Ellen Under The Stairs (8 page)

"Worked a couple of
half-days."

"Amazing." John was certain the
detective had intended to hold him up for as much money as
possible. But only one day?

"I'll get you a check," John going to
the sideboard to do that, the detective taking the money and
limping out the door without another word.

John guessed that for only two
hundred, he wasn't owed a written report. Or an oral one
either.

The front door shut, John returned to
the living room, half expecting to find that Platinia had exited by
way of the back door. She was still there, though, a little girl
playing "dress-up."

"Platinia," John said, the girl
lowering her head, refusing to look at him, "why did you run
away?"

"Got lost." An outrageous
lie.

"How could you have done
that?"

Platinia continued to look down. Had
nothing to say.

Reconsidering, John decided that if he
wished to keep Platinia from getting "lost" again, he'd better not
press her for details. She had to have had a rough time out
there.

"I think I can take you home,
now."

The diminutive girl looked up at him,
mascara darkened eyes wide. "Home?"

"To Stil-de-grain."

At that, tears ran down her
cheeks.

"Not tonight, but tomorrow night after
you've gotten a full day's rest."

* * * * *

That was yesterday, Platinia sleeping
the night and most of the day, the girl still upstairs as the
winter's first storm chased a pale moon from a thickening
sky.

Time to take Platinia home to a
considerably warmer Stil-de-grain.

Lost in thought, the doorbell stunned
him! Who ...?

Stepping to the door, he opened it to
peer into what was now the windy blackness of a cloud-covered
night.

"May I come in?"

Who? .... Ellen!

"Sure."

John stepping aside, Ellen Hamilton,
bundled in a professor's wife's plain cloth coat, came
in.

Waiting for Paul to follow, John stood
there with the door open, the air cold and wet, smelling of
decomposing leaves. ... Until John realized there was no Paul. That
Ellen was alone.

Puzzled, John shut the door, the warm
hall air already sucked into the night.

By this time, Ellen had unbuttoned her
coat. Had stuffed her large, red wool scarf in her slash
pocket.

John helped her off with her coat.
Draped the blue coat over the hall banister.

Something was wrong, John not eager to
find out what.

Ellen ... didn't look ... right. Her
face was flushed, for one thing. For another, John had never seen
her looking so sober.

"Come into the living room," he said,
taking her arm, then dropping it, Ellen here without Paul. (It felt
even worse that John didn't mind Paul's absence.)

In the living room, Paul's wife sat on
the end of the divan, John pulling up a chair to sit across from
her.

Even in the subdued room's shadowy
light, Ellen looked feverish.

"It's Paul's health," Ellen said, no
"happy talk" attempted before stabbing into the painful purpose of
her visit.

"Paul? You don't look well,
yourself."

"I know. I'm not. It's this fever. I
can't seem to shake it. I'm running a couple of degrees all the
time."

"And the doctors don't know what's
wrong?"

She shook her elegant head. "Something
about my blood. It doesn't ... look right ... under the microscope.
But no one seems to know why or what to do about it."

"I'm so sorry." And he was. For both
Ellen and Paul.

"It's not so much that I can't seem to
get well, as the way Paul is taking it."

"He hasn't been looking that great,"
John agreed.

"It's worse than that. He's not
eating. Losing weight. He's not sleeping. I hear him in the night.
He tries to be quiet, but he's such a big man he shakes the floor
when he paces. This evening, I gave him something to knock him out.
But I did that last night, too, and he only slept for an hour or
so."

"He's worried because you're not
completely well?"

She nodded. Then shook her head in
confusion. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Involving
you."

"No trouble at all."

She looked at John, her face serious.
"Paul told me what you suggested. That if you took me to this other
world where there's no disease, I might get well."

With Paul as opposed as he was to
Bandworld trips, John was surprised he'd mentioned it. Another sign
of the chairman's worry.

Perched there, Ellen was as
breathtaking as John had seen her. Eyes an intense blue. Gold hair
sleek. Now that she'd had the baby, stunning in a long black dress.
A Grecian look about her, dress like a flowing robe ....

"There's a history of heart disease in
Paul's family. Blocked coronaries. I'm scared, John. Not long
before his father's fatal heart attack, Paul's father looked just
the way Paul does now. Same shortness of breath. If something isn't
done ....

And John had made up his
mind.

* * * * *

John was disorientated. Not so much
dizzy as disassociated from reality.

But feeling better than the first
time, nothing as bad as the first time.

Platinia had apparently suffered
little from the trip, her small, dark, enigmatic self standing to
John's right.

Ellen was catatonic. Would be that way
for awhile since this was her first journey to Never-Never
Land.

He had the static electric generator
in hand, the machine feather-light in Stil-de-grain's weak gravity,
John not only less disorientated but better prepared. He had the
right clothing and shoes, for instance, taking both his and
Platinia's robes to the Laundromat earlier in the week.

He had money -- what passed for money
in the bands of this world: flat, slugs of silver and gold, no
pictures or writing on them. Coins that were still in the pockets
he'd had stitched into his robe before the last transfer, pockets
not yet a part of Bandworld apparel.

The ceiling soared over him,
punctuated by the irregular spot of golden sky lancing through the
section of collapsed roof to light a patch of sodden floor. Good!
The time of day was what the natives called full light -- daytime
-- light-magic the universal translator of tongues.

