Paradox New 9/18/03 page 1

PARADOX
Timothy Perper & Martha Cornog
© 2011

Chapter 1. The Message

"What's Smith want this time?"

Betsy shrugged. "DivEs business, Siggy. That's all I know. Go right in." She smiled sweetly.

"Feh," muttered Csigolyi.

She smiled back. "Good old Siggy." Csigolyi was playing the curmudgeon again – a well-known act
at the Office of Interface Operations, aka OIO, aka DivEs. She shook her head.

He chuckled and pushed open the door to Smith's office. DivEs, huh?

And what is DivEs? It stands for the Division of Esoterica, but it isn't really a division of anything,
just a loose collection of people interested in everything from the Land of Oz to little blue men from
Mars. Not that they're not men exactly or women either – they’re lumpy beings that look like, well,
blue lumpy Martians is what they look like. DivEs affiliates who study them sneer at anyone who
talks about little green men from Mars. They also sneer at anyone who says they’re members of
DivEs. Come now, one is affiliated with DivEs, not a member. Of course, the real cognoscenti,
illuminati, and whatnot don’t say either – they just grumble, like Csigolyi. It’s a shame, but that’s
how it is. Distinctions like this always build up in bureaucracies and agencies…

Not that DivEs didn't have its enemies, including (for example) Senator Wayne Beidemeyer, who
stood up on the Senate floor and blasted these "diddlysquat ghost-busters" for wasting the taxpayers'
money. Then he had waved various secret documents at his fellow Senators, but they mostly looked
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bored. They didn't care -- or, actually, they did care, but they did not want to know -- what strange
and indubitably scurrilous activities lurked under the obviously invented name "Division of
Esoterica" and its impenetrable connections to the Office of Interface Operations of the Executive
Branch. It’s all National Security, isn’t it? OF COURSE it is, and that settled that, so most Senators
ignored their colleague, except a few fellow party hacks who needed to return Beidemeyer’s favors
-- and not even they supported his "call for an investigation of this pork-barrel foolishness" for very
long. But DivEs fixed his wagon.

They found an affiliate who would sneak over a couple of parallel universes, paraverses for short,
and find something interesting about the Senator, on the principle that if one moves only a few
paraverses away from home, things aren't too much changed. Fortunately for Senator Beidemeyer,
all the Senators Beidemeyer in nearby paraverses were as upright as he, and self-evidently it was no
help to go further afield to find crooked, corrupt, or nogoodnik Senators Beidemeyer, because
whatever they had done there, obviously our Senator Beidemeyer hadn’t done here -- because we’d
know about it if he had. And what we need is something that works here as leverage against our
Senator Beidemeyer, not against their Senator Beidemeyer.

But the trip wasn’t a total loss. They did find out that his niece Larissa -- who was only seven and
eight in these local paraverses -- had lost her tricycle. So a disgusted crew of OIO/DivEs agents
(including Leo Fallarian) tracked down Larissa's lost tricycle in the nearest paraverse to home, found
it in the barn at Cousin Melanie's father's "farm" -- actually, a 70,000 acre ranch -- and scuttled back
to locate (we quote from the internal memorandum) and ascertain the whereabouts of youngster
Larissa Beidemeyer Caulson's toy tricycle for the intended purpose of returning said tricycle to said
youngster... But you get the point. They showed up at the Senator's office with the tricycle wrapped
in a big red ribbon and presented it to him "with the compliments of DivEs." That put an end to
Senator Beidemeyer's complaining, so he never found out that DivEs had affiliates who could pop
over a paraverse or two -- or even more than that. Now, in some other paraverses, maybe Senator
Beidemeyer did find out, but that's another story.

DivEs, Csigolyi grumbled again, as Smith's door closed behind him.

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"Hi, Siggy," said Leo Fallarian.

"Hi, Siggy," said another Leo Fallarian.

