was dismissed and told he might retire for the night.

“Thank you, boss,” said the African, bowing deferentially and backing out of the room. “Goodnight, gentlemen. May God bless you both.”

The Inventor found the display of obsequiousness nauseating. There was no doubt in his mind that all men and women are created equal and should be treated as such. The very thought of slavery was abhorrent to him.

But I must watch my manners, he reminded himself. This is not my world nor even my house. It would be remiss of me to deliver a moral homily to my host no matter how strongly I feel about the matter.

Deciding it would be prudent to change the subject, he said, “Would you mind if I perused the newspaper?”

“Not at all. I have one or two things to catch up with in my study. Shall I leave you in peace for – shall we say an hour?”

“That will be splendid.”

Left alone, the Inventor gave his full attention to the Times of London which he held to be as good a window on the world as there could be. The date was 5th August 1888.

ANOTHER BRUTAL MURDER OF A WOMAN IN EAST LONDON proclaimed the headline. The Inventor read on:

 

On Saturday morning at a quarter past six the neighbourhood of Whitechapel was horrified to a degree bordering on panic by the discovery of another barbarous murder of a woman, the site of the crime being 9, Grey Eagle Street, Spitalfields. The murdered woman has been identified as Celia Woodruff, who recently opened a laundry service in nearby Lamb Street.

Police have yet to confirm that this horrid crime was the work of the elusive murderer known as Jack the Ripper, but no one can deny it bears all the hallmarks of his work.

 

It seemed an uncharacteristically sensationalist story for the Times to be leading with, in the Inventor’s view. More the style of Illustrated Police News or one of the other publications that strove to appeal to the lower classes.

Jack the Ripper indeed! It comforted him to realize the Times in his world would never stoop so low.

He turned the page and found himself looking at an illustration of the Queen standing outside a building he recognized as Newgate Gaol. The accompanying headline read, LAST JEW IN ENGLAND EXECUTED.

 

Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Victoria, last night attended the execution of Ephraim Silverstein, the last of those of Jewish extraction who chose to defy the 1185 Racial Purity Act and not emigrate while he had the chance to do so. As the one-time usurer dangled at the end of the rope, so began a new era wherein it can truly be said that England is for the English.

Upon reading those words, such a rage came upon the Inventor that it was all he could do to stop himself taking out his anger on the first inanimate object that came to hand. Had he been in his own world, in his own living room, he would have had no such qualms.

Disgusted, he put aside the Times and helped himself to a glass of sherry. The Amontillado proved to be of exceptional quality, and after downing a glassful with indecent haste, he helped himself to another.

What kind of a world is this? he wondered, closing his eyes for he now felt quite drowsy. Slavery in the British Empire? The Times resorting to the antics of the gutter press? A pogrom against the Jews in this day and age?

He uttered the word evil before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

“Wake up, you unutterable filth. Wake up I say!”

With a rough shake of his shoulders, the Inventor was brought out of his sleep to find a thuggish face inches from his own. It was a face that might have been carved out of granite and reeked of cheap aftershave.

“Oh good,” said the face. “You're not dead.”

For a moment, the Inventor had trouble making sense of his situation. Then it came back to him that he had crossed into another world and was no longer in his own living room as he had at first thought. Although he was outraged at being manhandled and barked at, he found he didn't have the strength to protest as vociferously as he wished.

Drugged, he realized, recognizing the symptoms. The Amontillado...

Though his eyes were able to focus no farther than the face, he was able to make out two figures standing by the door.

“What is going on?” he slurred, speaking as if drunk. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I'm the man who's going to send you to the gallows.” The face grinned, revealing teeth mottled with decay and tobacco stains. “Detective Inspector Monroe of Her Britannic Majesty's Secret Police at your service.”

The mention of secret police hit the Inventor like a bucket of cold water, causing his eyes and mind to clear. He saw that the men at the door were constables dressed in uniforms more fitting to Bavaria than London. They looked every bit as murderous as their chief.

Detective Inspector Monroe sat in the chair recently vacated by the Doppelgänger. “So what made you confess? And don't tell me your conscience was bothering you. I'm not stupid, you know.”

“Confess? I'm afraid I'm at a loss to know what you mean.”

“In my experience,” said the policeman, “serial killers always harbor a desire to be caught. They want the notoriety. They want the world to know what they've been up to. It's part of their sickness.”

“Look here, Inspector! I don't know where you got the insane idea that I'm a serial killer but I assure you I am not. And if you say any such thing in public, I will sue you for every penny you've got.”

Monroe held up a sheet of paper. “Is this your writing?”

“Yes and no.”

“Either it is or it isn't.”

The Inventor was at a loss to know what to say. How could he explain to Monroe that the note he was holding had been written by his double? Realizing there'd be no point trying, he remained silent.

“There's no use you denying that you're Jack the Ripper,” Monroe said. “First we have the phone call you made to Scotland Yard, the transcription of which will be produced in court in due time. And second, there's this, your handwritten confession found on the table in front of you while you slept. It lists all your crimes – including two of which we had no prior knowledge – along with certain details you could not have known were you not the perpetrator.”

“Inspector, I swear to you I did not write that note.”

“Swear all you like, matey. We have handwriting experts a-plenty who will put the lie to your denial. There's no two ways about it. You are Jack the Ripper, and I – Detective Inspector Nelson Monroe – am the man who caught the Ripper. You and I will soon both be famous. The crucial difference is that I will live to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

With a litheness that belied his years, the Inventor leapt to his feet and made a lurch towards the door. The three policemen moved swiftly and would have intersected him were his move not a feint. As they converged upon the spot they expected him to be, he turned and ran for the interdimensional machine. The door was open. All he had to do was throw himself into the sphere and close the door behind him, then he could start up the machine at his leisure.

As he reached the door, his hopes were dashed in an instant. Sooty marks on the control console spoke of a fire, no doubt caused by an overload. His only means of escape was denied to him.

Accepting his doom, he stood placidly as Detective Inspector Monroe marched up to him and knocked him cold with a brutal punch.

 

The Doppelgänger had never enjoyed the Times so much in all his life. Story after story spoke of good deeds being committed, of heroic actions and people aspiring to greatness. There was no slavery, no Spanish Inquisition and very little in the way of genocide. Everything he read told him he was living in a world where goodness and kindness were cherished and governments were so liberal it was a wonder they hung on to power.

Sitting in a comfortable chair, bathed in the warmth of a gas fire, he was more at peace with himself than he had been for a long time. He unconsciously placed his hand to his neck as if to feel for the noose that would soon be tightening around it had he stayed in his own world. Monroe of the Yard had been getting altogether too close for comfort and was perhaps no more than a few days away from cracking the case.

Now he was safe, far beyond the reach of the Secret Police. The beauty of it was that he had so arranged things as to ensure that Monroe got his man. It was of course the wrong man but no one would ever know.

“This is a fresh start for me, Bruin,” he announced, carelessly tossing the Times aside. He poured himself another glass of Amontillado. The sherry was the exact same brand and vintage as the one he'd left for the Inventor to drink. Only it hadn't been doped. “Tomorrow I shall begin the business of slaughtering anew, bringing terror to this world's London such as it has never known.

“Soon I'll have every flatfoot in the city searching in vain for Jack the Ripper. I'll be as famous in this world as I was in my own. What do you say to that, Bruin, you flea-bitten mutt?”

Bruin had nothing to say to that or anything. He lay beside his master's chair, fast asleep and chasing rabbits in his dreams.