Somber, stone-block walls circled the
room, wedge shaped indentations in them through which arrow slits
had been cut to the open air, crosses that allowed the castle's
archers a vertical and horizontal field of fire.

While the beginning of the passage to
this "other reality" started in the narrow space beneath John's
stairs -- and a cramped space it was, packed with three people and
a Van de Graaff generator! -- this was the other end: an
age-darkened, corner turret soaring above the walls of Hero
Castle.

John found himself shivering, his robe
warm enough for the moderate climate of Stil-de-grain, but
inadequate in the chill of this stony room.

Letting Ellen recover at her own pace,
John turned to Platinia. "Scout ahead. Carefully. I want to know if
there are soldiers in the castle and from what Band. See if you can
find out if Pfnaravin is still here and if he's planned any nasty
surprises for my return." The girl nodded. "We also need something
local for Ellen to wear. Robe. Shoes. Can you get those items?" She
nodded again. "Come back as soon as you can."

And she was off, padding over the
slippery floor to disappear down the tunnel that was the room's
sole access.

Nothing to do but await Platinia's
return. Belonging in this Band more than John ever would, the girl
knew the crooks and byways of the castle.

Opposite the chamber's arched exit was
the stone table, benches flanking it; also the secret hiding place
in the wall, cap stones disguising it. He'd found that secret vault
on his last trip; knew where to look because of Platinia's
knowledge of the cranny's existence. If no one else had stumbled on
to it, the wall safe should contain the book of magic he'd found in
there. At least Platinia thought it was a magic book, its writing
so "spider fine" as to be undecipherable.

To John's left was the spot where roof
stones had crushed the Band's Mage, John picking up Melcor's
Crystal, making John -- though he didn't know it at the time --
Stil-de-grain's new Crystal-Mage.

Time to hide the Van de
graaff.

Striding to the far wall, feeling
strong because freed from most of the pull of his own world, John
pried back the stones that concealed the hiding palce, the blocks
coming out smoothly, swinging to one side.

With no time to take a second look at
the book, John eased the generator into the hole, then swung the
stone cover back in place. Above all, he must protect the static
electric generator. It was his ticket home.

On his last two trips, he'd traveled
to the inner bands of Malachite and Azare. Had felt heavier, and
heavier still, because going "inward" in this ringed world gave you
more gravitational pull. He'd also been to the band called Realgar,
just to the outside of Stil-de-grain, finding Realgar's gravity
noticeably lighter. He'd not been to Cinnabar, Cinnabar the outer
rim of this "other reality." From the rumors he'd heard about "The
Cinnabar," John wondered if there was so little gravity there he'd
float off the ground. Had no way of knowing, of course, few
claiming to have gone to that mystic place.

Still waiting for Platinia to return
and for Ellen to come out of what could best be called a
trans-world stupor, John had time to reflect on the frantic
half-hour preceding the static electric leap to
Bandworld.

First, there was getting Platinia and
himself dressed in the costumes of Stil-de-grain. Then the decision
to be made about what to take with him.

The first time he'd blundered to the
"other side" he'd brought nothing from his own world except his
clothes and pocket change -- both handicaps in a place that had
never seen the like.

On the second trip, he'd allowed
himself a butane lighter. Just a lighter. And had found that, in a
world of Magically cool fire, real fire was devastating.

Not this time.

After some thought, he'd made the
decision to forgo advanced-world aids, the people of this backward
place with no defense against "scientific magic."

Anyway, the plan was to get in. Get
Platinia settled. Expose Ellen to the curing influence of the
"other reality's" light. And get Ellen out.

There was a sound and the hint of
shadow entering the room. Platinia. Her small face drifting in the
darkness like a white balloon.

As instructed, she had a robe for
Ellen. Shoes.

"See anyone?" John asked, keeping his
voice down in the echoey tower.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Slaveys. Some slaveys."

"The regular household
staff?"

Platinia nodded.

"Did you talk to any of them?" A shake
of her head. "Anyone on this level?"

"No."

"Soldiers? Guards?"

Another head shake.

John breathed easier. He'd hoped this
would be the case, that Pfnaravin had gone back to his home band of
Malachite.

There was another sound in the room.
Ellen. Drawing a deep breath. She was "coming out of
it."

"Ellen," John said gently, stepping to
her side, taking her hand.

No response, blue eyes showing fear,
pupil's wide, her other hand over her mouth to contain her
terror.

Not wanting to frighten her further,
John put his arm around her. "It's all right, Ellen. I'm here. So
is Platinia.

John knew the effect of trans-world
travel. The dumbfounded disbelief that such a thing had happened.
The shock of finding yourself in an alien environment. Even if you
thought it was possible to enter another world, even if you'd been
told it would happen, you couldn't get your mind around the reality
of the experience.

Looking up, John saw that Platinia had
retreated to the shadows, the girl of little help.

"I ...." Ellen was coming out of shock
at last. "I'm ... here?"

"Yes"

"Where?"

John had briefed her, of course.
Besides the physical manifestations, she was suffering the
psychological and mental effects of the trip. "You're at the other
end of the "pipeline." You're here with me, high up in one of the
corner turrets of what the locals call Hero Castle. In the Band of
Stil-de-grain."

All nonsense information to a person
as stunned as Ellen.

"I feel ..." She let that thought
dangle in the mental confusion of her mind.