"Hi, Leos." Holy Bejeezis, DivEs AND paraverse trouble. He smiled at the red-haired woman next to
him, whom he did not know. Smith was on the telephone -- the red and green one, which he had said
was a present from a little girl in some paraverse far away, who called it a "telly-phone" -- so he and
the woman just nodded at each other. No telling WHO you meet at a DivEs conference. But TWO
Leo Fallarians? One is bad enough. Both men -- dark-haired, dark-eyed, were half smiling at him.
Just wait, Siggy, you just wait, the smiles said.

He turned to the woman. "Csigolyi," he started, but she nodded. Military type, he thought. Yeah,
paraverse trouble.

"Sergeant-Major Wells," she said flatly.

Hoo-hah! So this Was Sergeant Connie Wells? Yeah, REAL paraverse trouble. "I’ve heard your
name, of course,” he murmured. "It is a pleasure to meet you – "

"As I have heard yours," she replied courteously, her voice distant. He nodded, they both broke eye
contact, and he stared out the window. Just Washington, D.C., nothing special, even if it was
alarming to realize that somewhere -- where? -- in the multiple infinities of paraverses, an infinite set
of mirrored Csigolyis all sat in this chair, or other chairs, and... And what? What were they all
doing? In some, there weren't even any Csigolyis...

"Hi, Siggy," Smith said. The telly-phone settled itself on Smith's desk, adjusting its red and green
spots. Csigolyi looked away. Where he came from -- i.e., right here -- telephones didn't preen. God
only knows what sort of "little girl" had given the damn thing to Smith.

"Hi," he said wearily.

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"We're all here," Smith began, "except Krylla, who will be in later. No doubt you're all wondering --
"

Both Fallarians laughed, and Sergeant-Major Wells chuckled.

"Ha, ha," Csigolyi echoed in a hollow voice. It was Smith's standard parody of Elmo Elvison's
opening line, and thank God he wasn't here. It was rumored by the paraverse affiliates that every
paraverse that had anything like DivEs in it had the identical Elmo Elvison as its chief, roly-poly
good humor and booming voice.

"Smith," Csigolyi growled, "if I hear that damn line one more time -- "

They all laughed again, because that was his standard reply. But he wondered why Connie Wells
laughed. Did her paraverse have a Siggy in it who said that too?

"Easy to explain." Smith handed the Fallarians a thin sheet. "A request from the Instrumentality."

There was dead silence.

"I wonder," Csigolyi began after a while, "how dear old Aunt Bessie is. Elderly, you know -- and
she's been wanting me to visit her for years out in Arizona... Getting old, she is, and I figure it's my
duty to visit her...don't you agree?"

Sergeant-Major Wells smiled. "Aunt Bessie, Siggy?"

Siggy? How had she known his nickname? Perhaps she knew other Csigolyis… He shrugged. "I
myself, you understand, don't have an Aunt Bessie, but now, the other Csigolyis, why we have a
veritable army of Aunt Bessies and Aunt Tessies, and -- "

"And you have to visit them all."

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"I sure do," Csigolyi replied. "I most certainly do. Right after this meeting, I'm booking a flight for
Globe, Arizona--"

He fell silent as Leo Fallarian II passed the sheet to Connie Wells. She glanced at it and handed it to
him.

Dear Smith, it said. Can you do us a favor? We need someone to find a poet named Yvor Grache.
The last we heard he was in Yellow-Orange Deep 230. Anything we can do in return? Just ask.
Ranzman Toko.

Slowly, Csigolyi lowered the page. At its top glittered the words "The Instrumentality," and above
the I was a typographically unneeded dot: an eye. The Eye of the Instrumentality. Printed in black
and white, still it looked at him, curious, mild, but it looked at him. He slid the page onto Smith's
desk, and again there was silence.

"The problem," Connie Wells said finally, "is figuring out what they can do for us..."

