On the Corner of Galaxy and Fifth

It was well after dark when George Pembroke arrived to his small London home. He loosened his tie as he locked the door behind him, and set his briefcase next to the sofa on his way into the kitchen. Two minutes later, the microwave had begun its nightly resurrection of some long frozen dinner.

George was of average height and average build, with short brown hair that was noticeably thinning on the top. He wore rimless glasses and a conservatively cut three-piece suit, typical of the other accountants who toiled in London's corporate labyrinth. If you were to notice George on the street, and likely as not, you wouldn't, there was absolutely nothing to distinguish him from being completely and utterly normal.

While he was waiting for the microwave to spit out his dinner, George pulled off his jacket and went to the closet to hang it up. The small man standing inside his closet handed him a piece of paper as he threaded the jacket onto an empty hanger.

"Thanks," he said amicably, closing the door and unfolding the piece of paper.

George jerked the door open with a start and began rummaging through the closet. There were several suits, a small box of books that he kept meaning to take by the charity store, and various assorted stuff that one expects to find in closets, but the small man was no where to be found.

George knocked on the back wall of the closet, perplexed to hear a sold thunking sound. "Hrm. Most definitely peculiar." he thought to himself.

Straightening up, he located the small folded paper the little man had handed him. It read:

Hand-scrawled underneath was the inscription: Quickly -- the entire universe may depend upon your action.

"This is exceedingly odd," George said aloud, in case anyone was listening. They weren't apparently, so he wandered back into the kitchen and ate his microwave lasagna.

* * * * *

That night, George slept fitfully.

In his dreams, a carnival clown came to him with foreboding prophesies.

"Dark and dismal winds will sweep the land, George," the clown murmured. "Till Birnan Wood shall come to Dunsinane Hill, " he added helpfully.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed" The clown swept his hand gravely, and the landscape around them changed. Strange primordial creatures wearing cowboy hats shuffled vaguely across the landscape.

"A-are you trying to tell me something?" George stammered. "Because, I'm afraid this isn't precisely clear."

The clown shrugged. "Foreboding prophesies never are. That's why they're foreboding. They will come back, again and again, for so long as the red seas roll..."

"Who?"

"No, Who's on first..." the clown began, enthusiastically.

 "Look," George insisted firmly, "are you actually going to be of some help whatsoever, or shall I just wake up now?"

 The clown blinked in surprise. "My dear boy, I am here to warn you. Yes, warn you. One if by land, and two if by sea!"

 "Warn. Me. Why?"

 "You are in grave danger." The clown looked serious, which is no mean feat for a man with a painted on smile. "Running from the rising heat to find a place to hide..."

 George exploded. "WOULD YOU STOP QUOTING THINGS?!?!?" he shrieked, his face turning purple with rage.

 The clown broke into a wide, toothy grin. "Ahhhh, now we have something.....seek the man who is not from now....."

 George sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat pouring down his face. He swung his legs out of the bed and into the precisely placed slippers on the floor, then padded down the hallway to the kitchen. Rummaging in the refrigerator produced some elderly mayonnaise and not-quite-yet distressed ham, which he proceeded to make a sandwich from. "What an odd dream. I wonder what it could all mean?"

* * * * *

George was still awake when the rays of the morning sun began to struggle above the tops of the buildings and sift lazily through the back alleyways. Half dozing in his chair, he quickly sat upright when he heard the thunk of the morning paper colliding with his doorway. George tried to rub the sleep from his eyes as he shuffled to the front hall to get the paper, which he deposited unceremoniously in his armchair on his way to the kitchen. Moments later, the smell of brewing coffee wafted through the house and tendrils of steam crept from beneath the bathroom door, along with the faint strains of George singing slightly off-key.

 Suitably refreshed, George poured himself a cup of the coffee and settled down in the armchair to read the paper. The headlines were the usual bit. MP fingered in Sex Scandal, Middle East Peace Talks Break Down, EC Nations quibble over Exchange Rates....honestly, George couldn't figure out why they bothered to print a new paper every day....much more economical to reprint the same one over and over again. He rifled through the paper's sections, looking for the sport updates.

 He opened the sport section and was just about to read up on yesterdays matches when an advert caught his eye. The events of the previous evening surfaced in his mind as he read:

Curious, George thought to himself. How very singular. He got up from his char and went over to the bookshelf, and began idly leafing through the phone directory, but there was no listing for a Dream Police. Well, I suppose it won't hurt to go round and check into it. Perhaps it's one of those psychoanalysis chaps who delve into your childhood.

George put the paper down and got dressed, and headed out the door to find the intersection of Galaxy and Fifth.

