The old familiar ozone smell of an open dimensional portal. Everything bathed in glowing light. Loose papers blew around my living room.

I stared into the glowing gateway for a second, then grabbed my coat. "This may be a force of habit, but I fear if this portal closes, I shall never have another chance to reunite with my friends. Apologies if I doubt your promise of it reopening again, but I really must leave at once."

The ritually scarred double of my scientific friend wiped his glasses and stowed them in his trenchcoat. "Suit yourself."

His eyepatch wearing girlfriend got up from the couch, reaching into the pockets of her jacket. "If you're jumping in blind without any help..." she handed me a switchblade, brass knuckles, and a cyanide capsule. "Can't be too careful."

Wade paused, then pressed an envelope into my hands. "Oh, and if you run into a woman named Jasmine Wheeler, this is for Tracy, when she gets older." She wiped a tear from her eye. "It explains why I left her there. I hope one day she will understand."

I cleared my throat. "If I run into her, I'll make sure she gets it. But you of all people understand how difficult it is to return to a parallel world."

"How much money do you have?"

I frowned. "For days, I have been holding on to the hope that my friends would return, or another opportunity to Slide would present itself. For this reason, I always keep roughly five hundred dollars on my person, plus another five hundred around the house."

I had, in my library, a book of parallel universe H.P. Lovecraft's theological essays (a dreadful book), which I converted to a device to store valuables. When they took a look at what I had, they offered to exchange currency. "I can't say for certain our money will have any value where you're going, but it wouldn't hurt to diversify...plus...uh...we're going to need to live on something."

I shrugged. "Mi casa es su casa. I only regret not having enough time to sign you as trustees over my estate. I'd write each of you a generous check, but I fear you would require valid photo ID and bank accounts and things...Still, you're vary welcome to stay in my house during my absence."

Remmy offered me a pistol, but I flatly refused. "Oh no, Mister Brown! Not every world has the Second Amendment! Better take my chances without it."

I did, however, accept a taser.

At this point, The Portal had become shrunken in size, the Timer indicating I had only a few seconds left. "I must apologize for my abrupt departure, but I have no choice, you understand. Thank you, gentlemen, lady..."

I leapt into the swirling vortex.

Alone.

Downright eerie, traveling the Einstein Rosenbridge alone, when you've always been with companions. The Vortex made haunting echoes and alien howling sounds. Perhaps it always did this, but until that moment, I never had to listen to it.

...And that epoxy smell...Either I hadn't paid attention, or this new application Timer'' opened portals differently.

Throughout all my months of traveling through parallel universes, I have never once landed in a wastewater treatment facility. Imagine my horrified disgust at splashing down in the foamy depths of a secondary treatment vat.

A massive outdoor cylindrical tank, wherein, if you are completely ignorant of the process: The wastewater ferments. An activated bacterial sludge, and algae, breaks down organic matter' in the water. The sludge gets pumped out a drain in the bottom, the purified water channeled out the top.

A human body should never be present within such a contraption. I fought against powerful suction as I thrashed my way to the surface.

Not at prime physical condition, and out of practice swimming in general, I panicked, fearing I would soon join the solid waste as sedimentation at the bottom of the tank.

The moment I caught air, with my eyes burning and stinging, I received a shower of partially filtered sewage from the inlet pipe...then a skimmer arm came to trap me like a glob of floating scum.

In a normal waste treatment plant, the arm only moves at a snail's pace, but in this parallel world, manufacturers thought it a good idea to make it turn at the speed of a cake mixer.

I screamed and swam away from the thing. "Help! Help! Someone! Anyone!"

The rest of my words got lost in mouthfuls of sewage.

As fluid seeped into my lungs, descriptive words like "aeration" and "aerobic bacteria" popped into my brain. The scientific mind seldom rests.

A paunchy, bearded man in white coveralls came rushing up along the catwalk. "Hey! What are you doing in there!"

"Drowning, you buffoon! Help me!"

The stranger slammed an emergency shutoff button, then hurried down a ladder, offering a chemical sampling pole.

I grabbed and held on for dear life as he pulled me up.

Once standing safely on the catwalk, dripping and gasping for air, I attempted to shake the man's hand and put an arm around him, but he understandably recoiled.

A ghastly odor now permeated my every breath. Sewage up the nostrils, in addition to the incinerated solids elsewhere at the plant.

Night had fallen. Under the electric lights, I couldn't make out much of the surrounding city, just all the rows of treatment vats, water tanks, solar panels and such like.

The white stranger's hair had been braided, American Indian style, and he wore feather earrings and a beaded necklace with bird claws on it. "Praise the Great Spirit that you tied your shoes so tightly. We're already going to have a time clearing all your impurities out of the system and balancing the PH. People got to drink that water eventually."

