"Yeah?" Carl said. "Great."
Dave got the pipe going. He gave Carl a funny look, then shrugged. "So, you're in a jam. What is it this time? Did the cops finally-" He broke off and squinted at Carl. "Jesus. You look different, somehow. Where did you get that crazy haircut?"
Carl passed a hand through his hair. "Crazy? Yeah, I guess it is."
"It's way out. I-" Dave passed his eyes over the four of us, looking uneasy. "What are you people up to? You're not extras-you're not working a shoot nearby?"
"No, Dave," Carl said. "You're not going to believe this, but…"
For the next half hour, Carl spilled his story, though leaving out a good bit of it for economy's sake. I spent the time watching Dave's shifting reactions. He began with simple bemused skepticism, modulated to adamant disbelief, then switched to shocked credulity. By the time Carl had gotten through most of what he had to say, Dave's expression was almost blank. He looked numb, and a little shaken. Several times, early on, he had interrupted Carl, insisting, "This is a gag, right?" He wasn't insisting now.
Carl finished up and sat back, looking at Dave expectantly. Silent, Dave puffed on his pipe and stared out the window. He did this for a long while.
Finally Carl snapped, "Jesus Christ, Dave, say something!"
"I'm waiting for Rod Serling to come out and do the teaser," Dave said quietly.
Carl sighed. "I knew you wouldn't believe it."
"Oh, I believe it."
"You do?"
"Yeah." Dave crossed his legs and sat back. "There are exactly three possibilities. Either you've flipped, or I've flipped, or you're telling the truth. There's another, maybe, but I know you, Carl, and you couldn't keep a straight face this long if you were jiving me. But let me tell you something right now-if I've read you wrong and you are indeed pulling my leg, if you got these people out of central casting and came up here to see how long you could keep me on the hook, if this is a gag, Carl, I'm going to kill you. I'm going to get out my samurai short sword, disembowel you, and feed your liver to you-without onions."
Carl shook his head slowly. "It's no gag."
I took out the communicator and handed it to Dave. "Ever see a radio like that?" I asked.
Dave examined it. "Radio?"
"Maybe you'd call it a walkie-talkie. Say something into it."
Dave scowled. "Into it? Where? There's nothing to this."
"Speak into this side," I told him, pointing.
Dave rolled his eyes, then held it near his mouth and said, "Hello?"
"Hello?" came Arthur's voice.
Dave jumped, dropping the communicator. "Jesus Christ! It sounds like he's in the room. That can't be a walkie-talkie."
"Yes, it does have good reproduction for a long-range receiver."
Dave pointed. "Is that-"
"Yeah, that's Arthur," Carl said.
"Hello?" a puzzled Arthur said. "Jake, are you there?"
I picked it up. "Yeah, Arthur. Sorry, we were just testing it again."
"I think we can rest assured that it works," Arthur said peevishly.
Dave chewed his lip, then asked, "He's a robot, right? And he's up on this… saucer?"
"Spacetime ship," I told him.
"On the moon?"
"Arthur, are you still on the moon?"
"That's right, dearie. Is that a new friend of yours?"
"Yeah, that's Dave."
"Hi, Dave!"
Dave looked around uncomfortably before he said, "Uh…hi."
"Lively one, isn't he?" Arthur commented.
Dave was nonplussed. Suddenly, something snapped and he jumped up. "This is too much." He thumped the pipe into an ashtray and raised his hands palms up in a helpless, despairing gesture. "I don't believe it. On top of everything, the robot's a smart-shit. He's in this fucking flying saucer, and he's on the fucking moon, for Christ's sake, and I'm feeding him straight lines."
"Such language," Arthur complained.
Dave suddenly developed a grave expression. "Excuse me," he said quietly. He left the room.
Carl waited a moment, then picked up the communicator. "Arthur, you asshole!" he whispered hoarsely. "Now he's all pissed off."
"All these neurotic humans I have to put up with," Arthur grumbled.
Dave returned five minutes later bearing a,tray on which were a number of tall bottles. His face looked a bit gray. "I don't know about you guys, but I need a drink. Beer's all I have."
We all took a bottle. Dave sat, took a long swallow; and ruminated. He took another drink before he said, "I've just had a shock. I'll tell you about it in a minute, but first, let me tell you the reasons for my believing your fantastic story strictly on the basis of what you've told me, and what I've seen. I buy it not because it makes one whit of sense, which it doesn't, not because it's believable, which it isn't, but because of a few little things. I'm a writer. I'm plagued with the penchant for noticing things-little things. Tiny touches of convincing detail. Like your accent, Jake."
"My accent?" Strange to hear someone say I had one.
"Yeah. It's American, generally. But I can't place it, and I specialize in regional dialects. I do great dialogue, my producers tell me. But I can't place yours. Yours either, Lori. Now, Darla's is totally different from both of yours. If I had to put a tag on it, I'd say it was Mid-Atlantic. Neither British nor American. But there're traces of other accents in there. A melange. I can't figure it."
"Better to call it mid-colonial," Darla said.
"Yeah. I guess so." Dave gulped more beer. "Accents. Okay, now clothes. Those getups you're all wearing. Those clothes weren't made anywhere in the civilized world. I don't know that for sure, but the style… I mean; it's a style I've never seen. And they're nondescript clothes, nothing flashy about them, except that jacket of yours, Jake. But it's worn and tattered. The elbows are wearing through. That jacket's been worn; for Christ's sake: Again, there're only two possibilities. Either that's a studio wardrobe throwaway, or it's a real jacket, worn by a real person, who happens to be from another time and place." Dave drained the bottle, took another from the tray, and applied a tool to its top. The metal cap popped off. "And you, Carl. I noticed it right off the bat. There's something different about you, even besides the haircut and those futuristic overalls you have on. You look different. Like you've traveled, grown. You look older. You are older, according to your story. About a year, right?"
Carl nodded.
"Sure. So it all fits, it all hangs together on that level, the level of convincing detail. On the rational level, the whole thing holds about as much water as a colander. But I have to believe it. That communicator thing could be a souped-up transistor radio or something, but even so, it's one weird object. I wouldn't have accepted the story on that basis alone, but… it, plus the little things, the fine touches-add it all up, and… I've stepped into a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity, the middle ground between light and shadow, et cetera. Cue Rod. Action." Dave exhaled slowly, taking off his glasses and rubbing his left eye. Then he swept back his longish dark hair. "But there's one more thing. The clincher-a piece of irrefutable evidence. The shocker. When I was in the kitchen, I made a phone call. I called you, Carl. I talked to you. You were home, at your parents' house."
Carl seemed to collapse inside. He lowered his head and stared at the floor.