A shadowing figure pulled his hat down over his eyes and flipped his newspaper up in front of his face as George strolled North on 5^th Avenue. After he passed, the trenchcoated man slipped into a nearby phone booth and quickly punched in a memorized number.

"Control, this is Ground. HeĘs on his way to MartinĘs."

He was greeted by a raspy voice. "Excellent! Continue to monitor his progress."

"As you wish. Onlyą.do I have to dress this way?"

"Our research has indicated that it is appropriate attire for an undercover agent at this time and venue."

"ItĘs rather uncomfortable It doesnĘt have the right number of arms, for one, andą"

"Lest I need to remind you, Ground, you were not hired to be comfortable. You were hired to help us carry out our plan. It is possible of course, that someone else would rather become fabulously wealthyą"

"Understood, Control. Ground out."

 George Pembroke arrived at the corner of Galaxy Street and 5^th Avenue and examined the squalid building on the corner. He double-checked the folded newspaper advert that had prompted him to this location, and then tried the front door.

The door creaked easily open, allowing George into a dingy foyer. A dim, naked bulb swung gently in the breeze blowing in from his back, and stairs led both up and down He glanced from the dusty hallway to the newspaper ad still clutched in his hand, and then took a tentative step inside.

At the end of the hall, a door with a large B tacked on to it huddled near the corner, daring anyone to open it. At the top of the stair, he could see the A unit defiantly staring down at him. George tried to recall the last time a piece of architecture had displayed such malice towards a potential occupant. Deducing that unit C must be below, he carefully edged past the huddled doorway and crept down the creaky stairwell. As he disappeared from sight, the door marked B opened slightly, and a figure peered out from the shadows.

The door at the bottom was indeed unit C, a doorway which stood out from the others in the building by both being freshly painted and by having a large painted sign posted on it to announce its occupant:

 George marveled at the sign, and then knocked lightly on the door. He waited a moment and then knocked again. No hours posted, he noted with irritation. I think I shall be quite cross to have come all this way to find no one in. He knocked a third time, loudly this time, and then tried the door.

 To his surprise, the latch yielded to his attempt, and he found himself standing inside a small reception area. A small square brown desk sat off to one side, with a telephone and swivel chair and one of those address roll things that secretaries always have. There was not, George noted with irritation, a secretary. Another door beyond the desk stood open, and George could hear a voice coming from within. Adjusting his glasses, he moved to stand in the doorway.

 The far room was a marvel to behold. Crammed floor to ceiling with books and filing cabinets, there seemed little room for anyone or anything else. A desk was placed in the middle of the room, and a tall, lanky man lounged in an overstuffed armchair behind, propping his feet on the desk while engaging in furious combat with his telephone.

 "Yes, yes, I can certainly understand," the strange man said easily, then paused to listen to his caller. "No, I donĘt think that wouldą." Another pause. "Mrs. Wallace, I understand what you so desperately desire, but there are times, I feel, when a cigar is simply a cigar. Thank you, and have a good day."

 The telephone having been vanquished, at least for the moment, the man behind the desk turned his attention to George. He had unruly black hair and a neatly trimmed Vandyke which carefully framed a wide and infectious grin. His dark eyes sparkled as he stood from behind the desk.

 "Good morning, sir. If you are a salesman, I already have six." The grin widened as he placed both hands palms first on the top of the desk.

 "Um, no", George stammered, spellbound by this amusing man. "My name is Pembrokeą.George Pembroke, and IĘve come in response to your advert."

 "An advert? Me? Fascinating! What on earth did it say?"

 "Er," George began intelligently, then decided against explanation. He handed the folded sport section over the desk, and then settled into the only other chair in the room, a weathered loveseat that might, at one point in its long and tragic life, have been green. He carefully studied this odd, Cheshire Cat of a man as he bounded from one side of his desk to the other, eyes locked onto the newspaper. He was wearing a very well tailored linen suit which would have been the very height of fashion had it not been a very deep and engaging shade of violet. A black silk dress shirt with no tie and spit-shined black boots tucked under his pants completed the image. What on earth have I gotten myself in for? George wondered silently.

 "My my my! How wonderfully clever of me! I wonder how I thought of it?" He sat back down in the large armchair and grinned lazily at George. "This is sure to bring people to me, donĘt you think?"

 "Um, not to put to fine a point on it, it already has." George said testily.

 "So indeed it has! How remarkably perceptive of you!" He bounded out of his chair again, his grin even wider and his hand thrust across the desk. "My name is Traumaą.Trauma Martin. However may I be of service to you?"

 Bewildered, George shook TraumaĘs hand. "IĘm sorry, you said your name wasąą."

