The Empty Door Read online

Markman returned from calling the university to find the lab deserted. Already in a bad mood from the unprofessional exchange with the chancellor, he now found himself absent the only person who could validate the strange story of the Cassell case. He had described the situation to the people in the director’s office as best he could, and had they not been using the conference caller, probably would have been much more successful at it. Periodic comments from the background, such as the suggestion he not forget to check the robot’s alibi, punctuated with howling laughter, had disrupted the verbal report to the point it had been beyond salvage. The Professor’s history of eccentricity clearly had harmed his credibility with some groups.

  And, contrary to Cassiopia’s fears, there was little chance of any involvement by the police, at least for the time being. News of the murders of an elderly antique collector and a homeless street dweller in a back alley, combined with the strange death of one Beauford Smith, whose house had subsequently burned to the ground, meant the resources of the local police agency were needed elsewhere. As for the university staff, Markman had just learned there had been some sort of disturbance on campus, as well. The school’s attention and resources had shifted away from Dr. Cassell for the time being.

  And now there was no sign of Ms. Cassell. She could not have left the house. He had made a point to watch from the kitchen while making the calls. She had given her word not to leave and he had believed her. Her deception was an unpleasant surprise since his instincts about people were nearly always correct.

  The strange, unexplained mirror loomed before him, still on, humming steadily, dominating the room around it. The robot had not moved from its position by the Drack control station. It stood facing the side of the mirror, waiting.

  He cursed under his breath as he quickly realized the most likely prospect was that the dizzy woman had recklessly gone through the electronic mirror in search of her father. Markman’s lack of familiarity with computers now left him feeling helpless and inadequate. Few things frightened him. The unknown never did. But he had been raised in a foreign land where technology was considered magic, and machines were sometimes the work of demons.

  He looked at the silent mechanical servant that continued to ignore him. “Robot, where is Ms. Cassell?”

  To his surprise, the machine answered. “There is a message for you, Mr. Markman, from Cassiopia Cassell,” it said coarsely. “Her instructions are for you to wait here until she returns.”

  “Where is she?”

  The robot made no attempt to answer. It stood by, as though it were alone, waiting as instructed.

  “Robot, where did she go?”

  No response.

  Well that’s just great, he thought, still eyeing the metallic statue with distrust. You draw the most preposterous case possible, get laughed at during your first call-in, and lose the only witness you have—all in a matter of a single hour. On top of that, she leaves a message for you to wait, as though you’re stupid enough to sit around here and do what you’re told. You’re losing your touch, Scott, old buddy. Brother, some people will ruin your day, if you let them. I should have taken that office job in New York. Or, I ought to just blow this whole thing off and go get a drink.

  Disgusted, he began to wander about the room, carefully appraising the robot with each step in the event it intended to restrict his movement. It stood motionless and silent, its golden visor glowing passively. In the desk by the robot’s base station, there were a few papers with scribbled formulas on them, but nothing that was of any use. He came around from behind the ominous, electric monolith and approached the robot with great care. It continued to ignore him.

  Satisfied that its programming didn’t include manslaughter, he dared to touch the cool reflective metal on one arm. The robot offered no resistance. He studied the complex cable driven arms and hands and realized with a rush of apprehension that this creature undoubtedly possessed superhuman strength. He was standing beside a machine which thought for itself and could crush him in an instant without feeling any need to explain. He stepped back and again considered his judgment of the Cassell woman. How bad had it been?

  He tapped nervously at his right thigh, his patience wearing thin. Finally, in exasperation, he marched up the mirror’s ramp and stood in front of his own lifelike image. It was bad enough to lose someone from under your nose, but that would be nothing compared to trying to explain how she had gotten away through a six-inch-thick door that went nowhere. Lightly he poked at a section of the mirror’s outer frame to be sure it was not electrified and then used it to brace himself. Boldly he probed the liquid-silver surface with his free hand, finally pushing all the way through to the wrist, and then quickly pulling back out again.

