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