Murray Leinster - Gateway to Elsewhere

This is the story of what happened to Tony Gregg after he had learned about the fourth dimensionor maybe it was the fifth or sixthin a shishkebab restaurant in the Syrian quarter on lower East Broadway, New York.

He didnt go to the restaurant originally to learn about the fourth dimension. His first visit was simply for shishkebab, which is a wonderful dish of lamb cubes skewered on small round sticks and cooked with an unlikely sauce containing grape leaves. It was quite accidental that he asked the owner of the restaurant about a coin that heTonycarried as a luck-piece.

Tony had bought it for a lucky charm in one of those tiny shops on side-streets in New York, where antique jewelry and ivory chessmen and similar wares are on display in the windows. He picked it out because it looked odd. His consciencehe had been raised with a very articulate consciencereluctantly consented to the purchase because the coin was very heavy for its size and might be gold. (It certainly wasnt a medal, and therefore had to be a coin.) It bore an inscription in conventionalized Arabic script on one side, and something on the other that looked like an elaborate throne without anybody sitting on it. But when Tony tried to look it up, there simply wasnt any record in any numismatic catalogue of any coinage even resembling it.

One nightthis was his first visit, not the later one when he learned about the fourth dimensionhe went down on East Broadway for shishkebab, and it occurred to him to ask the Syrian restaurant-keeper what the Arabic inscription might say. The Syrian read it, frowned darkly, and told Tony that the coin was a ten-dirhim piece, that the inscription said it was a coin of Barkutand, that he had never heard of any place called Barkut. Neither had Tony. So Tony got a little curious about it, and the next day spent half an hour in the Fifth Avenue library trying to find out something about either the coin or the country it came from. But as far as the library was concerned, there wasnt any place called Barkut. Never had been.

The coin was solid gold, though. A jeweler verified that. At bullion, it was worth somewhere around six dollars. And since Tony had paid only a dollar and a half for it, he was rather pleased. Even his conscience smugly approved. It isnt often that you pick up anything in an antique shop that you can sell for more than you paid for it, no matter what people tell you. So Tony kept it for a luck-piece, and every night on the way home from the office he paused outside Paddy Scanlons Bar and Grill and gravely tossed the coin to see whether he should have a drink or not. Which was a pretty good way of being neither too abstemious nor too regular in such matters. His conscience approved of this, too.

He didnt really think the coin brought him good luck, but the small mystery of it intrigued him. He was a rather ordinary young man, was Tony. Hed enlisted in the Second World War, but had never got beyond a base camp although hed howled for action. Instead, he sat on his rear and pounded a typewriter for three long years. Then he was discharged and got his old job backat the same old salaryand went back to his old lodging houseat a bright new rate per week. Kind of a sour deal all around. So now he was glad he had the coinbecause he liked to imagine things. His conscience sternly and constantly reminded him that he should be polite, attentive to his duties, efficient and no clock-watcher; and the radio reminded him every morning while he was dressing that hed better use a specific tooth paste, hair stickum, breath deodorant, and brand of popular-priced suits. It was pleasant, therefore, to have something vague and mysterious around, like the coin.

It couldnt have been made as a novelty or anything like that. Not when it was gold. But it came from no country anyone had ever heard of. He liked to think that there was some mystery about its having reached his hands; some significance in the fact that he had come to own it and no one else. To make it seem more significant, probably, he got into the habit of tossing it for all decisions of no particular moment. Whether to go to a ball game or not. Whether or not to eat at his regular restaurant. On this excess, his conscience dourly reserved decision.

Hed owned the coin two months, and the habit of using it to make small decisions had become fixed, when one evening he tossed it to see whether or not he should go to his regular restaurant for dinner. It came tails. No. He was mildly amused. To another restaurant uptown? Tails again. He flipped and flipped and flipped. His common sense told him that he was simply running into a long sequence of tails. But he liked to think that the decisions of the coin were mysterious and significant. Tonight he got a little excited when one place after another was negatived. He ran out of restaurants he could remember having dined in. So he tossed his coin with the mental note that if it came heads hed try a new restaurant, where hed never dined before. But the coin came tails. Negative. Then he really racked his brainsand remembered the little Syrian restaurant down on lower East Broadway. He flipped for that. And the coin came heads.

He got on the subway and rode downtown, while his conscience made scornful comments about superstition. He went into the small converted store with something of an anticipatory thrill. His way of life was just about as unexciting as anybodys life could be. He had been pretty well tamed by the way he was raised, which had created a conscience with a mind of its own and usually discouraging opinions. His conscience now spoke acidly, and he had to assure it that he didnt really believe that the coin meant anything, but that he only liked to pretend it did.

So he sat down at a table and automatically flipped the coin to see whether he should order shishkebab or not. The swarthy, slick-haired proprietor grinned at him. There was a bald-headed man at a table in the backa man in impeccably tailored clothing, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses and the definite dark dignity of a Levantine of some sort.

Say, said the proprietor, in wholly colloquial English. You showed me a funny goldpiece last time you were here. Is it that? Mr. Emurian, back there, he knows a lot about that stuff. A very educated man! You want I should ask him about it?

This seemed to Tony a mysterious coincidence. He agreed eagerly. The restaurant-keeper took the coin. He showed it to the bald-headed man. They talked at length, not in English. The restaurant-keeper came back.

He never seen one like it, he reported. And he never heard of Barkut, where it says it come from. But he says theres a kinda story about coins and things like thatthings that come from places that nobody ever heard of. Hell tell you if you want.

Please! said Tony. He found his heart beating faster. If hell join me

Oh, hell have a cuppa coffee, maybe, said the restaurant-keeper. On the house. Hes a very educated man, Mr. Emurian is.

He went back. The bald-headed man rose and came with easy dignity toward Tonys table. His eyes twinkled. Tony was flustered because this Mr. Emurian looked so foreign and spoke such perfect English and was so perfectly at ease.

There is a legend, he told Tony humorously, which might amuse youif I may put down my coffee cup? Thank you. He sat. It is an old wives tale, and yet it fits oddly into the theories of Mr. Einstein and other learned men. But I know a man in Ispahan who would give you a great sum for that coin because of the legend. Would you wish to sell?

Tony shook his head.

Sayfive hundred dollars? asked Mr. Emurian, smiling behind his eyeglasses. No? Not even a thousand? I will give you the address of the man who would buy it, if you ever wish to sell.