The Walls Of The Universe Part 39

"The machines on campus are packed. You guys really did something special."

John wrote the letter as soon as he got home.

Six weeks later, he received a reply, an envelope from the secretary of state of Pennsylvania in Wilkes-Barre. He opened it, reading the list of vital statistics on the company of Grauptham House in Pittsburgh. The CEO didn't happen to be Visgrath and Charboric wasn't on the board of directors, but as John read the names, he began to suspect: Fritigern Wallia, Athaulf Chindasuith, Reccared Gesalex. No one he knew had names like that... except for the employees of EmVis. There wasn't a single normal name or a female name on the list of owners and princ.i.p.als, unless Chintila Ardo was a woman, but he found it unlikely.

He dialed the number on the sheet.

"Grauptham House, Incorporated. How may I direct your call?" answered a female voice.

"Can you send me information on the company, please?"

"I'm sorry. Grauptham House is a privately held company not interested in seeking investors at this time."

"I'd just like to know what you guys make."

"I'm sorry, but that information is confidential."

"Fine, thanks." He hung up the phone.

A company couldn't just be a black hole. How far was Pittsburgh from Toledo? Maybe five hours. It was time for a road trip.

For a moment he considered calling Henry and Grace, but then he would have to explain his suspicions. He'd have to excuse his push to take the capital from EmVis. He didn't want to do that yet. If he could find evidence that Grauptham House was a front for EmVis, or vice versa, then he'd let his friends know and they could work against Visgrath's plan, whatever that was.

That Friday, John drove across Ohio to Pittsburgh, windows down, radio blaring. He pulled into the tree-lined drive mid-afternoon, coming to a stop at a gate.

"Can I help you?" asked a stone-faced, blond-haired, hulking man.

"Is this Grauptham House?" John asked.

"Yes, what is your business?"

"I'm doing a report for school. Can I get some literature on what you guys do?"

"I'm sorry, no. Perhaps you should do your report on the ketchup company."

"Please? It's due on Monday and I can't change the subject," John said.

The guard stared at him, then turned around in his guard shack, rummaged around for a moment, and handed John a dog-eared pamphlet.

"That's all I can do for you," he said. "Turn your car around."

John sighed, backed out of the gateway, and swung the car around. The entrance to the drive was across from a wooded, hilly area. There was a hunters' road there, and he pulled into it, giving himself a clear view of the entrance road.

The pamphlet was unhelpful. "Grauptham House: Company of the Future" was involved in high tech. Defense, electronics, mining, and deep-sea salvage were listed as the main areas of activity. Otherwise, the pamphlet was all marketing mumbo jumbo.

He waited three hours, and not a single car came in or out.

"Is there a back entrance?" he asked aloud.

The building was hidden behind a hill and trees. He'd caught a glimpse of it from the guard shack.

John started his car and tried to circ.u.mnavigate the parcel of land the building sat on. The terrain of Pittsburgh was against him, however, and he found himself lost after the left turns that should have brought him back to the entrance. Grauptham House seemed hidden in a valley with just the single entrance, though he couldn't be sure.

John stopped at a local bar at an intersection of two winding roads. A trailer park crawled up the nearest hill, and an old strip mall sat across the way. A half-dozen locals were drinking their afternoon away inside.

He ordered a beer, and when the bartender brought it he said, "You know anyone who works at Grauptham House?"

"Grauptham House?" The man rubbed his chin. "Is that a furniture store?"

"No, it's a company up on Glencoe."

"Glencoe? There's not much up that way," the bartender said.

"Glencoe?" someone else at the bar said. "There's that one place. Charlie got run off when he went hunting up there." He turned and looked for Charlie. "Said the place was surrounded by twelve-foot barbed-wire fences and motion detectors."

"What good's a motion detector when there's deer running around?" someone else asked.

"Motion detectors between the fences," the first one explained.

"Do you know anyone who works there?" John asked.

The bartender scratched his chin. "No, can't say that I do."

"It's the fifth-largest company in Pittsburgh," cried one of the regulars at the bar. "You must know someone!"

"Do you?" the bartender shot back.

The regular shrugged. "They have a plant in McKeesport. My brother has a friend who knew someone who worked in their plant. Sure did."

"Right."

John listened as the stories rustled around the bar. It was soon clear that n.o.body knew anyone personally who worked there but that there were plants and factories scattered around Pittsburgh, though no one could say what the factories made.

John got directions to McKeesport, paid for his beer, and drove the ten miles through the hills of Pittsburgh. He found the Grauptham House factory, this one fenced in and guarded too, but here cars filled a parking lot and people entered and exited the buildings. It was nearly five, so he drove to the nearest bar and again asked about people who worked for Grauptham House.

