by Ira Nayman
“F…f…fine.” Noomi was unable to hide how shaken she was.
“No desire to punch Paul Reubens in the pancreas?”
“Well…maybe a little.”
“It’ll soon pass.”
“I’ll bet Reubens is breathing a sigh of relief knowing that!” a muffled voice came from one of Investigator Chumley’s pants pockets.
Traveling between universes is like moving through a 3D Jackson Pollock painting, except for the metallic taste it leaves in your mouth (which never happens in art galleries…well, except maybe for that one time at MOMA…). When you are first…encouraged through the Dimensional Portal™, you are enveloped in a protective pocket of atmosphere that stays with you until you arrive at your destination universe. It’s sort of like wrapping yourself in warm garments to go out on a harshly cold winter’s day, but without the stigma of having your mother fuss over your clothes.
Side effects of interdimensional travel vary from traveler to traveler, but noted ones include: the desire to sing ‘Don’t You (Forget About Me)’ loud and out of key; phlebitis of the scrotum; premature blandness; Smiter’s confusion; a feeling of oneness with all things in the universe beginning with the letters ‘ca’; Rimski-Korsakov Adjustment Syndrome; the mistaken belief that you are Carla Bruni-Sarkozy (unless you are Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, in which case she has the mistaken belief that she is you); hypochondriac’s spleen; the screaming Mooblies; delusions of Grand Marnier; Ma Dooley’s Lament; the desire to eat your own right armpit because you are convinced that it knows the reason for your existence but the stubborn bastard remains silent on the question; crepes fugue; skier’s nostrils; Maury Pauvich addiction; inability to form abstract…umm…inability to – to – not being able to…uhh…yeah; terminal bedroom eyes; 80 foot tall duck syndrome; Smiter’s remorse; and the overwhelming desire to set up a used virtual car dealership in the online environment Get a Life. All things considered, Noomi’s first transdimensional jump was pretty smooth.
Noomi and Investigator Chumley found themselves in a warm, wood-paneled room. Books lined one wall. A dead body slumped over a Home Universe Generator™ was on another wall. The third wall held a door that – wait a minute. Wait just a minute! Did you say that there was a dead body slumped over a Home Universe Generator™ here? ALRIGHT! This was what having a green vest was all about!
Hmmm…how best to explain what a Home Universe Generator™ is? Do you remember how excited you were when you first found out that you could travel between dimensions? Of course you don’t. The technology that allowed interdimensional travel was kept secret by the governments of developed nations – and France – for several years. This secrecy eventually broke down for several reasons. The United Nations opening up trade with the Sisselkfert Slugpersons of Slackbottom Seven was one; it was hard to convince people that six foot tall slugs were native to Earth and that the reason that nobody had ever heard of them was that everybody’s attention was always somewhere else when they were around. The fact that Ungaro Obanga Unitarian – the holder of the patent for the Transdimensional Warp Tongs™, a major part of Dimensional Portal™ technology – put the design specs for the technology on his Facebook page was another.
Whatever. It eventually became obvious to the governments involved – and France – that transdimensional travel could not be kept from the public forever. However, given their experience with the * UNHINGED ZONE *, they weren’t about to let billions of people travel through the Multiverse willy nilly, higgledy piggledy or schmuckily amuckily. The Home Universe Generator™ was their compromise solution: it allowed people to peer into any other dimension in the Multiverse without giving them the ability to actually travel there. The Home Universe Generator™ quickly replaced watching television, surfing the Internet and playing strip Mah Jong as people’s favourite pastime; most people were satisfied with that. One of the main reasons the Transdimensional Authority was created was to deal with the people who weren’t.
Two men had gotten to the room before them. Investigator Chumley introduced Noomi to them. The first one, a middle-aged Asian obsessively taking pictures of the room with his cellphone, was Hidecki Meshuggaa, the Transdimensional Authority’s foremost crime scene photographer. Noomi noticed that he pursed his lips like he was smoking a cigarette, even though he clearly wasn’t.
