Nikola Tesla never died. From the moment he stepped through the Breach, he began to change into something evil. Now, his son Petar has escaped the nightmare world of Volos to warn Earth of Tesla's imminent attack. The only problem is, nobody believe...
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"THERE'S NO SUCH THING as reality."
"No! No, stop that." For the first time, Brodham let his impatience show. "Stick to what's real. This world. Right here."
"What I meant was, reality changes depending on how you view it. My father's reality is much different than your reality."
"Your father."
"Nikola Tesla."
"The scientist from the nineteenth century." Brodham laid on sarcasm thick enough to suffocate the man. He didn't seem to notice.
"Correct."
"I had one of our agents pull some info on this Tesla," Brodham said as he slid a sheaf of white printer paper out of a manila envelope. "I know who he is, sure, but I thought this might help you come to terms with your symptoms. We're going to try a little psychology game. I'll show you historical information about what actually happened, and you'll tell me what you think actually happened. Maybe we can reach some common ground. Does that sound okay to you?"
"Could you tell me what time it is?"
The question almost caught Brodham off guard, but by now he was used to the man's non sequiturs. He consulted his watch.
"Six o'clock."
"In the evening?"
"Yes."
"Okay, I'll give you another hour."
This time Brodham was surprised.
"You have somewhere to be?"
"Something like that. Let's get started, though. The sooner the better."
Brodham stared. The man's mannerisms seemed to change from one moment to the next, faster than a riptide. One minute he'd be intent – almost to the point of mania – on making sure Brodham believed his story. The next minute, he'd be calm, collected. Devil-may-care, as if he were simply hanging out with an old buddy. The problem was, he had this way about him that made you feel immediately comfortable around him. It just didn't jive with Brodham's experiences with psychotics. Most of them were withdrawn and stuck tighter than Gorilla glue inside their own heads. This guy could have been your neighbor. Just not Brodham's neighbors, whom he couldn't stand.
And the way he waited – like he was waiting now – was reminiscent of a Zen Buddhist. As if he had all the time in the world, despite the fact that he seemed to want to leave within the next sixty minutes. Brodham was pretty sure this guy wasn't getting out of here for at least a year, let alone an hour.
Brodham sighed and pulled one sheet from the sheaf of papers. He slid it across the table. "You're familiar with the Encyclopedia Britannica?"
