clifford_a-_pickover_surfing_through_hyperspacebookfi-org

54 surfing through hyperspace
"When we were in Cherbourg, I was apparently lifted up into hyperspace.
I am loathe to accept such an outrageous explanation, but after
seeing such odd things in your office, I'm beginning to think it's possible.
Unfortunately, I fainted so I can't report anything."
"That's okay. We can explore the fourth dimension in the relative
safety of my car." You hand Sally a large white card that you have pulled
from your glove compartment. On it are impressive-sounding words
written in capital letters:
AN JV-DIMENSIONAL SPACE CUTS AN (W+ 1) DIMENSIONAL SPACE
INTO TWO SEPARATED SPACES
Sally flips the card over. "That's very erudite of you, but—"
"Yes?"
She stares at the card, wrinkled through years of use. "I'd think you'd
impress more women with your FBI business card."
"Sally, do you know what the words on the card mean? Let me tell
Jl
you.
You deliberately delay your answer as you give Sally a chance to
admire your car seats made of Cordovan chamois leather—a luxurious,
soft, porous leather that could be repeatedly wetted and dried without
damage. Although your sporty, red Porsche Carrera XI is out of character
with the spartan life of an FBI agent, you appreciate the car's sleek lines
and blazing acceleration.
You would never have spent so much money on a car, but you've been
able to obtain it for practically nothing. A few months ago while trolling
in the Potomac River for murder victims, you hooked something big
underwater. A day later you dived, saw the car, and had a friend tow it to
shore. Mr. Duchovny, your boss at the FBI, said that because the vehicle
identification numbers had been filed off, there was no way to trace the
car. There was no sign of foul play—no blood stains or evidence of any
kind except for a wet roll of hundred dollar bills you later found hidden
beneath the spare tire. Because the police thought the car worthless after
being under the river for a few months, they allowed you to keep it. Little
did they anticipate your ingenuity for repair.
You look at Sally and press down the car's accelerator, hoping to hear
Sally purr like a cat as the force of the engine pushes her ruthlessly back
into the leather seat. Unfortunately, you do not get the desired effect.