 The question hung in the air for a moment like an uninvited guest. "Trauma, " said Trauma easily, as though patiently explaining something to a small child or errant puppy. "My name is Trauma." 

Well, I can certainly see where that might be fitting thought George. "Yes, well, I came to see you because I saw your advert, and IĘve had the most peculiar thing happen to me last nightą"

 George went on to explain about the apparition of the dwarf in his closet, and the note, and the strange carnival clown that visited him in his dream.

 Trauma kept his eyes closed through-out GeorgeĘs recital of the last 24 hours events, his fingertips pressed together in front of his chest. The more George talked, the smaller TraumaĘs grin became, until at the end he looked as stern as a headmaster.

"Very interesting, and disturbing, Mr. Pembroke." Trauma was carefully measuring his words now. "Many things about your story intrigue me. Let me go over this again, if you donĘt mind?

 George shook his head silently.

 "You claim that an apparition appeared to you, and handed you a note. Later you had a dream about a clown, hmmm?"

 "Well, yes, I realize they donĘt seem like connected things, but I imagined them both in one day, andą."

 "Did you then? Imagine them?"

"Well, of course I did, donĘt be silly. There WASNĘT a dwarf in my closet!" George responded angrily. "I checked twice."

 "Then who did give you the note?" Trauma remarked casually.

 GeorgeĘs hand flew instinctively to his jacket pocket. He withdrew the carefully folded piece of paper. "Er, I havenĘt the slightest idea. I mean, surely I had it all along, andą"

 "Mr. Pembroke, I have made many observations about you since you walked in the door. You are impeccably if rather blandly dressed, despite the fact that today is Saturday. You are, judging by the line it leaves in your jacket, used to carrying a pocket calculator with you at all times. Your forefinger and thumb both have the indentations that would come only from holding some instrument in your hand for long hours each day. This leads me to believe that you are a methodical man, who is not used to an interruption of routine. Let me know if I lose the trail?"

George could only nod dumbly. Trauma got up and began to walk around the small room.. He stopped suddenly and removed a leather-bound book, flipped it open to a random page, and resumed pacing.

"I find it very unlikely, Mr. Pembroke, that a stray piece of paper would find its way into your hand without your notice of it. I find it even more odd, if you donĘt mind my saying so, that you would have such a telling dream the VERY night that you encounter a strange man in your closet who, under subsequent investigation, was not there."

"But what did the clown have to do with the dwarf?" George asked, not quite believing those exact words had just escaped his mouth.

"What indeed? That is the mystery, no? May I see that piece of paper, Mr. Pembroke?"

George handed over the folded document. Trauma made a great show of unfolding it and examining its contents carefully. He walked in circles around the room, mumbling softly to himself. Every so often, he would pull down a book, rifle through its pages while continuing to circuit the room, and then lay the book, open, on his desk.

Suddenly, he stood bolt upright and shouted "Amazing!"

"Um, is it really?" George asked.

Trauma thrust the note underneath GeorgeĘs nose, his hand shaking with excitement. "Do you have any IDEA what this note means? Do you realize the implications this note has??" His voice was almost shrill with enthusiastic fervor.

"No. No, I donĘt, Mr. Martin. That is why I came to see you."

TraumaĘs face fell. "Ah, I see. How disappointing. You could have saved me a great deal of time if you had."

George could see his time here had been wasted. "IĘm terribly sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Martin." And mine. he thought to himself.

Trauma looked up at him in surprise. "Oh, not at all, Mr. Pembroke. What you have found here is of the utmost interest to both of us. It merely means that we will have to look harder and longer to find the answer. And please, call me Trauma. All my clients do."

"C-c-clients?" George stammered

"Well, of course. You wanted to know what your dream meant. The key to your dream is in this note. Now I know a little bit about this note. I know that this is some form of navigation code. What sort, precisely, I cannot say. For that we must do research, but rest assured, I will get to bottom of it!"

"Ah, so should I call you, or check back byą?"

"You shall come with me, Mr. Pembroke, you shall come with me!"

Trauma was grinning like a madman again, and guiding George gently out into the reception area. "We need to go to a particular library to do this research. I insist that you come along, as I may need your assistance later in this endeavor."

"Ah well, a library sounds quite relaxing, actuallyą."

Trauma looked at him, smiled wildly, and hooked his arm through GeorgeĘs. He brought his hands together, and gave the ring on his left hand a quarter-twist. The walls of the room shimmered and vanished.

GeorgeĘs stomach fell away with the sudden sensation of movement., and he looked around in a panic. Behind him, as tall as skyscrapers, a wall of fiery energy swept towards himą.