Parallelities by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page A

some-what. Dare he risk that? It certainly seemed the most likely explanation. After all, his was a security building.
    Putting on his best smile, he pushed the door aside and entered. At the same time, a figure emerged from his bedroom to greet him. It was clad entirely in black. Not black lace, but black sneakers, socks, jeans, and long-sleeved overshirt. In silhouette it did not in any way remotely resemble the feminine form, and it was carrying the twenty-inch Trinitron that under normal circumstances reposed sleekly atop the dresser by the foot of his bed.
    “Aw, shit!” Catching sight of Max, the man promptly set the TV down gently on the nearby coffee table. “Look, don’t call the cops, man! I’m leaving quietly, see? I didn’t take nothing else and I ain’t taking nothing. Gimme a break, man! I’ve been hungry.”
    “Hungry, my ass!” The outraged reporter was emboldened by the fact that the would-be burglar displayed nothing in the way of a weapon. The intruder was also several inches shorter than the outraged tenant and slim to the point of emaciation.
    “Aw, shit!” exclaimed a new voice unexpectedly.
    Turning, Max saw a second man standing in the doorway behind him. He was exactly the same height and weight as the burglar, wore exactly the same clothes, spoke with precisely the same intonation and phrasing …
    He was, in point of fact, an uncannily exact duplicate of the equally stupefied burglar presently standing slack-jawed in the middle of Max’s den.

“W ho the hell are you?” the newcomer inquired sharply the instant he caught sight of Max’s unwanted visitor.
    “Screw you, Jack!” The would-be television hoister’s expression flattened like a punctured tire. “Son-of-a-bitch but you look a lot like me.”
    Ignoring a stunned Max, the newcomer marched into the room. “A
lot
like me? Shit, you look
just
like me!”
    “Just like who?” A third visitor made his presence known as he wandered in from the hallway. He wore black sneakers, black socks, black jeans, and a black long-sleeved pullover shirt. All three men shared the same attitude, not to mention the same eyes, the same disreputably acquired notch in their right ears, the same beer stain on the hem of their shirts, and the same edgy irritation. They clustered together in the middleof the modest den alongside the coffee table and the nearly purloined Sony, and argued vociferously.
    Max quietly closed the door, then turned and waved. “Hi. Remember me?”
    Going silent simultaneously, they turned to look at him for the briefest of moments before returning to their arguing. This was complicated by the fact that they often had the same thought concurrently and attempted to give voice to it at exactly the same moment. The ensuing confusion created by identical-sounding overlapping voices only added to their exasperation.
    I’m being burgled by triplets
, Max thought wildly.
Triplets who don’t seem to know each other.
    “Hey,” declared the first intruder, “we can sort this out. After all, you guys sound like fellas I could get along with.” He gestured in Max’s direction. “But first we’ve got a job to do, and that doesn’t include letting Mr. Homeowner here run around loose.”
    Max didn’t resist. There were three of them and they were all probably crazy to boot. He let them tie him to one of the kitchen chairs and watched while they sat calmly in his den and argued energetically. One of them had the nerve to go to the refrigerator and help himself to three of Max’s choicest cold brews. Their subsequent exclamations of delight indicated that, unsurprisingly, they all favored the same brand of beer. This mutual bonding gave him time to note that the similarities between the three extended far beyond thesuperficial. Even their hand gestures were so similar as to be indistinguishable.
    After some thirty minutes of increasingly jovial camaraderie, they rose and shook hands. The one who had been carrying the bedroom TV