I stared, studying him, I suppose, trying to decide what he was getting at. But I felt too buffeted by events to be particularly creative. So, "Charleston Harbor?" I suggested, to keep up my end of the conversation.
"True. Quite true," he replied. "But is this, indeed, the Charleston harbor with which you are familiar?
Have you seen nothing, during the past few hours, to suggest that this is a Charleston harbor which you have never seen before?"
I saw again those wooded bluffs at sunset, and I recalled that strange golden beetle, hopefully still in my pocket. I reached inside and felt around. Yes. The leaf was still there. I withdrew it.
"I've something here," I began, as I unwrapped it.
The golden beetle was still present. It moved slowly upon the leaf which I placed atop an adjacent table.
Ellison donned a pair of spectacles and studied it for several moments. Then, "A beautiful specimen of scarabeus capus hominus," he remarked, "but not, I think, that unusual. You find it truly remarkable, however?"
"I have a friend on Sullivan's Island who collects insects, extensively," I explained. "His collection contains nothing remotely like this. Nor have I seen anything like it anywhere else."
"But in this world, Mr. Perry, it is most common."
"This world. Meaning—?"
"Meaning the world where Charleston Harbor has bluffs and ravines just inland," he stated. "Where this beetle is common. Where a certain sergeant serving at Fort Moultrie ought to be named Edgar Allan Poe—but now is not."
I raised my wineglass and stared at it. I drained it. He chuckled.
"... Where wine is commonly served in glasses no larger than the ones we have before us," he went on.
"Yes, pour yourself another, please." He took a sip from his own as I did so, and I extended the decanter in his direction. "No, no more for me, thank you. My tolerance for alcohol is not remotely the equal of yours, I am sure."
"I still do not understand," I said, "about Poe, and why he's not at the fort, where you say he should be.
Where is he? What has become different?"
"He has gone to the world you came from," he said. "He has taken your place in your world, as you have taken his in this." He paused, studied my face. Then, "I see that you do not find the idea completely unbelievable."
"No," I told him, "I do not. I have—known Edgar Allan for most of my life, through a series of strange encounters—as I have known Annie." I could feel my palms growing moist as I spoke. "You seem to have some idea what's going to happen to her aboard that ship. What do they want with her? What are they going to do to her?"
He shook his head slowly.
"She is not in danger of immediate bodily harm," he said. "In fact, her health is probably a matter of considerable concern to her captors. It is her mental and spiritual powers they wish to exploit."
"I must get to her, find a way to help her," I said.
"Of course," he agreed. "And I intend to show you how. You and Annie and the man you knew as Edgar Allan have met many times over the years, you say, under unusual circumstances ... ?"
"Yes—sort of dream-like encounters. Real enough, but with a special feeling to them."
"Beyond the experiences themselves," he said, "have you any understanding as to what they represent?"
I shrugged.
"Impossible to say, sir. We've discussed it occasionally but never found any satisfactory answers."
"You and Poe inhabit separate worlds, similar yet different," he said. "As for Annie, though, I am not certain which might be her true home—possibly yet a third alternate Earth. I see you nod, sir—as if the notion of other versions of your world were not unfamiliar."
"The possibility was discussed—once, briefly," I said.
"Oh? Poe's idea?"
I nodded.
"Interesting mind there," he remarked.
I shrugged.
"I suppose so," I admitted. "A trifle melodramatic, and inclined to take off after chimera, though."
"He was right."
"Really, sir."
"Really. I am telling you the truth, as I understand it."
"I can follow you," I said. "I can even believe you, I guess. But I suppose it bothers me a bit to see the man right again—and in such a bizarre matter."
"He was often right in odd matters?"
"Yes. As you say, interesting mind, interesting ways of thinking."
"Imaginative," Ellison supplied.
I finished my drink.
"All right," I said then. "Premise accepted. What follows?"
"You, Edgar Poe, and Annie constitute a sort of psychic unit transcending the several worlds," he began.
"It is Annie's exceptional abilities along these lines which provide the motive force of your connection.
A number of people who see a way to profit by her mesmeric talents have kidnapped her and confined her in this world. It could only be done by switching around everyone in your triad. Hence, it was necessary that you and Poe also be exchanged—"
I snorted.
"Mesmerism, sir! Really!" I said. "This sounds to me like the makings of a hoax."
His eyes widened and he smiled. He shook his head.
"You have no trouble with alternate realities, yet you balk at the notion of subtle influences? Between people, between people and nature? Indeed, you are an amazing man."
"I have seen something of alternate realities," I explained, "yet I have never seen this so-called animal magnetism in operation."
"I have reason to believe it operates in all affairs to some degree, mainly beneath the level of our attention—though I do believe its effects to be much more potent in this world than in your own.
Anything which affects the psychic faculty seems particularly strong here. Were I to consume as much alcohol as you have this evening I should be ill for days. This, I believe, is why her captors desired your Annie's presence here. Wherever she was, her abilities were considerable. Here, they will become even greater. If you truly do not believe, you need but wait. I will show you evidence before too long."
I wiped my palms again.
"Enough," I said. "I spoke hastily. I accept it, arguendo, as I want to know where this takes us. Who are these people who have Annie? What are they doing to her? What is it they want her powers for?"
He rose, and clasping his hands behind his back, paced a few paces.
"You've heard of the famous inventor, Von Kempelen?" he said at last.
"Yes," I answered. "Of course. I believe he even had something to do with the creation of the famous mechanical chessplayer I saw in Charleston a while back."
"Possibly so," Ellison replied. "Have you heard it said that he has gone more deeply than most into the writings of Sir Isaac Newton, Father of Alchemy?"
"No," I said.
"There are stories," he continued, "rumors that he'd transmuted lead into gold and grown homunculi."
I chuckled. "Human gullibility being what it is—" I began.
He chuckled, also.
"Of course," he said. "I doubt he succeeded with the homunculus."
I waited for him to continue, and he did not. I glanced at him.
"As to the transmutation," he finally said, "I speak as one who knows that he succeeded."
"Oh," I answered, both out of politeness to my host, and out of a sudden realization that in this place such a thing might actually have happened. "A useful skill, to say the least."
My gaze followed Ellison in his pacing, which had taken him to the far end of his quarters. I noticed for the first time that a low bench he was passing bore various pieces of arcane equipment. Noting my attention, he smiled wistfully and flipped a hand in that direction.