A girl sat idly toying with the plastic cup of warm drink in front of her, with which she was having a problem.
It wasn’t just that it was unpleasant, which it was, or that it was totally synthetic, which it was, and, indeed, if it had been sold on Earth, which it wasn’t, the list of E-numbers on the packaging would probably take longer to read than the myriad of supplements that come with Sunday newspapers these days, it was the feeling she had that nothing she could eat or drink could fill the void space she felt in her stomach and that anything that tried might just rattle around inside making her feel even worse.
She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the accident. The terrible event that had separated her from Arthur and left her alone in a strange, new world.
One minute he had been sitting there next to him in the SlumpJet; the next minute the ship had done a perfectly normal hyperspace hop and when she had next looked he was not there. The seat wasn't even warm. His name wasn't even on the passenger list.
The strange person from the space line had been less than sympathetic. She had thrust the flight ticket in her face and pointed out the clause that read, “Entities whose life spans originate in any of the Plural zones are advised not to travel in hyperspace and do so at their own risk”.
Fenchurch had never even read the ticket. She had only just begun to understand the odd collection of scratchings that most life forms in this sector of the galaxy used. Even though it called itself “Easi-Read”, it still looked to her rather like a cat had walked across the paper or those strange hieroglyphics that are found in Egyptian tombs on Earth.
Although Arthur and she had travelled in space for several months before the accident, she had relied on Arthur to do everything. Every ship they hitched on, every planet they visited had been down to him. Well, him and that electronic book, the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Fenchurch had left the space line office and wandered out into the spaceport. She had never felt so totally, completely and utterly, alone.
Even when she was back on what she now knew to be a substitute earth. She had felt isolated then but not to this extent. At least there the surroundings and the people were familiar, the laws of physics were the way she understood them.
If only they had stayed on that Earth.
If only she hadn’t followed her longing to find the answer to the message she had lost. If only…
A voice interrupted her lonely reminiscence.
“You seem to be beset by the Gods of the Low Places?” it said.
She turned around and was surprised to find a small, pale-green-skinned old man beside her.
“Pardon?” she replied, confused as much by his quiet, wraith-like voice as his manner of speech. She poked at the Babel fish in her ear to check it was still there.
“I’m sorry, I still sometimes forget I have left the monastery and that those in the world outside have difficulty with our rather flowery use of language”. His voice was now firmer but still kindly. “You seem to have something troubling you?”
Fenchurch had a sudden feeling of deja-vu. In her mind she went back to a time when, while she was waiting at Heathrow Terminal One baggage retrieval, she had been cornered by one of those strange shaven-headed people who want to try to change your life when, in fact, all you want is for your suitcase to appear rather than be on it’s way to Bangkok.
Come to think of it, the entire surroundings of the spaceport bore a startling resemblance to many airports she had been to.
The same inexplicable layouts, the same stark exposed beams, the same signs hanging from above. The same pale, stunned faces with their eyes boggling at the signs trying to determine which to follow.
The only major differences were that many of the faces were pale blue, green or purple and that the boggling eyes ranged in number from one to a dozen and some weren’t even on the faces.
She was about to ask the man to leave her alone when she felt a wave of calm, which seemed to be emanating from him. She looked at him more closely and his old face seemed to resemble her father, or rather her grandfather, or was it her old music teacher…
In fact, despite the green skin, it seemed he looked like all the people she had ever met who she felt she could trust. There was even a hint of Arthur.
She invited him to sit down and he began to talk.
He explained that he was an ex-Pralite Monk, one of many who devote their lives to helping the needy in spaceports and other similar areas rather than spend their lives shut in a small metal box, which is the only option if they stay to complete their training.
The techniques in which Pralite Monks are trained in make them particularly good at this sort work as they develop a method of mind control that allows them to re-assure and pacify the most stressed traveller.
Morthern, for this was his name, explained this to Fenchurch. She felt a little uneasy, now aware that she had been made to do something against her own better instincts.
“Do not be concerned,” he said, “the same great powers that allow us to do this also give us great pain if we try to abuse it.”
Fenchurch relaxed, a little.
“Would you like another drink?” the old man said, pointing to her cup.
Fenchurch was surprised to notice she had consumed all of the strange liquid in the plastic cup while they had been talking. She was also surprised to be feeling no ill effects.
“Yes, please” she said.
They walked across to a vending machine and Morthern put some coins in a slot. He pressed a button.
Some small antennae popped out of the machine and started to circle his face, scanning it with lights as they did.
When they had finished, a small hatch opened and a steaming cup of yellow-green liquid appeared.
A squeaky, synthesised voice chimed out “Share and Enjoy.”
“Your turn”, said Morthern, passing her some coins.