Leo Fallarian I ambled over to the window, adjusted the shade, and stared, dark-eyed, out onto
Washington. Leo Fallarian II examined Ranzman Toko's note. Nobody answered the Sergeant-
Major. Lurking in whatever fractal corner of the Cosmos it lurked in, sat the Instrumentality, its Eye
watching. Occasionally it asked you to do things, but the problem was that it wanted to -- repay you.
No money, no diamonds, no negotiable securities. Other things, like favors. And if you couldn't ask
the Eye for the right favor, why it might look at you in disfavor, and for some reason no one wanted
that to happen.

Leo Fallarian I came back from the window and selected a volume from the shelf next to Smith's
desk. "I don't think I want to know where Yellow-Orange Deep 230 is. But -- "

"You don't," agreed Sergeant-Major Wells. "It's deep in a Wessel paraverse wedge. Most -- I don't
know how many -- paraverses around it are in the same wedge. To get there, we'd have to back up to
Yellow-Burst, hop forward, and even if we did, we'd be picked up the moment we stuck our noses
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into the start of that wedge. Agents from Wessel have covered every entry point we can think of. It's
one of their central holding times. Not an easy assignment -- and I almost wish I had an Aunt Tessie
too."

"Aunt Bessie," Csigolyi murmured. "But, somewhere -- " he gestured vaguely to indicate the
infinitudes of paraverses around them " -- somewhere it's Aunt Tessie.” He paused, trying to read her
face. "I'm sure she's like to meet you. My Aunt Bessie was herself a volunteer during the last war.
You'd have a lot in common." Strange, he thought, inventing a story, knowing that somewhere it is
probably true...

"Well,” Fallarian II said, "that's it. That's what we ask for. We ask Toko to let Siggy and Connie visit
Aunt Bessie or Tessie or whatever her name is."

Csigolyi looked at him. "I shouldn't have said it -- but as long as you ask, it's Aunt Bessie. I don't
know about Tessie.”

Sergeant-Major Wells chuckled. "She was a volunteer also. Right, Johnnie?"

Smith nodded. "Looks like it," he said softly.

Fallarian I shut the book with a snap. "Connie is right. Yellow-Orange 230 is a rat’s nest of Wessel
agents. God help us." He looked at the other Leo Fallarian and fell silent.

"Oh, well," Connie said after a while. "If we don't go, why, then -- "

"-- some other set of us, in the infinite multiplicities of paraverses, is going. And they need help."
Fallarian I nodded at this wise comment from Fallarian II.

"Don't ask me," Smith muttered. "Can I get back to Ranzman now?"

"Yeah." Fallarian II sighed. "You coming, LF-I?"

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Fallarian I nodded. Only he and this other him called each other LF-I and LF-II.

Smith leaned over to a small screen on a side-shelf. At least it doesn't preen, Csigolyi thought as
Smith punched buttons. The screen glowed momentarily, then turned darker. In the upper left corner,
a pair of eyes was appearing, pixel by pixel. They looked at Smith quizzically. An eyebrow
materialized, and cocked itself. No, it doesn't preen, it looks at you.. Smith rattled keys, and the two
eyes stared down in the plane of the screen to read what Smith was writing. To Ranzman Toko! We'll
be delighted to help rescue this lost poet. Let us know more, will you? Smith.

The eyes smiled, and started to read the reply now appearing on the screen. Smith! Sergeant-Major!
Fallarian the First! Fallarian the Second! Csigolyi! How delightful that you will all help. Much help
is needed, I can assure you, for Yvor is a hard man to find these days. But find him we must -- the
eyes on Smith's screen looked solemn, not quizzical -- for a great deal depends on it. Tell me,
however, is there anything we can do for you? Ranzman Toko.

"Here it comes," muttered Sergeant-Major Wells.

