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“Good heavens, my dear. Don’t go that way,” says the first Mrs. Thrash in alarm, hastily grabbing Jane’s arm and swinging her toward the center of the room. “You’ll step right through the portal.”
“Oh! Thank you—” Jane begins to say, then loses her voice and her grip on the umbrellas. Jane loses her hands. She loses her breath, her need to breathe, her vision and her memory. The feeling of being in her body. Jane loses her everything, except for a frozen and stunningly focused sense of just exactly who she is.
* * *
When it all comes back again, Jane sees that the first Mrs. Thrash has changed her clothing. And her hair, and the décor, and the lighting. She is standing before Jane in a very odd hat, wearing an indignant expression.
“Who in the dazzle dance are you?” she says. “And where did you come from?”
Oh, hell.
Her green, leafy hat, part scarf and part necklace, is wrapped all around her upper half. With her brown shirt and pants, she looks like a tree. The room is familiarly shaped, but made of metal, not stone.
Jane searches for the words her own first Mrs. Thrash would use. “Your counterpart sent me through her portal,” she says. “I’m Jane. Janie.”
“Which counterpart?” says this first Mrs. Thrash. “You do realize I could have as many as infinitely many?”
“Oh, god,” Jane says. “I feel sick.”
“Aha!” she says. “A god-worshiping dimension. Likely a Limited Dimension, then. And you’re carrying—what are those artifacts? Are those what are known as umbrellas?”
“Yes,” Jane says, holding her stomach. “She tricked me. I can’t believe it. Is this UD17?”
“Yes,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. “Remind me. What is an umbrella for? Self-defense?”
“It’s for shielding yourself from the rain. Here,” Jane says, handing her the unfinished one, opening the other numbly as a demonstration. “Some people think it’s bad luck to open one inside.”
“Superstition! A severely Limited Dimension, then,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash. “And rain. An atmospheric Earth with sufficient surface water. What has my counterpart from your world been visiting me for?”
“Art, I think.”
“Ah!” she says. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Did she recently buy a froggybank I got in UD33 for her android daughter?”
“No.”
“A Dali of melting clocks from LD107 for her son, Rudolfo?”
“No!”
“A Monet of speculative lily pads and frogs for her son, Ravi?”
“Yes,” Jane says, “that’s the one.”
“Yes,” she repeats. “That’s our own painting. My own Ravi hasn’t let me hear the end of it. Never said a word to me about that Monet, until I made an intelligent business decision. Now suddenly it’s his favorite painting in the house and all I hear is the foulest bile. My children!”
“I need to go back,” Jane says, trying to breathe. “I need to go home.”
“Why did she send you?”
“I have no idea. She tricked me.”
“Well then,” says UD17 first Mrs. Thrash, scrutinizing Jane with an aspect that makes Jane nervous, in quite a familiar way. “She must’ve had a reason.”
“I think she just wanted to prove to me that she wasn’t out of her mind.”
“Doubtful. I have not met many counterparts of myself who care if other people think they’re out of their minds,” she says with convincing finality. It’s impressive that she can be so convincing in that silly hat. The leaves bounce around as she talks, as if she’s a maple tree on a pogo stick. “She sent you here for some purpose. I wonder. You’re young, and the young are inspiring. Do you approach life with above-average gusto?”
“Um, I don’t know,” Jane says. “Probably my gusto is about average?”
“Did she mean you as a friend and influence for my Karen? Or as a lover? Oh, forgive me—you’ll know her as Kiran.”
“She hasn’t said much about Kiran,” Jane says in confusion. “I mean, her own Kiran. She hasn’t mentioned anything about anyone named Karen, I don’t think.”
“My Karen is a brilliant girl who should be engaged in a brilliant career, but lacks gusto. Hm,” she says, peering at Jane closely. “Do you have any experience with pirates?”
“No!” Jane exclaims. “Why does everyone think I have experience with pirates?”
“Aha!” she says. “So she did send you through about the pirates. How thoughtful of her. We need someone who can delve into the deepest depths of the mind of a criminal and anticipate his every move. Are you some sort of psychic, my dear?”
“Of course not.”
“Telepathic?”
Jane draws herself up tall. “No!”
“Right,” she says, seeming embarrassed by Jane’s outrage, though Jane senses she’s not embarrassed for herself, she’s
embarrassed for Jane. “Silly of me. Sad little Limited Dimension.”
“My dimension is not sad!”
“No,” she says, patting Jane’s shoulder sympathetically, “of course it isn’t, dear. Are you, perhaps, a very young psychologist? A criminal behavioralist?”
“No!”
“A criminal yourself?” she asks hopefully.
“I’m an umbrella-maker,” Jane says.
“An umbrella-maker,” she says, sounding defeated. “How mystifying of LD42 Anita.”
“Is that her first name?” Jane says. “I mean, your first name? Anita?”
“Yes,” she says. “Both. Nice to meet you. We don’t even have rain here.”
This woman is a dizzying conversationalist. “Well, then, I may as well be going,” Jane says.
“Maybe LD42 Anita means you to serve as a distraction while I rough the pirates up,” she suggests brightly.
“Listen,” Jane says sternly, really rather tired of this. “You’ve got a problem with pirates. You’re afraid they’re going to pass through your portal and search for their own pirate counterparts in other dimensions, to strengthen their numbers. They fly little ships and have clever ways of getting on board. Couldn’t you just focus your energies on fortifying this room so that the pirates can’t reach the portal? And what is this, anyway, a lawless dimension? Don’t you have police?”
“Of course we have police,” she says, sniffing in indignation. “But why should I trust them around the portal?”
“If you don’t trust anyone,” Jane exclaims, “all the more reason to fortify the portal! What are your security measures?”
Jane begins to march to one of the windows—portholes?—then remembers the purpose of this room. “Where’s the portal exactly?” she asks, not wanting to step into it by accident and transport herself god-knows-where. UD17 first Mrs. Thrash points to a chalk square on the floor, right at the edge of Jane’s big black boots.
