The cage mechanism worked smoothly and locked the new arrivals in place. At first Adam thought they received a guy in fur coats. But no, it was a bundle of… well, what exactly, Adam wasn't sure. In the back of his mind he registered 'dog face'.
Adam expected this group of refugees to show the normal signs of transfer: out cold. But the freshly arrived man shook his head and looked around. Ilse was already going to the reception room and he quickly followed her, lest she would make any unhealthy decisions, like hugging the new arrivals.
Ilse was really the woman's-lib sort, emancipation was her middle name. At the same time it was violently clear that she was just a woman. Yes, Ilse looked nice and he didn't mind having her around for her looks, but to say he was lucky to be working with her would be stretching the truth.
Ilse rearranged her white lab coat and stood in the white washed reception area. She adjusted her glasses and noted the number and species of the new arrivals on her clipboard.
"Four, Adam!" she called over her shoulder. The security detail was standing down and most of them were dismissed. Adam saw them leave and was thinking about the number Ilse had called out. Four? Surprised, he entered the room with the setup and inspected the bundle of people on the ramp. They looked harmless, that much was for certain. Ilse nodded to the sergeant and with two M16s at the ready he pulled the security lever that unlocked the cage door at the receiving end of the inter-dimensional setup.
Ilse clearly was smitten with one of the arrivals but Adam knew what his job was. He approached the man who looked dizzy. "Can, You, Understand, Me?" Adam said, loudly and slowly.
"Yes, I, Can," the man replied equally staccato. He was heaving with exertion, smelled sweaty. But despite his state, he answered in clear English. That was a first! Adam smiled, noting two things. One: Well, well, a sense of humor and Two: a British accent.
"Gee, you're British?" Adam asked as Ilse made a note on the form.
The black haired, short, colored man on the ramp cleared his throat and pulled a hand through his disheveled hair. Adam had finally arrived at the count of four, like Ilse before him. So, they received one man, possibly a half-blood or a Mexican, and two snoutfaces of which one was in a dress so that had to be a female. He'd never seen a female snout! Finally, the number four was what looked like a toddler shaped man-dog. The new would say 'mog'. There had to be small mogs of course, but those were kept hidden. Mogs kept their kids and females locked up, safely and away in their own little world.
The man on the setup seemed to take him up and Adam tilted his head, expecting a question.
"Adam? Can I call you Adam? What day is it today?"
A presumptuous, but under the circumstances, not too strange question. For all he knew, this guy had left tomorrow or yesterday.
Adam verified the day of the month on his watch and said, "Friday 6 march 1981."
The man seemed to consider this. Slowly, questioning, the man on the setup repeated the year. The guy was sitting there, on the ramp through the setup, unperturbed, with two snoutfaces and a snoutface kid.
"1981?" the man questioned.
Adam considered the new arrivals. What a score. He had not in his whole life seen so many dog people. He was sure they were supposed to look like dogs, these were more reminiscent of cats. Anyway, who was he to judge? No one knew really a lot about them doggie guys. What was for sure though, was that they stole jobs.
Perhaps these new furballs were dead?
"Hey, Ilse, you see that? Three ugly and maybe dead snoutfaces."
Ilse's face went livid but she regained control.
"Oh," Adam said innocently, "I mean mogs."
For good measure she looked at him sourly. She hated the names used to describe the canine in appearance humanoid race that walked this world along with humans. Those dogs were on average so stupid they couldn't turn a key in a lock if their life depended on it. Ilse always went on about them being less smart but having feelings too and how they were treated substandard.
And that was the point: the dog people were substandard. Stupid. Even a retard was more intelligent than they were. The fact that they were equipped with hands and feet, and walked upright like Homo Erectus only made them canine erectus, not in the same league. Period.
"Dog people?" the colored man asked, a bit amiss.
"Yes," Adam continued and sadly noted one of the dressed snouts was stirring, "with a dress, for a change. I don't think I ever saw females. The small one is male? Never seen one so small either."
The waking dogface was looking around as well, and her attention was divided between him and Ilse, her ears twitched. She was mute, as their race usually was. The toddler and the other doggie were still out cold.
The colored man scratched his head, saying "um…" and looking at the red dressed snoutface. Adam couldn't refute the evidence: she did look like a cat, he had to admit. Her green eyes even had slits. Well, the snouts were all freaks.
"Uh," the snoutface said, still stunned.
"What's your name?" Adam asked the colored man.
"Greg, Greg de Beers. How do you do? Where am I, and what will happen next?"
Adam replied, "You're in New York. Say, you are refugees, right? We just sentenced two criminals to a presumable death. Their deaths are used to recover refugees."
Greg repeated "New York…" then looked behind him, to the setup. "Trust me, they are dead."
Adam nodded satisfied. Ilse was stoic. Then Greg asked, a little weary, "Say, how do you control the setup to that level? I can't imagine a setup to be that well under control. And in 1981, for that matter!"
Adam considered the question. What was this Greg guy talking about? It was clear this man was in the know where the setup was concerned. This was pretty cool, or pretty darn bad, it depended on your view.
"Program?" Ilse asked, "The gauges are correctly set, it's self-aligning, see?" Ilse pointed to the robust made setup with cast iron pins linked in the sturdy metal frame that disappeared outside the ceiling cover.
"Ah," Greg said loftily. Adam decided the guy was clearly lost.
Next, Adam prepared for the official part, clearing his throat. "Greg, you are hereby officially offered asylum in the United States of America. If you accept, you will be provided a token amount of money to start your life and will be appointed a place to live. Your, ah, companions could, in theory, be added to your legal custody."
"Custody?"