The eyes on the screen looked hopefully around the room, and lighted on Csigolyi, or so he thought.
Damn. He started to type, trying not to watch the eyes as they read his answer. Ranzman! Why yes,
there is. It happens that I've been wanting to visit dear old Aunt Bessie for a while now. She's been
asking for me, you know, and -- well, I've been remiss in not visiting her! So I'd like to, if that can be
arranged. Csigolyi.

The eyes smiled -- beamed, in fact. But Connie was typing too, so the eyes looked down again to
read what she was writing. Ranzman. Indeed so. And Siggy invited me to visit her too -- though
maybe he meant Aunt Tessie. He wasn't sure; is that a problem? I hope not. Can that be arranged?
Sergeant-Major Wells.

The eyes beamed even more widely.

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Of course, of course! the screen wrote out, as Csigolyi let out a deep breath and Sergeant-Major
Wells sighed in relief. It is a delightful idea, just the thing that Aunts Bessie and Tessie would love.
You know how they are -- they like a party, even though they wouldn't say so. I'll start arranging it
right now, and everything will be ready the moment you get back. And so many thanks for asking!
Ranzman Toko.

The eyes on the screen beamed at them once more, and then slowly shut. The screen went dark.

Smith sighed, and Fallarian II extracted from a cabinet a bottle of something called "Liqueur de
Grand Canal. Le Plusieurs Best de Mars." He poured himself a shot, gagged, and handed the bottle
to Fallarian I. Smith settled on opening a bottle of wine for the others.

"Well, here we go again," Csigolyi said, toasting the screen. Its eyes remained dark, but the
tellyphone was preening again.

"Where's Krylla?" Connie Wells asked, draining her glass and handing it to Smith for a refill.

"I don't know. She should have been here a while ago..." Smith's voice trailed off. "I don't know
where she is."

*** *** *** ***

"What's Smith want this time?"

Betty shrugged. "DivEs business, Siggy. More than that I don't know."

"Just asking." He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Although Siggy was quite the curmudgeon,
everyone around OIO liked him.

Chuckling, he pushed open Smith's door. DivEs, huh?

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And what exactly is DivEs? It means "Division of Esoterica," but you have to understand that it's not
really a division of anything, like a government agency, even though it works -- sort of -- for the
Executive Branch. At least that's where Senator Bedemayer said it worked, but he said it lurked. And
quite a speech he launched, too, even though his colleagues in the Senate slept through it or at least
pretended to, so they wouldn't have to do anything about a private arm of the Executive Branch, or
whatever it was. National security, you know.

After all, they were the people who had helped the acculturation -- as DivEs called it, though the
Terra First contingent was yelling about "infiltration" -- of the Varjinians into American society. Of
course no one knew what they looked like. All of them, it was rumored, were Martians -- you know,
blue creatures with tentacles? -- or that's what some of the people who were "affiliated" with DivEs
said (because you didn't "belong" to DivEs, and you don't work for it, either, despite all the Senate
business about the President and the Martians). But in fact no one knew what the Varjinians looked
like, assuming that they even existed.

So everybody was happy when Senator Bedemayer dropped the whole thing about investigating
DivEs, although a cynic or two wagged his tongue about the publicity he got for that red tricycle his
niece Larissa Colson Bedemayer lost and had gotten back, thanks, everyone knew, to the efforts of
Office of Interface Operations agent Leo Fallarian (and read "DivEs" when you read "OIO," eh?
Wink, wink.) Well, it only proved that DivEs had a heart, just as its roly-poly boss, Elmo Elvison
had said, with his big booming voice and his genial manner. Quite a character old Elmo. Why, rumor
said that everywhere there was a DivEs -- in all the different paraverses, we mean -- all the DivEs's
had exactly the same Elmo as boss, but that's silly, isn't it. Elmo is unique.

"He sure is unique," Csigolyi muttered, walking into Smith's office.

"Hi, Siggy," said Leo Fallarian.

"Hi, Siggy," said the other Leo Fallarian.

