Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [35]
When he returned to his apartment late that night, there was a box waiting for him outside his door. It bore a peculiar and unfamiliar return address sticker but was clearly intended for him. Picking it up and carrying it inside, he removed his coat and tie, laid them neatly aside, shook the box experimentally, and then carefully opened it.
It contained the most beautiful suit he had ever seen: a lustrous, almost metallic black, fashioned of material so soft and light, it felt like woven air. A smaller box nestled within the larger contained cuff links and a tie pin sporting gemstones unlike any in his experience, including those featured in the display window at Tiffanys. They were deep violet shot through with dancing gold sparks. He wondered what they could possibly be. An accompanying card declared, “Compliments of the Öurt-Hafnook Pension Fund.” As he tried on the suit, which fit him like a cool breeze on a hot Manhattan afternoon, he wondered what an Öurt-Hafnook might be besides generous.
As his work with currencies belonging to the realm of the outré progressed over the next several weeks, he found himself the recipient of half a dozen additional wondrous and inexplicable gifts. There was the toaster that materialized butter inside the bread without any visible application mechanism; the add-on stereo for his car that, while ungainly and not quite fitting the intended slot in the dash, brought in stations no one else could hear; and the special toilet seat that, while one was appropriately enthroned, quickly cured any intestinal upset, distress, or hangover while performing its other, more plebeian function. Yes, business was very good indeed.
Until the bafferfoom market collapsed.
Now, Parker-Piggott no more knew the nature of bafferfooms than he did zwebagls. All he knew was that it cost him nearly ten millions quiviqaps before he could get out. That, in turn, ruined his leverage with Kovodo doyks. Before he knew it he was out another million mopulopes. Even his beloved schmerkel forwards were suddenly in jeopardy.
Wait a minute, he told himself. What was he worried about? It was all done through the computer, through whatever bizarre cross-dimensional upload had infected his private system. It was all sham, the suit and toaster and other gifts notwithstanding. Prank or something more, it was time to put an end to it and get back to dealing exclusively in sound, familiar currencies, from Mexican pesos to Egyptian pounds.
Accordingly he ordered up, at his own expense, an entirely new operating system. The handling software he installed himself, layering on his own personal work-ware after carefully scanning each individual component for viruses, spyware, or other intrusions. Only when he was certain all was virgin did he re-power-up his office. It was with the satisfaction of the very thorough that he subsequently observed on his triple screens only figures and names that made sense. He went back to work with a vengeance. Only occasionally did he cast a quick, nervous glance in the direction of the complaisant third screen.
The only news it brought him, however, was real news. Comprehensible news, delivered by interchangeably attractive men and women. No bilious chimeras thrust their quivering proboscises in his face, announcing this or that impossible disaster or ascendancy. No scholarly worms spewing elegant elocution announced the fall of unknown deities or celebrated the arrival of some inscrutable new conjuration. He was back on solid ground, monetarily speaking.
Next week he was due to take off for ten days in the Bahamas. Sun, sand, casino glitz, good food, fine drink, and relaxation—in the company of the enchanting Jennifer Lowen, if he could persuade her to accept his invitation. He was full of happy reggae thoughts, mon, as he entered his apartment that evening and locked the door behind him.
It struck him right away, and with considerable force, that he was not alone.
One visitor was wearing a neat brown