Although I initially gaped at the man's costume, after all I'd been through, the manner of a person's dress seldom shocked me. "My profuse apologies. Wouldn't have been in there if I had a choice. Oh, and please excuse my previous outburst, dear sir. I did not expect to be...dropping into that, and I confess my swimming skills have lapsed as of late."

The man cracked a smile. "Mister, you picked hell of a place to go swimming! What were you doing in there in the first place?"

I chuckled nervously. "That, my friend, is a very long and embarrassing story. Suffice to say, I would never intentionally repeat the mistake of going down inside one of those mechanical horrors again!...Now, could you please direct me to a shower and a set of dry clothing?"

The man had a hearty guffaw at my expense. "That shit is no joke! You'll definitely want to use our shower to rinse off all those chemicals and bacteria right away. I'd get myself to a Medicine Man and get a few shots while I'm at it. Gods know what kind of viruses you're going to contract! Guess we can get you some old coveralls until you can find something better. You definitely need to incinerate those clothes."

"Excuse me, did you just say Medicine Man?"

The man's face reflected pity. "Are you...not covered by the Tribal Community Network? There's a free clinic down the road a ways...I can drive you..."

I frowned at the patches on the man's coveralls: A four directional sign, resembling the New Mexico state flag, a totemic sign of a raven.

I squinted at his name badge. "...Lightning With No Rain...This may sound strange, but...humor me, I've sustained a...head injury...Who is the...chieftain of the United States?"

The stranger blinked like a toad in a hail storm. "Do you mean, who is the Chieftain of the National Tribal Alliance?"

"Why, yes."

"That would be Chief Running Bear the 16th." After studying my face a moment, his grin widened. "Say! you look exactly like that astronaut from TV!"

He snapped his fingers. "Soaring Eagle Arturo! I thought your tribe was slated for launch this week! Did something change?"

"Soaring Eagle...?" I shook my head. "Never mind, Mister Lightning. About the space launch..."

I attempted to fabricate an explanation of my presence there, out of whole cloth, but the man interrupted my sputtering with: "I got it. You're performing top secret military operations. Right this way, sir, I'll show you to the decontamination shower."

We passed the Headworks, the buildings that housed the waste cake' production apparatus, the turd burners' that produced electrical energy from methane.

Lightning offered me a stick of Wrigley's Black Licorice Gum. Due to the foul taste in my mouth, I immediately accepted. Not as bad tasting as it sounds.

The main building, though made of concrete, had the shape of an immense log cabin, though with a flat top. It still bore the familiar Brutalist aspect of all public works buildings of this type. Large steel signs around the entrance, shaped like dance shields, displayed the same symbols on Lightning's jumpsuit.

I received no small amount of stares upon entering the building. Although night, the building still had a fair staff, and it's not every day one sees an astronaut with sodden clothing stumbling into a sewage treatment facility.

The shower: Just one in the whole building, and a far cry from the shower in Doctor No, but the austere attention to cleanliness seemed to promise that my scalding bath and application of burning chemicals would prevent a laundry list of diseases and serious infections. By the way, the toilets...employed a device instead of toilet paper.

My clothing...ruined, as well as the paper items I had in my pockets.

I did receive a white coverall for decency, but insisting that they also carry underwear would have been beyond reasonable.

Regarding the papers, once I got dressed, I begged Lightning for assistance with the matter.

It turns out they did have a process involving powders, microwave radiation and ultraviolet light that preserved and detoxified the materials, albeit with a somewhat unpleasant smell. They had questions about my large wad of currency, but I informed him it was a government secret.'

Fortunately for me, the phone still worked. I had 36 hours until the next Slide, and the counter continued to function like normal.

Even after showering, with some very intentional nostril irrigation, I might add, the ungodly waste odors would not depart from my nasal cavity.

I thanked Mister Lightning, made to leave, but Lightning said his boss wanted to speak with me.

I followed him into an office filled with computerized equipment (PH and flow data, that sort of thing) where a well dressed American Indian slouched behind a desk.

A television on one side of the room showed a tennis match between Arnold Palmer and...Michael Jackson. Honestly, The King of Pop would have been a good description of his skill at moving the ball.

A framed picture of a place resembling Machu Picchu hung on the wall, one with flags and modern additions that made it seem more like the United States Capitol building.

A newspaper on the man's desk featured an article about a baseball stadium being so overloaded with fans that it collapsed and killed people. Another described the deaths caused by performed aromatherapy candles.

Necklace and earrings featuring jade and gold, earring feathers from a parrot or something more exotic. His slacks had a decorative woven breechcloth depicting trees.