Adam went on, "I have the privilege of offering you a work permit which will allow you to remain in the United States for 1 year starting today."
"Asylum and a green-card?" Greg mused, "I'd like that! Can I live in the US then?"
"For sure! We will keep an eye on you and if you behave you can apply for Citizenship."
"Greg? Is that good?"
Adam searched for a moment to find who spoke. It was a clear female voice, controlled and even. He looked at Ilse, she nodded to the catlike snoutface in the red dress, Ilse was equally astounded.
Adam nodded to the white furball in the red dress. "Did that snoutface just speak?"
Greg took note of his words and clambered down from the ramp, even assisting his dumb dog-faced female. The pair stood next to Adam, trying to remain upright. Greg was small, the snout was his height. "I'm Shirra," she said, "Shirra Akazai, assistant supreme at the side of Sir Greg here."
The snoutface curtsied, a bit wobbly. Adam took a step back to Ilse, who stopped him. Had Ilse not stopped him, he might have laughed out loud for the ridicule in front of him.
Ilse hissed in his ear, "You are afraid of smart females, Adam. It does not suit you."
"I'm not!" he hissed back, ignoring the new arrival who was clearly listening in, "You tell me you ever saw a snoutface that smart, well?"
Ilse shrugged, grudgingly agreeing with his point.
"Different world, different rules," Greg declared clearly and started collecting the puppy toddler from the ramp. That left one doggie, and the female in the red dress was inspecting that now.
"Greg, Vivian is not too well, see that wound at the back of her head? I think she got hit by debris of a grenade. We ought to seek medical attention."
Upon hearing that, Adam nudged Ilse, saying, "Two females!"
Greg looked at them. "Three, actually, this here is also a female." He held up the toddler snoutface, which seemed asleep.
Ilse lifted the clipboard and corrected her notes with a few scratches, adding, "Well, that is a great improvement! Three mogs, and females at that." She looked at Adam. "If I see their manners, I would expect they are a great asset to our society. Which is more than I can say for some people."
Ilse meaningfully squinted at Adam before proceeding to help the comatose pants-wearing snoutface from the ramp. Then she turned back to the newly arrived party, explaining, "I am afraid a hospital for mogs is going to be a bit of a problem. But I know a doctor which will help you. Come, we will provide you with a drink of water. It helps clear the head from the transition."
Ilse didn't pick up the pained look in Shirra's face who couldn't for the life of her figure out why 'a drink of water' would be more important than the condition of Vivian. But, if anything, Shirra had learned a few things travelling between realities.
Adam stood and looked at how Ilse grunted with effort as she and the catlike snout were working to support the second snout. Adam was not going to touch any of the mongrels, not in his life! Doggies were smelly and could carry deadly diseases, everybody knew that. Also, they strew hair all over the place. They could not ride public transport or cabs unless well-trimmed and accompanied.
Everybody knew that.
It was just like Ilse to go cooing over this party now. This Greg guy, however, had an intelligent look in his eyes. Who knew how high this man could reach? Sure, the guy was part black but in contrast to his father, Adam never believed all blacks were stupid. Take that rising pop star, Michael Jackson, that guy was seriously all right.
###
The paperwork didn't take too long. Greg received papers with his official status and the three female mogs were added.
Adam noticed how Ilse was very happy. He wondered why she was so happy! There wasn't a good reason; he thought to be so happy with the red dressed mog. The one in pants was still comatose and the toddler seemed to be sleeping, very tired.
Greg had cleaned his face in the restroom and eaten a series of candy bars repeating how much he had missed Snickers. The snoutface in the red dress had produced a comb of sorts from their pack and was using it intermittently. Adam couldn't understand how she could be so… so… he swallowed and accepted the word 'graceful'. Shirra was her name. There was something about her, something he could not dismiss. The red dress was full of burn marks, streaks and generally showed battle results but if anything it added to Shirra's presence. Yes, the cat-like snout was something alright!
But, Adam reminded himself, still a snout. Ilse, in contrast, let her admiration flow freely and tried to engage in conversation with the weird snout who politely evaded that. Didn't Ilse see how they were trying to get going?
"Greg," Adam said to the man, "I'm not sure where you come from, but here you are responsible for their behavior and thanks to the socialists even their well-being. What I want to say is, if they lay a hand on a human you will suffer the consequences. You seem a sensible person, so, are we clear?"
Greg nodded. "No worries mate."
Adam's blue eyes met the dark brown ones of Greg.
"We're cool man," Greg assured him, "I've got this under control."
Adam wasn't too sure. Two snouts and a small one; that was bound to cause issues. Since Adam he was breaching protocol anyway, Adam decided to give Greg a final piece of advice.
"On more thing, Greg."
"Sure?"
"Please understand you are being supported by the US government, generously so. It would be good form not to disappoint the Americans and their tax dollars."
Greg's eyes narrowed. "I'm with you man, I'll find a job."
Adam silently thought, "I was afraid you might say that," but he held his tongue.
Greg sighed, tired. "Adam, I'll keep my own. Really."
Adam smiled, thinking that was at least the right approach.
Finally, Ilse seemed to get the cue from the snoutface and agreed to bring the hurt one to her illegal doctor. Adam helped them into Ilse's nice car. At least she had a corporate spot in the parking garage under the building.
Back in the office Adam sat down and began the rest of the paper work. He started with the official death statements of the prisoners.
"Pfff," he blew and turned the sheets of paper with carbon paper between them into the typewriter. Ilse had written down a lot this time. It would be a long day behind the typewriter. "Every job has its thorns," he hummed and started hitting the keys, hard enough to get the letters on the three carbon copies.