The other man, Samuel Ghant, had the severe features of a Nordic downhill skiing Olympic champion. His job appeared to be poking the corpse with a pencil, thinking for a couple of moments, writing something down on a clipboard and poking the corpse in another place. Investigator Chumley said he was a coroner.
The dead guy was a retired used shoe personality implant salesman named Gauguin di Presto. To Noomi’s untrained eye, he looked about 90 years old (he was actually only 88, but this was her first case, so you should cut her some slack!). After poking his body a couple more times, Ghant looked up and announced, “Ya, vell, I vould say dat Mister di Presto died off a heart attack. Ja. Definitely a heart attack.”
“He wasn’t murdered?” Noomi, disappointed, asked.
“Oh, goody!” the voice in Investigator Chumley’s pocket said. “Those things on either side of your head aren’t just ornamentation!”
“Sorry,” Investigator Chumley quickly covered.
“I guess I just – this being my first case and all,” Noomi explained, “I thought it would be neat if it was a locked room murder.”
“Well,” Investigator Chumley sympathetically told her, “when you can travel through dimensions, locked rooms aren’t really much of a mystery.”
Take that, Agatha Christie! Noomi thought.
Investigator Chumley pointed out to Noomi that the back of the case of the Home Universe Generator™ had been opened, and that pieces of the machinery were strewn about the floor around the corpse. Tampering with a machine that allowed civilians to look into other universes was an interuniversal crime; that, not the death, was what the Transdimensional Authority was there to investigate. Not that the death wasn’t important, he hastened to assure Noomi, but, well, you know.
“Say, Investigator Chumley brightly added, “You know what I could go for right now?”
Grinning, Noomi replied, “What’s that, Investigator Chumley?”
“An ice cool, freeze dried with the natural goodness that only Bavarian guavas can provide Burpsi Cola!”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Noomi, puzzlement appearing in her eyes at this unexpected turn of the conversation, but her grin not slipping, stated. “Whenever I’m working on a tough case of interdimensional dastardliness, it’s always good to know that I can take a break with a tall, cool – or, even short, as long as it’s cool – I mean, it doesn’t have to be too much below room temperature, but at least a little – Burpsi Cola!”
“Ooooh,” the two of them sang in unison as they did a little dance, “Whether in motion or at rest, Burpsi Cola quenches your thirst best!”
A couple of embarrassed seconds passed, then Meshuggaa and Ghant broke into applause. If you listened closely, you could even hear clapping coming from Investigator Chumley’s pants pocket.
“Hmm,” Investigator Chumley said, straightening up from the frozen position he had taken as the jingle ended, “maybe the trip through the dimensions affected us worse than I thought.”
Noomi and Investigator Chumley settled in to looking over the crime scene. Noomi was fascinated by the corpse; the only other time she had seen a dead body was at her seventh birthday party, and nobody in the family ever talked about the experience. Ever. Investigator Chumley, on the other hand, gave all of his attention to the mutilated Home Universe Generator™.
After a couple of minutes, Noomi said, “I think all that talk of cola has affected my bladder.” Then, realizing that that wasn’t something that Jack Ryan, Transdimensional Authority Police would say, she gruffly added, “Where’s the can?”
“It’s in the hous
e somewhere,” Meshuggaa told her.
Very helpful, Noomi thought to herself. “Uhh, thanks,” she said aloud.
Noomi went to the door, but when she tried the handle, she found that it was locked. “Uhh, door’s locked,” she stated.
“Occupational hazard when investigating locked room mysteries,” Meshuggaa told her, not even bothering to take a picture of the annoyed look on her face.
“Do you have a key?” she demanded.
“Naah, I don’t have a key,” Meshuggaa responded. “Ghant is usually the one with the key.
“Zat is not correct,” Ghant said. “I do not have ze key.”
“I thought you had the key.”
“I never had ze key! I vas sure you had ze key!”
