When Paul Blake sits across from John Wallace-a complete stranger to him-at the coffeehouse where Paul spends many of his solitary evenings, he has no idea that meeting John will transform his life. Over coffee, they discuss Paul's work interviewing prisoners and writing reports concerning their mental statuses, as well as John's science fiction magazine. Eventually their conversation leads to talk of wormholes and intelligent life in alternate universes, about which John seems to have exceptional knowledge. When John asks Paul if he would be interested in becoming a genuine hero, Paul expresses interest in the idea. John explains that there is an alternate universe where humans are being threatened by mutants-and the survival of mankind may depend on Paul. According to John, the technology of this alternate world includes a machine that appoints armor and weaponry strength based on each warrior's recent lifestyle. In preparation for his adventure, Paul begins his training on Earth so that he can advance his battle prowess on the other side of the wormhole. As Paul trains for and awaits his mission, he meets a stunning beauty who sees glimpses of the future. He joins a revolutionary group and discovers an original approach to dream interpretation. It's all just part of the waiting game as Paul Blake, average guy, becomes Paul Blake-man's last chance for survival.

Improbabilities

By Dan Gollub

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Dan Gollub
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-6680-3

Contents

Foreword......................................................viiChapter 1. A Conversation With A Stranger.....................1Chapter 2. Trying To Change...................................7Chapter 3. The Mysterious Rescuer.............................19Chapter 4. A Modern Day Fortuneteller.........................29Chapter 5. A Glimpse Of Disaster..............................41Chapter 6. The Center Doesn't Hold............................66Chapter 7. Hopes And Struggles................................77Chapter 8. The Wormhole.......................................102Chapter 9. The Battle.........................................119Chapter 10. Coming Home.......................................127

Chapter One

A Conversation With A Stranger

* * *

The coffeehouse was a fallback strategy: a place to go to and not feel alone when I had no girlfriend or anyone else to visit, which was almost all the time. So I went there often in the evenings.

The walls held displays of art and pictures of literary persons. The place charged high prices for the coffee and other items, but that was okay. I had a job and not much to spend my money on. A few chess books aren't a budget buster.

It was busy that night. All the tables and booths were occupied. I saw a man sitting alone at a table with a cup of tea, reading a magazine. I like the introvert types. I went up to him. "Mind if I join you here?"

"You're welcome." He gestured toward a chair.

Soon I had some coffee and was sitting across from him.

He glanced at me.

"My name's Paul Blake," I said.

"John Wallace," he answered. "I'm in town visiting a friend." He put the magazine down. We shook hands. I saw the magazine was titled Alien Ways. It was science fiction. He saw my gaze. "I've been hired to be the editor for this magazine." He smiled. "Tell me about yourself."

I shrugged. "I work at a prison."

"That sounds like a secure job. People will continue committing crimes." The expression on his face seemed that of a benevolent relative.

When was the last time I'd expressed my inner feelings to someone? This was an apparent opportunity. "I have an aunt and a few chess friends. I go square dancing, run at the gym, sometimes attend church. It's a decent existence, but—" My voice trailed off.

"Surviving in these times seems like a major accomplishment," he said in a kind voice.

"I interview prisoners and write reports about their mental status," I continued. "I'm a psychologist, although nothing I learned in graduate school applies to the job. At night I try to write poetry. I have cats to keep me company, but no girlfriend. I'm not the sort of person to feel despair, but it seems as if life should consist of more than my current existence."

He looked at me calmly. "I like to believe that if we do our best, sooner or later things will get better."

I'd talked about myself long enough. "So you're the editor for that magazine."

His face brightened. "The sort of stories I'm seeking," he said in a hopeful voice which was only mildly authoritarian, "involve people not giving up when times get tough and seeking intelligent solutions which wouldn't occur to the villains. Or so the readers would hope."

I thought about my experiences at the prison. "The prisoners I interview wouldn't be heroes in your magazine's stories. They've made bad choices. But they haven't been the personification of evil, and I've felt sympathy for a number of them."

He nodded. "We have to make the best choices we can. History ideally revolves around people doing that."

I felt a sudden surge of dissatisfaction. "I'm not sure what contributions I make to the future. I feed stray cats that show up at my door. Does that count?"

"I'll let you decide that." His face seemed almost stern. "But remember that unforeseen possibilities come along. We have to be ready for them."

"I'm ready. When will they happen?"

He chuckled.

We were silent.

"The stray I've named Gwimmie hisses when I approach her to give her food," I said. "But I continue to feed her."

He smiled.

"Every once in a while I go roller skating," I said. "The teenagers accept my presence there, although they glance at me curiously at times."

"Are you sure you don't lead a normal life?" he asked.

It was my turn to chuckle.

We were silent again, but I felt there was a bond between us.

"Do you mind a personal question?" he suddenly asked.

"Go ahead."

"How might you feel about risking your life in a valuable cause?"

I didn't answer immediately. "I suppose it would depend on what was at stake. I can't predict how I'd respond, but I'd want to do some good."

He nodded. "That's a genuine answer."