  His curiosity became almost unbearable. The electronic magic trick in front of him was much more interesting than it was frightening. He cursed to himself and decided he could stand it no longer. With a deep breath, he recklessly stuck his head through the plane of the mirror.

  Inside, there was nothing—almost. A similar mirrored-door stood about three feet away, parallel to the first. But other than these two man-made objects, there was only emptiness: no ceiling, no floor—just a nothing that seemed to go on forever. A strange sort of ambient light with a golden tint to it was present, but no source apparent to produce it. Markman searched in every direction and found only vast emptiness. He considered stepping across the short gap to the other door but hesitated when he looked down. The empty space below appeared bottomless—like a nightmarish freefall. It left him with the overwhelming feeling that he was standing on the edge of infinity.

  Bewildered, he pulled back out and gasped for breath. His mind searched for some reassuring explanation for what he had just seen. He marched restively down the blue cushioned ramp and began to pace back and forth before the glistening monolith.

  Just great, he thought, the woman’s father most likely went through there, and he’s been missing for days. Now she’s charged in after him and she thinks I’m going to wait around here or try to go find help or something. Man, people will run right over you if you let them. Why do I get the weirdo’s?

  Markman continued his relentless pacing, muttering to himself about wasting time, and frequently glancing at the liquid doorway. He was forced to admit that it wasn’t only his displeasure with the Cassell woman that was bothering him. There was something else. He wanted badly to see what lay beyond the second door. Finally, annoyance and intrigue overcame him. He stopped, cursed once more, and marched deliberately back up to the mirror. From the shoulder holster hidden beneath his sports coat, he drew his handgun, and boldly pushed his body through the silver wall. Tensed and ready, he stepped across the void to the base of the inner door, grabbing onto one of its uprights for leverage. So intent on being prepared for any dangers that might lie beyond, he stumbled while passing through, and practically fell out the other side. Suddenly there was noise and confusion everywhere. He quickly regained his balance, then crouched and pivoted, his black Berretta outstretched and poised to fire.

  It was a busy downtown street. A pale yellow sun was high in the hazy sky. It was hot. People were everywhere, and some of them had stopped to gawk at the weird man in the middle of traffic waving a gun. It was a city of glass, gray office buildings, and sidewalk cafes. A hot dog vendor had ceased pushing his cart to stare. A chartered bus was unloading passengers. Pedestrians in the immediate vicinity began to hurriedly put distance between themselves and the crazy man standing in the street. A uniformed traffic cop who had been directing cars at an intersection had paused and was staring menacingly.

  Markman’s face reddened with embarrassment. “Sorry, it’s okay,” he yelled as he quickly tucked the gun back in its holster and tried to wave off the moment. With that, the disturbed pedestrians continued on their way, some shaking their heads in disapproval, others gesturing in disgust. A passing car honked at him several times as he made his way to the crowded sidewalk. The street cop continued to stare but r
esumed his orchestration of impatient motorists.

  Out of the way at last, a new concern caused Markman to turn and search in the direction from which he had come. An old-fashioned movie theater was set back from the sidewalk across the street. In a large, poster-covered ticket booth, a fair-haired high school girl was reading a magazine. Next to it, mounted on a red brick wall, was a sight that allowed him to breathe again. Superimposed on a tall, glass display case, was the outline of Dr. Cassell’s mirror-door. The way back seemed to be still available.

  He worked his way to a spot near a storefront, and with a tentative calm studied the city around him. The overcast sky added to the gray hue that accented everything. Shops and office buildings bordered the busy one-way street in both directions for as far as he could see. Steam jets rose from gratings near the curbs. In the distance, a manhole had been cordoned off, and men were working around it. The air was filled with street vendor smells of sausage and hot dogs. A constant grinding drone from car engines, jackhammers, and people talking came from all around.

