"Like I said before, they would have fried. When the weapon's used on an individual who's in his or her dimension of origin, there's nowhere for the energy to vent to. A circle burn starts in the molecular structure. Fizzipp. High-speed sizzle."
Gibson was a little sickened by the idea. He eyed the weapon on Smith's hip.
"Nothing left?"
French laughed nastily.
"Maybe a grease spot."
Gibson was still having trouble with it all. The more he learned the greater the confusion. One thing he knew for sure, though- he really didn't like the streamheat.
"I don't get it. Why the hell should a bunch of cats from another dimension want to disguise themselves as a Haitian death squad?"
"Habit. And maybe because they enjoy it. Haiti has been a major entry portal to this dimension for more than a century."
"The voodoo lets them through?"
"Among other things."
Gibson sagged in the seat. "This is getting out of hand."
Klein spoke for the first time. "Makes your head spin at first, doesn't it?"
Gibson nodded. "You can say that again." He thought fora moment. "Let me get this straight. These guys slip through and your job is to zap them back again?"
"That's putting it a little crudely."
"But those weapons do zap them back?"
Smith nodded. "Right back to their own dimension."
Gibson snapped his fingers.
"Just like that?"
Smith smiled. It was the first time Gibson had seen any crack in the cold efficiency. "Just like that. Sometimes they arrive intact and sometimes they don't. Sometimes they come out at ground level but other times they materialize in the middle of a mountain or a thousand feet up in empty air."
"You sound like you don't particularly care."
"We don't lose any sleep over it."
Something occurred to Gibson. It was one of those thoughts that one immediately regrets thinking. "You say that everyone's human, more or less?"
"More or less, except those who aren't."
"Are you?"
Klein laughed. He must have seen Gibson's expression in the mirror. "Don't worry, we can't turn into the Dunwich Horror right before your eyes."
Gibson turned to Smith for help.
"This is more than making my head spin."
"That's because you have no real grasp of the multidimensional universe."
"Perhaps you'd like to explain it to me?"
Smith frowned. "Not really. I don't have the time, and you don't have the math."
Gibson was starting to come out of his shock, and the repeated double-talk was starting to make him angry. "You call this answering my questions?"
Smith did her best to placate him. "I'm not trying to be difficult. It's just that you keep asking questions that only show you don't even understand the fundamental principles. I mean, you probably think that when I'm talking about another dimension, I'm referring to things that are-" She gestured airily to beyond the car window. "-over there somewhere."
"Well, aren't they?"
Smith shook her head. "Quite the reverse; thousands of dimensions exist at once in the same relative space."
"So how come we aren't knocking into each other all the time?"
"Because different dimensions exist at different levels of reality, at different wavelengths if you like. Like the different channels on a TV set if it helps to think of it that way."
Gibson nodded. "I understand wavelengths. One zigs and the other zags so the twain never meet. There seems to be quite a lot of meeting of the twain, though. I mean, you guys are here."
French half smiled. "He's really quite smart for a primitive."
Gibson scowled. "That's what Custer said about Sitting Bull."
Smith ignored the exchange. "In normal times, the worst that happens is a degree of leakage."
"But these aren't normal times."
Klein snorted. "There's leakage all over the place. Things are getting real messy,"
Gibson was thoughtful. "So, when you travel from one dimension to another, it's really a matter of tuning, of changing wavelengths?"
"You could look at it that way."
"How do you do it?"
"How do you do what?"
"Travel from one dimension to another?"
Smith shook her head as if talking to a child who amazed her with its relentless questions. "There are dozens of ways, maybe hundreds. They range from primitive, animalistic energy rites to the most sophisticated subpartical-"
French quickly cut in. "You think you should be telling him that?"
Smith looked surprised. "I'm hardly giving him a course in how to do it."
"I think all that Gibson really wants is a reassurance that we aren't monsters disguised as humans."
French was right, but Gibson greatly objected to the way that he said it.
Smith spread her hands. "Back in our own dimension, we're as human as you are. There are certain minor changes that take place when we go through transition. Local adaptation is part of the process; it's integral to the dimension crossover. It quite literally comes with the territory. Much depends on subjective perception but, all in all, we are all very similar, certainly not monsters."
Gibson didn't sound quite convinced. "Just our brothers on another wavelength?"
"Right."
"That's a relief."
"I thought it might be."
Gibson looked at Smith. She really was a good-looking woman. "So what I see is what I get?"
"Quite."
"And how do you see me?"
"The adaptation process is really a two-way street. It allows us to interface in all the normal ways."
Despite his confusion, Gibson managed to raise a flippant grin. "And does normal interface include sex?"
Smith's eyes became steely. "It's possible, but try anything with me and I'll break it off."
They were back in the Holland Tunnel. In a couple of minutes, they'd be in SoHo, and Gibson decided it was time to concentrate on psyching himself up as far as he could in preparation for whatever might be coming next. He didn't doubt that their destination would deliver a whole new set of shocks and surprises. They were passing the Four Roses Bar on Canal Street, and he was forcibly reminded how badly he needed a drink. Damn but he could use a shot before they got to where they were going. He had half a notion to ask Klein to pull over, but then he pictured the three streamheat-even if they could be persuaded to stop at the bar, which he didn't imagine they could- marching into the Four Roses, with their neat uniforms and whitebread-clone good looks, while the disco lights flashed and James Brown pumped out from the jukebox. They'd clear the place. The clientele of the Four Roses, as Gibson remembered it, would assume that the trio were some new kind of narco task force and instantly vanish for parts unknown.
They turned up Lafayette and then doubled back on Broome Street. Finally they turned into Greene. The Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of a loft building with no lights showing.
Klein turned off the engine. "This is it."
Smith looked at Gibson.
"Stay put until we're sure there's no problem."
Although apparently deserted, the place was covered by what, even to Gibson's untrained eye, had to be a considerable screen of discreet security. Two heavyset thug types in dark suits flanked the totally unremarkable entrance, like the doormen of some clandestine nightclub. Two others, junior mob in leather jackets and those stone-washed jeans that were so big with Italians, were stationed under the streetlamp on the other side of the street. Every so often, one of them would mutter something into his cupped hand as though he was holding a small transceiver. A black van with darkened windows and Virginia plates was parked at the curb.
Smith, Klein, and French looked round carefully. It was only when they seemed thoroughly convinced that everything was in order that they started to make a move. Smith fixed Gibson with an I'll-only-say-this-once stare.