He was more successful. It seemed everyone in the bar worked in the Grauptham House factory. When he asked what they did, however, they turned their eyes toward their beers.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude," John said.

The man next to him grunted.

The bartender spoke up. "I've never seen a group more close lipped about what they do," he said. "You'd think they're building bombs over there."

"Shut up, Howie," the man said.

Howie nodded at John. "They make underwater breathing things," he said. "It's no secret."

"Howie! You know we all signed contracts not to talk about it!"

"I didn't sign no contract, Tom," the bartender said.

"Well, who else would you get the information from?"

"Underwater breathing devices?" John said. "You mean scuba gear?"

"How'd you know that name?"

"Everyone has heard of scuba," John said.

"How could you?" Tom cried. "We only started producing them a couple years ago. Our only client is the military." He slapped his hand over his mouth. "Oh, s.h.i.+t!"

"I've heard of scuba before," John said. "It's no big deal."

"You're probably working for security," Tom said. He stood and moved off, giving John a dark look.

"You've heard of scuba, haven't you?" John asked the bartender.

"Just from these folks."

"Don't people go diving around here?"

"Snorkeling, you mean? Not in Pennsylvania!" he said with a laugh.

"No, I guess not," he said. "Do you know of any other Grauptham House factories?"

"Sure, there's one in Trafford and one in Plum."

"What do they make there?"

"h.e.l.l if I know."

John paid and left.

By midnight he had visited bars near four more Grauptham House factories. The one in McKeesport manufactured scuba gear. The one in Trafford made defibrillators. The one in Plum made Velcro. The one in Latrobe published music. It had a storefront and was the only Grauptham House location open to the public. John parked outside the store; a dozen people entered and exited the shop in the half hour he watched the Latrobe Music Shoppe.

He entered the store. A blond man stood at the register. Racks of tapes and LPs lined the walls, all of it cla.s.sical music. A woman fingered through the selection of records. Beethoven's 9th played on the tiny speakers overhead. She hummed along.

"I love this part," she said. "This new symphony is just splendid."

"New?" John said. "You mean, new recording?"

"Oh, no," she said brightly. "This is Witt Chindasuinth's brand-new symphony."

"This is Beethoven's Ninth," John said.

The woman looked at him for a moment blankly; then she laughed. "Beethoven's Ninth! How funny. He only wrote six! What happened to the other two if this is the ninth?" She turned away to make her purchase, but the cas.h.i.+er was looking at him.

"What did you say?" the cas.h.i.+er asked in an accented voice.

"What?"

"You've heard this before?"

John shrugged his shoulders at the ceiling. "Uh, I thought I had."

"Maybe you did hear it," the cas.h.i.+er said. He stepped around the register toward John. "Somewhere else."

John shook his head. "No, my mistake." As he ran out the door, the bell chimed frantically. From his car, he watched the cas.h.i.+er pick up a phone and call someone.

John sat in the parking lot of an Eat 'n Park. It was nearly midnight. He was exhausted and frightened. It was clear that Grauptham House was doing the same thing John Prime had wanted to do, the same thing he had done inadvertently with the pinball machine. They had set up shop in a new universe and were using gadgets from other universes to make money.

They probably had hundreds of patents and inventions, and pinball happened to be one of them. But if they knew about pinball, then they knew that John, Grace, and Henry hadn't invented it here; they must suspect that John pilfered it from somewhere else. What was their game?

He broke out into a sweat. He'd brought himself to the attention of others: people who knew about other universes. But was that bad? Maybe he could ask for help in getting home. Only why did they lock everything away? Why were they so security conscious? Because they didn't want anyone to know, like the U.S. government.

But now Pinball Wizards was elbowing in on their racket. They were fighting back. Or were they nervous that someone else was mining this universe? Would they ask him to leave? Would they force him to leave? Would they just kill him?

John had a device. Why didn't he just move on?

"d.a.m.n it!" he said.

He'd done what he'd told himself not to do, get involved with the locals. He couldn't leave Grace and Henry to fend for themselves. He couldn't leave Casey, though he hadn't talked to her in months.

He couldn't leave. As tempting as it was, he couldn't leave his friends in a lurch. Not when there were nefarious forces against them. And what of his goal to understand the device? He'd have to start from scratch if he moved universes. He'd have to reestablish his ident.i.ty. He'd have to start back in school. The money from the pinball company was nice; he'd never have been able to buy the scientific equipment he had without the cash flow from Pinball Wizards, Inc.

No, he had to figure out what was going on. He had to keep his friends safe. And if that meant giving up Pinball Wizards, so be it.

But how could he find out what Grauptham House was up to? How could he find out if they were travelers like him, without tipping his hand?