Mr Longfellow vanishes."
I hurried after him as he descended a rickety set of stairs into the damp and gloomy basement. Lit by a dim yellow light was a row of dirty wooden packing cases smelling strongly of the sea.
"There they are, not much to look at, but beneath the weathered surface beats the interdimensional equivalent of a Rolls-Royce engine. Don't make them like that anymore."
He banged his fist on the nearest case to emphasise his point.
"I must say, it's a little hard to believe that they work," I said, stifling a cough as a large cloud of dust settled around my head.
"Of course, they work!" said Longfellow unconvincingly. "Quite a few miles on the clock, admittedly, but the designers built these beauties for the long term."
"Which destinations do you have on offer?"
"Various, various," he said, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"Specifically?" I was beginning to think Mr. Longfellow had something to hide.
"It's hard to be specific, you know, but you can be sure we have all the prime locations covered."
The truth suddenly dawned on me. One of Mr. Longfellow's clichés, to be sure, but that's exactly how it felt. "You don't know which machine goes where, do you, Mr. Longfellow?"
"No, I mean yes, destinations have not been individually allocated per se, but they all go somewhere. Yes, they all go somewhere. You can take my word on that."
"Mr. Longfellow. Honesty, please, or I shall take my business elsewhere."
"Very well," he conceded reluctantly.
"The machines had left the states en route for an overhaul when the ship hit a storm crossing the ocean. The ship was damaged, but it managed to get back to port. Unfortunately, the cargo had taken a beating, and the sea had washed off all identification marks; the owners had no option but to sell them as salvage. I bought them up for a song, hoping that some fool—sorry, didn't mean that at all, slip of the tongue—a fearless chap, that's what I meant to say, like yourself, Peagreen. Young and full of pep but with limited funds. The type of devil-may-care young blade who takes a gamble and sees where he ends up. When people ask why, he replies, 'Just for the hell of it.'
"An adventure with very minimal expenditure. Less than eighty-four state dollars, that is, if you are sure that you can't get a refund on that bus pass. Worth checking, you know. There is a chance you might never come back. Unlikely, of course, very unlikely," he added hurriedly. "But it would be money down the drain if you didn't make it, and I wouldn't like to be out of pocket. Sorry! For you to be out of pocket. I said the wrong word again. It must be these dentures I bought off old Charlie. I thought they were a bit cheap."
I was determined not to let him confuse me.
"What do you mean, 'never come back'?" Is the return trip not guaranteed?"
"Of course, it's guaranteed. I am prepared to put my reputation on the line.
"Certain exclusion clauses, of course. It's all standard for this type of contract and all routine stuff. Please don't waste your valuable holiday time thinking about it. I could have you signed up and out of here in ten minutes, young Peagreen. Just think of it, my lad; you could be standing on a sandy beach at dawn, watching the sunrise. A minimum of two in most locations. Subject to terms and conditions, of course."
He read from a dusty old contract he had picked up from the table.
"Let me see now, blah, blah, blah… Here we are. One: Sightings are, of course, variable and subject to local conditions. Earthquakes, tsunamis, interplanetary warfare, and the like invalidate any contractual obligation assumed by the vendor that the sun will appear. Two: Since the sun has risen every day for the past two days, the traveller should not make any plans on the assumption that it will rise today. This type of inductive reasoning is inadmissible evidence under federal law, and we do not give refunds."
He tossed the contract to one side.
"But enough of this boring legalese. What do you say? Shall we get this holiday moving, Peagreen? You must be eager to flap your wings and escape the humdrum before you begin your studies.
"But you can't tell me where I'm going."
"But that's the fun of it, Peagreen. It's like one of those mystery tours in England on Earth, Major, where you get on a coach not knowing where you could end up. Blackpool, Southend, Brighton, or even London could be anywhere, the sky's the limit. Fairly knocks the retirees for six. It's the excitement, you know, fear of the unknown, but the 'stay calm and carry on' spirit that got them through the Second World War usually keeps casualties to a minimum.
"You must slow down, Mr. Longfellow. Stop gabbling, and let me get a word in."
"Very well," he sniffed.
"Thank you. Now listen to this: I remember once going to a market selling unlabelled tins collected from food factories. These tins were going for a centime apiece, and I spent my last five centimes on five tins chosen at random. I later found that I had chosen five identical twins of stewed prunes, and two of them were off. What if I make the wrong choice again?"
"Again, highly unlikely, Peagreen. All modern portals carry passengers to destinations approved by Portal Travel Agents, Inc., as fit for temporary residence.
"You said, 'modern.' These portals are not modern. They were in for an overhaul. Just how old are they?"
He had the good grace to blush. He looked like he had given up, and I hoped he would no longer be so elusive.
"I can't say for certain, but I have not seen that sort of finish on a door portal outside of a museum. That doesn't mean they don't work. Quite the opposite. Unless I am very much mistaken, these come from the 'Infinity' range. They do as it says on the tin and go on forever. The symbol of the door leading to other worlds is an ancient one and occurs endlessly in myth, folklore, and fairy tales. Even Ali Baba had to open the door using magic words to reach the treasure in the cave. Somewhere in this lot could be the door to forgotten lands or lands that first found existence in a writer's imagination. Mystical worlds, terrible worlds, worlds where good has triumphed, and others ruled by evil. That's the truth, Peagreen; nobody can predict what lies behind any of those doors."
Mr. Longfellow nodded and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly looked very tired and old. Something strange was happening. A luminous mist surrounded his gaunt figure, and to my shock, he began to spin like a top.
Slowly at first, then faster and faster, around and around, until he became just a blur, and I had to look away before I got dizzy. A loud pop made me look back and then look again, because in Mr. Longfellow's place there now stood quite a different person.