what? The possible conclusions were daunting.
Did it matter? He was beginning to wonder. Regardless, he was suddenly
norpit
-wealthy beyond the dreams of
gorplash
and decided to luxuriate in his victory. He left the office feeling absurdly triumphant, as well as slightly dizzy.
It was dawning on him that this was more than a joke. Much more. Somehow he had tapped, accidentally and unintentionally, into something important. Some
otherness
. That was cyberspace for you: full of inexplicable mathematical folds and twists not even its programmers understood. Otherworldly, elseworldly, different-dimensionally: the definitions didn’t really matter. Definitions were immaterial. What
was
important was that his skills were appreciated in that other place. Why, the resources being placed at his disposal were staggering, an ongoing vote of confidence in his innate talent. That was what mattered—not the source. He drifted through dinner in a daze, wondering how he might persuade Harrods to accept
zwebagls
.
First thing the following morning, he brazenly ignored an unexpected drop in the cedi market to buy
schmerkels
like crazy. It was a reckless buying spree, consummated far more on instinct than knowledge. That it worked out to his advantage was as much a matter of luck as good timing. When something like a leprous weasel appeared in a small insert on his third screen to congratulate him, he took it in stride. The rest of the day spent dealing in bland dollars and euros was boring by comparison.
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
Did it matter? He was beginning to wonder. Regardless, he was suddenly
norpit
-wealthy beyond the dreams of
gorplash
and decided to luxuriate in his victory. He left the office feeling absurdly triumphant, as well as slightly dizzy.
It was dawning on him that this was more than a joke. Much more. Somehow he had tapped, accidentally and unintentionally, into something important. Some
otherness
. That was cyberspace for you: full of inexplicable mathematical folds and twists not even its programmers understood. Otherworldly, elseworldly, different-dimensionally: the definitions didn’t really matter. Definitions were immaterial. What
was
important was that his skills were appreciated in that other place. Why, the resources being placed at his disposal were staggering, an ongoing vote of confidence in his innate talent. That was what mattered—not the source. He drifted through dinner in a daze, wondering how he might persuade Harrods to accept
zwebagls
.
First thing the following morning, he brazenly ignored an unexpected drop in the cedi market to buy
schmerkels
like crazy. It was a reckless buying spree, consummated far more on instinct than knowledge. That it worked out to his advantage was as much a matter of luck as good timing. When something like a leprous weasel appeared in a small insert on his third screen to congratulate him, he took it in stride. The rest of the day spent dealing in bland dollars and euros was boring by comparison.
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
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