Fenchurch had remembered Arthur talking about Nutrimatic machines and had earlier identified this as something similar. It called itself a NutriVendamatic.
She had found, as he had said, that it had gone through its elaborate little process and, despite having introduced some interesting tastes to her during its analysis, produced a cup of something that tasted almost, but not entirely, unlike tea.
She repeated the same exercise now and got an identical cup of liquid.
They returned to their seats. “Have some of this”, said Morthern, passing a lump of hard, grey, biscuit-like material.
Fenchurch tasted it cautiously. She was very surprised to find it was delicious.
“Good, isn’t it?” Morthern smiled, “The elders of the Pralite monasteries like to tell people we live on water and dried biscuit but it is actually made from some very exotic but wholesome foods.”
“Now”, his face adopted a serious look, ”tell me what is disturbing you.”
Fenchurch thought for a moment, still unsure of this odd old man. She bit her lip and tipped her head forward so her hair partially covered her face. Soon she found she could no longer hold back the tears and then it came, at first hesitantly, then all gushing out in a torrent.
She told him of the incident in the Café in Rickmansworth, the months in and out of psychiatric hospitals, the feeling of not belonging on the Earth.
She recounted the first meeting with Arthur when she was hitching to Taunton then the despair when he didn’t phone. The elation when he did appear, the wild freedom of flying around London (she left out some of the more intimate stuff!), the meeting with Wonko the Sane and the realisation that the Earth had been swapped for a new one.
Then the journey to the stars to find God’s Final Message and, finally, the inexplicable loss of Arthur during the hyperspace jump.
Morthern just sat and listened, nodding quietly and only spoke to say, “Don’t tell me the Message” at the appropriate time, “I have promised myself I will see it before I die.”
When she had finished, he sat quietly for a while.
“I think” he said eventually, “You have had what the experts call a parallel universe shift sensation”.
“A what?” replied Fenchurch, thinking he had started speaking in tongues again.
“A PUSS is where a body travelling along quite happily in one life suddenly jumps to a different, parallel one. I think you have had one or, it is equally possible, your Arthur has had one. Or both.”
“The problem with parallel universes is that they are not, strictly speaking, parallel and, in truth, weave in and out of each other like threads in the weave of a cloth. Or, rather, a badly woven cloth as there is no real pattern to the weave.
“The plural zones, where your planet Earth is, exist at a point in the weave where threads are more twisted than most.
“Other beings generally only change threads when they make a decision in their lives and, once changed to a new thread, cannot go back. Beings from the plural zones, however, can often switch threads without even realising it. It can be caused by a major event such as an explosion or something as simple as sneezing or turning your head a minute amount. There are those who think it to be much more likely to occur when travelling at very high speeds through space, time or, I am told, probability”.
“So how can I get back to my own thread?” Fenchurch was now looking very confused.
“I don’t know that you can”, replied Morthern but seeing her face drop even further, added, “I have heard some people attempt to do it by travelling a lot in hyperspace, snorting pepper or constantly ticking their heads from side to side! Mind you, the last is much more likely to get you locked up in the Sirian State Mental Hospital.”
Fenchurch‘s face lifted in a light smile. “That sounds crazy enough that it might work!”
“Seriously, though,” continued the monk, “There are rumours of people who have done just that, deliberately induced a shift by constant travelling.
“ Not sure about the pepper, though.”
“It seems the only hope I’ve got,” said Fenchurch, a sudden determination taking hold of her, “I’ve got to try.”
“But,” she added, suddenly getting a tiny inkling of what an insane idea it was, “how will I know when it is the right thread?”
“I don’t know how,” replied Morthern, “but I have a feeling you will.”
“You know, I think you’re right,” She didn’t know if it was Morthern’s influence or just that incredible uplift that a moment of insanity sometimes gives but she now felt very positive.
“In that case, I think we’d better get you a few essentials to help you on your way”. Morthern picked up his belongings.
“What have you got in there?” he indicated the backpack Fenchurch had lying on the floor beside her.
Fenchurch was rather taken aback, thinking that, on Earth, men never asked what a lady kept in her bag. Then she remembered they weren’t on Earth and she had a whole new set of rules and protocol to learn for every planet she visited. She shrugged and replied “Some clothes, a few personal bits, a book or two… Oh, and a towel.”
“Excellent, that’s a good start. Any money or anything we can trade with?”
“A few Altarian dollars and these cufflinks” She showed him the pair she’d bought for Russell.
“Excellent, these are good quality, should keep Sorga interested.” He winked and in his old face there now seemed more of the look of a mischievous elf than the serious cleric he had been before.
He turned and started walking, beckoning her to follow.