"Anything else you want to ask?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. What did you learn in graduate school, even though it doesn't help with your job?" Now he looked relaxed and curious.

I thought about the research design class which focused on experiments that seemed mostly trivial but were easy to analyze using statistics. That class and others like it hadn't set my mind ablaze. "One bit of knowledge has stuck with me. The smartest rats—the ones who were best at finding the dish of chocolate milk waiting at the other end of the maze—were less likely to put up a resistance when placed into a guillotine. They were interested in what was happening, although they were about to be sacrificed so the researcher could examine their brains."

He shook his head. "It's a pity. Intelligence should result in a better outcome." He smiled unexpectedly. "Sometimes—hopefully often—the endeavors we undertake are based on an intelligent analysis of probabilities and lead to greater rewards than chocolate milk."

I couldn't resist being facetious. "I like wheat germ also."

A man sitting on a couch started strumming a guitar. The sounds were discordant and crashing, even at a distance. I wanted to speak ironically. "That might be good music to ..." No suitable correlation occurred to me, and I didn't finish the sentence.

"To make one want to be a superhero in the face of adversity?" he asked.

"Yes."

The guitar chords became softer. I recognized the basic notes of C and E and G and the beginning of a melody. "And after doing whatever a superhero does," I said, "come home to a serene houseful of cats and no mouse parts strewn about."

He looked at me with an odd expression. "Would you like to be a genuine hero?"

By now I was starting to get used to his surprising questions. "Yes, I believe so."

He seemed to hesitate. Then he picked up the magazine. "I want to make this magazine a golden age for science fiction. It's something that dominates my consciousness." He put the magazine down. "We all need goals such as that to hope and care about." He seemed to have something on his mind. Or was I mistaken?

"Some science fiction stories have been about alternate universes," he continued.

"The idea of travel to alternate universes is considered preposterous and only fit to appear in magazines such as this one. Nevertheless, suppose alternate universes did exist. It's a reasonable expectation that intelligent life would surface on some of those planets."

"I would hope so. Lifeless worlds are boring."

He glanced at me. It was hard to read his expression. Then he said, "Nor is it unlikely that one or more of those alien races would develop a higher level of technology than we currently possess." He paused. "You've heard of wormholes?"

"Yes. In science fiction movies, spaceships travel through them."

He smiled. I wondered what he was smiling about. "Wormholes are hypothetical tunnels which connect two separate points in spacetime. Those two points don't have to be in the same universe, as it turns out."

An oddness about his words occurred to me. "As it turns out?"

"We've been contacted by an alternate world that uses wormhole technology," he said.

I looked closely at him. He displayed the same friendly, intelligent expression as before. I had a warm feeling as we maintained eye contact. There was nothing deceptive or devious about him which I could detect.

"Gosh," I said.

"Gosh, indeed," he answered. "Some of the people on that world are humans. That's the good news. But they're in a war which they seem to be losing. Biologists—some well-intentioned, some probably rogues—had created intelligent mutants, and the mutant forces are gaining the upper hand."

An image flashed through my mind of lobster-like beasts with big heads and eyes on stalks. "That's awful. Is there something we can do to help?"

He nodded. "Possibly, although it partly depends on factors beyond our control." He drank some of his tea.

I found myself eagerly awaiting his explanation.

"The computer network on that planet is highly efficient," he said. "In addition to doing such routine things as dispensing power and regulating financial transactions, it runs the wormholes."

"That sounds like an advanced civilization."

He grimaced. "But not advanced enough to prevent the war from happening." He appeared thoughtful. "The rules of that war allow some humans from this planet to take part in the battles there. That could include you."

I stared at him.

"The combat is hand to hand, and computer technology assigns armor and weapon strength according to each participant's brainwaves. If you were totally convinced of the rightness of your side's cause, that would be an important contribution to your chances against your adversary. But the computer also assesses mindsets prior to the battle. Your recent views about others—charitable or harsh, for instance—would be a factor. Also, any constructive efforts you've made which have influenced your consciousness would affect the computer's decisions to favor you or the mutant you'd be fighting against."

I felt stunned. "That would be a lot riding on my back. My thoughts and moods need to improve at times."

He grinned. "I appreciate your honesty." The grin faded. "Paul," he said, leaning forward slightly and looking into my eyes, "one of my colleagues in the science fiction family had the extraordinary fortune to have a wormhole manifest itself in his presence. He traveled through it, learned about that other world, and acquired some status there. He gained the right to grant someone from this world the chance to take part in their war against the mutants. We talked after his return, and he transferred that right to me."

"So you can choose someone such as myself to try to help the humans in that alternate world."

"Correct."

Am I the right choice, or would someone else be better? I was speechless.

"Would you like to volunteer for that role?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Excellent." Then what appeared to be concern crossed over his face. "The leader of the mutants is a formidable person, so I've heard. The Minotaur—that's the name the humans have given him—has sent several of the humans to the hibernation vaults. He defeated them in battle. Robert—my colleague—spoke with him at a computer-arranged meeting, and came away impressed. 'He's special,' Robert told me. 'All the same, we humans will triumph.'"