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"Hi, Leos." He grinned at them. Now, whaddya know, he thought. With THEM around, it must be
paraverse trouble. He smiled at the red-haired woman sitting next to Smith's desk – Paratime
Troop’s Sergeant-Major Connie Wells. "Nice to see you again," he said.

They shook hands.

"Indeed it is," she murmured, half-smiling.

"Hi, Siggy." Smith hung up the telly-phone, its blue and red stripes gleaming. Csigolyi stared at it,
not sure he liked this "telly-phone." And exactly what sort of "little girl" had given it to Smith? He
did not want to know, and put it out of his mind as the telly-phone realigned its stripes. "Where's
Krylla?" he asked.

"She'll be here in a bit." Smith was staring at a think sheet. At the upper left, Csigolyi could just
make out the Eye that meant the Instrumentality. The Instrumentality. Paraverse trouble and the
Instrumentality. Just what we need. Csigolyi grimaced.

Fallarian I took the sheet, glanced at it, and handed it gingerly to Fallarian II, who shook his head
and give it to Sergeant-Major Wells. She studied it.

Dear Smith, it said. Can you do us a favor? We need someone to find a poet named Yvor Grache.
The last we heard he was in Yellow-Orange Deep 230. Anything we can do in return? Just ask.
Ranzman Toko.

"That's real trouble," she muttered, throwing the memo on Smith’s desk. “I won't lie about it. You
know where Yellow-Orange Deep 230 is? I mean, really know where it is?"

Csigolyi shook his head. Yes, he knew where Yellow-Orange was -- standard paraverse time-
coordinates: Yellow-Orange meant that the sector was held by agents of Wessel. Deep meant that
whenever this place was in paratime, it had been part of a time wedge that Wessel had held for a
long time, together with the nearby paraverses, if one can say nearby to describe a fractal cosmos.
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"But who is this poet Yvor Grache?" he asked. "It sounds like someone my Aunt Bessie would
know."

"I didn't know you had an Aunt Bessie," Fallarian II observed. The other Fallarian called him LF-II.

Csigolyi laughed. "I don't really, but -- "

"But, yeah," interrupted Connie Wells, "somewhere there is a para-Csigolyi who does have an Aunt
Bessie -- or Aunt Tessie."

"Yep. And, believe me, if she's out there, she'd know all about this poet."

"Likes poetry, huh?" Connie Wells gave him a half-smile.

He nodded. "She's quite a character," he said, prepared to invent Aunt Bessie's interest in poetry, or
whatever an Aunt Bessie might like... But he broke off and stared off into space. No one wanted to
talk about the sheet of sort-of paper with the Instrumentality's Eye on it.

"We have no choice," Fallarian I said after a while.

"Yeah," Fallarian II agreed. "Somewhere, if we got this request from Ranzman, somewhere there are
other Fallarians, and other Smiths, and other Sergeant-Majors who got it also…"

"And other Aunt Tessies and Tessies," Csigolyi broke in, planning to invent things as he went along.
"Which reminds me: John, I forgot to tell you, I just have to visit Aunt Bessie. Why I just got a
videogram from her. 'Nephew,' it said chidingly, 'why have you not visited? It isn't as if this place
out here in Sphere isn't clean, you know! Well, you have to come...'"

Smith chuckled, but the others were silent. None of them wanted much to do with rescuing strange
poets, and Csigolyi's concocting an Aunt Bessie mirrored what they felt. But then again, if the
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Instrumentality was asking... For some reason, no one quite wanted to say No to the Instrumentality.
The Eye might look askance at such a happening, and then... no one wanted to find out what then.

"What will we ask them to do for us?" Smith broke in. "You know Ranzman. He always wants to
repay us."

"Ask for gold," muttered Sergeant-Major Wells.

"Very funny." Fallarian II was staring out at Washington DC. It was dusk now, and the lights were
coming on. Quite a sight, especially the Twin Bridges.