  Markman searched the skyline for clues to exactly what city this was. It looked like a section of New York, but no tall, easily recognizable skyscrapers were nearby to confirm that. Cassiopia was, of course, nowhere in sight. He scanned the sidewalk for someone to talk to and quickly decided the police officer would be his best bet. At least he could find out what place this was.

  The patrolman directing traffic had begun stopping cars, getting ready to allow pedestrians to continue on their way. Markman worked his way to the intersection and joined the waiting crowd just as they were given the hand wave to cross. He approached the preoccupied officer, squinting in a vain effort to read the markings on his black uniform. “Officer, excuse me can you help me out a moment, I’m....”

  “Keep moving please, don’t stand around in the middle of the street, keep moving....”

  “Officer, I need some help here. I know this sounds pretty stupid, but could you just tell me what city this is?”

  “What are you, some kind of nut? You want a free ride downtown? Now get moving!”

  “Look, I know it sounds ridiculous, but where exactly am I?”

  The traffic cop blew his whistle loudly and held the pedestrians to the curb. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, mister. Get the hell out of the street—now!”

  Traffic was waiting. Disgusted, Markman hurried back to the sidewalk. An orange street sign overhead marked the intersection of Day Boulevard and Meard Street. Halfway down Meard Street, a battered wooden sign waved in the gusting wind: “Guy’s Lounge.” Markman pushed his way into the flow of pedestrian traffic and headed for it.

  The place was in a rustic, multistory brick building that provided an intricately decorated entrance: a tangle of snake-like forms that gave way to a small, opaque, eye level window. It took most of his weight to swing the heavy door open. Inside, his eyes required a minute to adjust to the dim light. The interior was much nicer than he had expected. It was larger than it looked from the outside, and was well patronized. Shadowy figures sat at tables placed neatly around a small, empty stage in the rear. Colored spots drew small, intersecting circles on the unswept floor. An oak bar ran the length of the room on the right. Several men were sitting at various points along it, quietly drinking and smoking. Markman pulled up a stool near the end as an elderly bartender approached, wiping a glass with a clean white towel. His hair was a short, wiry gray and he was smiling.

  “And what kin ah do for ya? Ya lost or something?” he asked.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Ha, ha, goes with the territory. What’ll it be?”

  “I need to ask you something.” Markman hesitated. “What city is this?”

  “Man, every time ya think ya heard it most all! Ya means I got a customer who don’t know where he’s at?”

  “Yeah, I know that sounds crazy, but take my word for it, it’s a long story. How about just humoring me?”

  “You in the Bronx, mister. Now that ya knows that, ya better have one on me. Ah mean findin’ somethin’ like that out, be a shock to any soul.”

  The bartender placed the newly cleaned glass on the bar and filled it. “Ya got any other tough questions, friend?”

  Markman gazed out over the darkened lounge and suddenly realized it had been evening when he arrived at the Cassells. He looked back at the front entrance, at the rays of sunlight beaming through the little spotter window. He stared down at his digital watch. It read eleven thirty, P.M.

  “What the...! Hey, what time have you got?”

  “Hoo...oo...ly, ya mean ah got myself a customer, don’t know where he’s at, nor what time it is? Tell ya friend, when the sun be up in the middle of that sky, that usually ‘bout noon.”

  Markman choked up a laugh with the old man. He shook his head in exasperation and gazed with confusion into his drink.

  “You’s gonna drink that drink or’s not?”

  Feeling obligated, Markman downed the whiskey. Something about it did not taste right. It was like a poor imitation, watery and oily. Poorly mixed.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a pretty girl with long ivory blonde hair in the past half hour, have you, bartender?”

  “Can’t say I has, can’t say I has.” The old man smiled and headed toward someone that had waved to him at the other end of the bar.

  Markman looked again at the sunlight beaming through the tiny window in the front door. How could it be daylight in New York at eleven thirty P.M..? Was this some kind of bad dream? He threw some money on the counter and decided it was time to be getting back.

  Chapter 7