Hearing those words, I felt high-spirited. "I'm not afraid of doing battle against any mutant, including the Minotaur."

"Good," John said. He sat back in his chair with a satisfied expression. "And in the meantime, if you decide to write a science fiction story and submit it to me, I'll give it my professional attention."

At home afterwards I felt elated. I would have a chance to play an important role in that alternate world. Maybe the outcome of that war between the humans and the mutants would be determined by my actions.

I realized I should have a cat door installed in my house. That way if a wormhole appeared for me my cats wouldn't be cooped up in the house, and wouldn't run out of food and water if I were gone for any extended period. How horrible. I decided to contact a carpenter to do the task.

I thought about John's encouragement to write a story. But what science fiction plot could I write about? Nothing occurred to me. My thoughts turned to going through a wormhole. What would it be like? Then after that journey I would end up in combat, and the outcome would depend upon the quality of my consciousness.

I must prepare for the possibility of such things happening. Everything I do should be as perfect as possible to increase my chances on the other side of the wormhole.

Chapter Two

Trying To Change

* * *

I value my inconspicuous appearance and bland personality. I'm not a center of attention, and I can have privacy even when I'm with people. I like to observe and think my personal thoughts rather than continually having to interact with others. That seems to keep me out of trouble.

But it didn't work that way this time.

I went square dancing. There are mostly older people in this particular group. Some of them have been attending as couples for thirty years or more. Not that they're always dancing with each other; they get a chance to promenade and twirl and do other maneuvers with every opposite-sex person in their set. And good looks or saying the right things don't matter. It's how well you can follow the caller's instructions which wins you the approval of others.

So there's no stress such as whether you have pimples on your face or might utter some uncool statement. People just do the dancing, usually with relaxed smiles on their faces.

There was a slight preponderance of men to women, and I didn't dance much. A woman invited me to be her partner because her husband had his ankle taped up. Another time the caller's wife took mercy on me sitting alone and held out her hand to me to join her in a set. Then, in the last set of the evening, a grandmotherly woman beckoned to me from the dance floor. The man I'd seen her with wasn't in sight; I guessed he'd gone to the bathroom. "Hi, I'm Agnes," she said. "My husband and I are visiting relatives."

She had a pleasant face. When I'm her age in 40 or 45 years I'll have at least as many wrinkles as she does. Also, I'll probably resemble her white-haired, frail-looking husband.

As always, the dancing was fun. Grasp the hand of the woman on your corner of the square, turn her, take each woman's hand as you travel the square until you reach your partner again. Twirl her, then promenade with her back to your original position. And so on. Watch the faces of the women. Do they smile more when they're with you?

Suddenly the caller got ambitious. He paused the music to explain a complicated maneuver. It involved handing your partner to a woman who trades places with her as you do a turn with the man across the way before coming back to your new woman partner.

People turned toward the caller to listen to his instructions.

Agnes had been holding my hand during the dancing, and she held it after the music stopped. Then, as if her arm was weary, she rested my hand against her hip while the caller was explaining the new routine. In a few seconds the music started again and we did that new move and then finished the set.

But as I was leaving the dance floor, I saw her husband glowering at me like an ancient rat terrier, toothless and arthritic yet still fierce.

I'll sign up for a self-defense class.

Not that I think he's going to attack me, but I'm a potential rescuer of that alternate world and I can't come to harm before the rescue opportunity happens.

* * *

Today at work, as usual, I interviewed three prisoners and wrote reports about them.

The first prisoner seemed dazed. He'd had an argument with his girlfriend. He'd grasped her arm and slapped her. Then they had sex. She called the police after he left. The courts convicted him of aggravated battery and rape, and sentenced him to 20 years.

The second prisoner didn't seem upset about his six-year sentence. He still was remembering the fun he'd had. He'd arranged to sell a man some cocaine, and at the last moment the buyer wanted to change his mind. The prisoner beat him up and obtained the money he'd been counting on, then took four of his friends to an amusement park. They all had a great time.

The third prisoner was incarcerated for possessing methamphetamine. During the interview, he didn't display much emotion. Yes, he'd used meth, usually daily. His life had seemed okay. He hadn't had a girlfriend. He hadn't spent much time socializing with people other than with a few drug users.

He chuckled once during the interview, while talking about an incident in high school that had gotten him suspended. He'd used a fire extinguisher inside the gym teacher's pants.

Now that I've had the talk with John, I want to analyze the interviews with prisoners and attain valuable insights. That might improve my prospects if I'm in a battle in the alternate world. The mind-reading computer might note those insights and shift the odds toward me.

This occurred to me:

The use of force when it's not in self defense or to protect someone else from coming to harm is a mistake.

I would be dazed too if, like the first prisoner, I had a sentence of 20 years.

The consequences weren't as extreme for the second prisoner, and the lesson of his incarceration might not have been clear to him. He needed to assess what he'd done and voluntarily change his ways. (That prisoner was big and had the appearance of a bully. He seemed to be a smirking lout. Yet everyone, hopefully, is capable of changing.)

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Improbabilitiesby Dan Gollub Copyright © 2011 by Dan Gollub. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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