"Huh. Easy," Sergeant-Major Wells snorted. "Why, Siggy and I want to visit our Aunts Bessie and
Tessie"

"Whacko petunias," Fallarian I commented approvingly. "Just the sort of thing Ranzman'll love."

"Yeah, just the thing," growled Csigolyi. He picked up the time-map of Yellow-Orange Deep 230. A
stray memory returned of having been in Red-Orange Light 160, a stray memory that strayed back
too often. A jet black sky, under filthy clouds, and the racing of a Capsillon paraverse transmitter. It
just sped, and didn't grip -- the infinitesimal outgrowths of the infinite fractal that was the Cosmos
eluded it, and he was trapped. The stray thought became panic. Up ahead was a Wessel cruiser,
looking for him. There, he hoped, Collins was dead. "Grip," he whispered.

Fallarian II handed him a glass of something. He drank it, raw liquor returning him to Smith's office.
"Damn," he muttered.

"Good for the soul," said the Sergeant-Major. "Reminds us of why we're here."

Anyone else Csigolyi would have punched. Not Connie. It had been her ship that had picked him up,
after losing precious seconds setting the Capsillon on self-destruct. "Yeah," he murmured. It didn't
help to know that in an infinity of paraverses, Collins had died in only some of them. In others,
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Wessel had caught him... He stared at the bottle. "Bourbon de Grand Canal, Mars. Only the Very
Best!" He set the bottle back Smith's desk.

Smith paid no attention. He was typing on the small screen that nestled on a shelf. The
Instrumentality screen.

Its eyes watched him, steady, direct. Csigolyi glanced at them, and then away. Ever so slightly, there
was a furrow between the eyes, as if they could see him... He turned to the window, to watch the
lights go on outside in the city, here, deep in Violet-Blue 990, far from Wessel...

To Ranzman Toko: We are most willing to help the Instrumentality in its search for the poet Yvor
Grache. Please let us know the details, and we shall then act as soon as we can. Smith. The Eyes
smiled slightly, but the furrow did not vanish. They still seemed to watch Csigolyi, as the screen
replied.

Smith! Sergeant-Major! Fallarian the First! Fallarian the Second! Csigolyi! How delightful that you
will all help! Much help is needed, I can assure you, for Yvor is a hard man to find these days. But
find him we must -- The eyes on Smith's screen looked grimly at them -- for a great deal depends
on it. Tell me, however, if there is anything we can do for you? Ranzman Toko.

"Yeah." Csigolyi leaned over Smith's shoulder and began typing. Sure is, Ranzman. I've got to visit
Aunt Bessie, and Connie wants to meet her too, though maybe her name is Aunt Tessie. Is that a
problem? Can you people arrange that? I've been owing her a visit for a while, and you know how
she gets when I don't visit. Csigolyi.

The eyes on the screen beamed at him, the furrow disappearing, as they looked down to read the
letters running out on the screen. Of course, of course! It is a delightful idea, just the thing that
Aunts Bessie and Tessie would love. You know how they are -- they like a party, even though they
wouldn't say so. I'll start arranging it right now, and everything will be ready the moment you come
back. And so many thanks for asking! Ranzman Toko.
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The eyes beamed at them once more, then slowly shut. Csigolyi and the Sergeant-Major both sighed
quietly, and Smith reached into a cabinet for a bottle of wine.

"Well, now we know I have an Aunt Bessie in some paraverse," Csigolyi observed, clinking glasses
with Connie.

"A poet, huh?" she rejoined, smiling. "Why not?" For a moment, they had forgotten about Wessel.

Fallarian II took a swallow of the Martian Bourbon, looked unpleased, and handed the bottle to the
other Fallarian. He too took a swallow. "Not that bad. But say, John, where's Krylla? Isn't she
supposed to be here by now?"

Smith paused. "Yes, she is," he said slowly. "A while ago, too." His voice trailed off. "I don't know
where she is."