The moment he saw me, the man hopped to his feet. "Soaring Eagle Arturo? In my waste management plant? Sir, it's an honor!" He marched up and shook my hand. "Sachem Whispering Pines of the West Coast Tribal Council. What brings you here?"

In the shower, amidst all the frantic scrubbing and rinsing and fretting about virii, I had paused a moment to fabricate a compelling story. "I am not at liberty to discuss the details, but we've been experimenting with a space travel device, and there was a mishap."

I paused in front of a framed movie poster: Patrick McGoohan in 007: Moonraker.

Whispering Pines smirked. "I always liked that movie. Even if he is a little square." He put a hand on my shoulder. "You know, my daughter wrote a school report about you. this month they've been studying famous minorities..."

My face flushed red. "Minority? Is this a joke? Saying that is an insult to real minorities everywhere!"

The man stared at me, as if I had said something socially inappropriate. "That's...a very unusual take on the subject."

Lightning, who had been eagerly observing us, now chose this moment to speak up. "Maybe that's how he got to where he is now."

Being otherwise unable to exit the conversation topic gracefully, I blurted, "My apologies. Tell your daughter I am honored. Perhaps I can give a presentation at her school sometime."

Then, mostly to divert attention away from my subterfuge and empty promises, I pointed to a curious sort of...golden lasso hanging behind the man's desk. "What's that?"

"That? The Noose?"

"Yes."

"I got that for Confirmation. It reminds me of what Our Lord Jesus took upon Himself at the gallows."

I rubbed my face in frustration. I'd seen a fair amount of strange religious beliefs and organizations throughout my dimensional travels, but...drastic alterations to biblical history? "And yet they say God is unchanging," I muttered to myself.

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't discuss religion and politics in mixed company."

I fumbled for words. "No, no, it's just..." I coughed. "My grandmother had one just like it, I was just wondering where you got it."

"United Tribal Fellowship of Christ—"

Before he could speak further on the subject, another white man in a jumpsuit rushed in. "Sir, there's a motorcade out front. I think they're here for our guest."

"They led me out through the Chlorination Room and down a staircase.

Out past the curb, an army of motorcycles and...miniature aircraft awaited me.

The motorcycles...literal iron horses. They'd been constructed with heads, very similar to knights in a chess game. Many of these vehicles had double sidecars.

I didn't see any actual cars or limousines. Instead, passengers not in sidecars rode in carriages, which the motorcycles pulled.

The air taxis idled on the ground, propellers spinning.

The motorcade bore the New Mexico symbol on their flags. Their riders: Long haired American Secret Service men in tuxedos and breechcloths, faux bone' breastplates crafted from gold and silver adorning their chests.

A suited figure rushed up to me. "Soaring Eagle! Praise the Ancestors! The launch is less than two hours away! We need you at the Four Winds in your flight suit...now!

Lightning gave me a push, but I froze, refusing to move another step. "You...want me to get into a rocket...for a space mission? I wouldn't even pass the physical fitness requirement!"

The suited man glanced at my outfit and burst out laughing. "I was told you had an amazing sense of humor, but wow! Pretending to be a Water Department man! That's a new one on me!"

I briefly took in the surburban network of modernized hogans and wigwams surrounding the treatment plant. I expected tipis...but those appeared to be only used for back yard camping.

When Lightning told him about my misadventure in the vat, he laughed so hard that tears streamed from his eyes. He shook my hand, congratulating me on the incredible prank, but used the handshake to drag me closer to the motorcade.

A Secret Service man stepped between me and Mister Lightning. "Excuse me, sir. Who are you?"

I tried to explain the man was a friend, but it turned out Mister Lightning needed security clearance to get that close to the...Chieftain's motorcade, so he got sent away.

"My dear fellow! There's been a dreadful mistake! I'm not this...Soaring Eagle person you're looking for! I've never set foot inside a rocketship in all my life!"

The suited man patted me on the back. "I know it can feel like that sometimes. It's only your second flight...Why do you keep talking about rockets?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but Lightning leaned in and told him, "He said he hit his head when he fell in the vat."

"Soaring Eagle, you do remember The Slingshot, don't you?"

I had absolutely no motive to lie. "No...I'm...drawing a blank. How does it work?"

The man looked concerned. "We'll give you some tests before we send you up there. How's that sound?"

I reluctantly agreed. "Speaking of which, I believe I am..." I forced a cough. "I believe I may have encountered innumerable viruses and bacterium during my unexpected soak. I do not believe I am...safe to travel."

"Don't worry, sir. We have the best Medicine Men in the country. We'll get you treated and on that shuttle in no time."

With no further preamble, he and a group of Secret Service men rushed me into the back of a carriage...hooked to air taxis.