“Nobody gave me the key. I was certain you had the key!”
“I vas positive you had ze key!”
“I was convinced you had the key!”
“I vas confident you had ze key!”
“I was in no doubt you had the key!”
“ I vas clear in my mind zat –”
“Uhh, guys, I’m glad you have been memorizing your thesaurus,” Investigator Chumley interjected, “but you’re actually saying the same thing. Over and over again. In the meantime, Investigator Rapier still has to go to the bathroom.”
“Did she bring a bottle?” the voice in Investigator Chumley’s pocket smirked.
“So,” Ghant, his voice becoming ashen, said, “nobody has ze key to ze door?”
“That would appear to be the case,” Investigator Chumley started, “but it’s not –”
“Ve cannot get out of zis room?” Ghant cried, his voice rising. “Ve cannot get out off a room…vis a corpse?”
“Sam –” Investigator Chumley tried.
“Ve are stuck in a locked room vis a corpse!” Ghant shrieked. “Zis is joost like ze story my bubbe used to tell me about ze four people who ver stuck in a locked room vis a corpse! Vat vill ve do? Vat vill ve do? Vat vill ve do?”
“SAM!” Investigator Chumley shouted.
“You are ze big strapping Investigator!” Ghant shrieked back at him. “Break ze door down! Put yer shoulder into it and break ze door down! Now!”
“TELEPORT BACK TO HEADQUARTERS!”
“I can do zat?” Ghant, befuddled, asked.
Investigator Chumley put his hand in Ghant’s pants pocket and pulled out a communications device that looked like a cellphone with hair. Investigator Chumley pressed a button on the device, and Ghant and the device vanished.
“He’s the coroner?” Noomi asked.
“Everybody’s got an issue with something,” Investigator Chumley mumbled.
Noomi took her cue to return to her home universe to pee. It seemed easier than breaking the door of the room down. When she returned, Meshuggaa had left. Investigator Chumley was still peering closely into the inner workings of the Home Universe Generator™. He motioned for Noomi to join him.
“Notice anything strange?” Investigator Chumley asked.
Noomi peered into the wrecked device expecting a challenge. As it turned out, she immediately noticed what Investigator Chumley was referring to. “There are extra wires and a couple of extra chips in there,” she said.
“Brilliant observation,” the voice in Investigator Chumley’s pocket. “One that would make a lab monkey proud!”
“Who is that?” Noomi, annoyed, asked.
Investigator Chumley put his hand in his pocket and brought out a smooth black ball with brown streaks. “This is TOM.”
“You say that like it’s an acronym,” Noomi told him.
“Ooh, Monkey Girl is quick,” TOM stated.
“It is an acronym,” Investigator Chumley said. “It’s a Transdimensional Oddity Monitor. It finds traces of transdimensional travel activity.”
“And, it found traces in this room?” Noomi asked.
“That’s right. A very small amount of transdimensional activity,” Investigator Chumley answered.
“How small?”
“No larger than a wisp of an idea,” TOM stated.
“But, the Home Universe Generator™ has been taken apart,” Noomi mused. “How could it generate even that small an amount of transdimensional activity?”
“Ooh, are we playing Twenty Questions?” TOM asked. “Because, I don’t remember being asked animal, vegetable or monkey!”
“That is the question,” Investigator Chumley, ignoring TOM, agreed.
Noomi suggested that they move the body so that TOM could focus on the remains of the Home Universe Generator™. Investigator Chumley did so (to his credit, daintily). When TOM turned his (its? We don’t really have pronoun tools to address sentient machines. Let’s settle for his until the language catches up with the technology) attention to the Home Universe Generator™, he found that the transdimensional energy was not flowing into or out of it.
“Well, if that’s the case, where –” Noomi started, but was cut off.
“Can I get a little quiet here, please?” TOM loudly insisted. “I’m working, you know. Do I come into your office when you’re filing reports…or your nails…or your dog’s teeth down, or do whatever it is you do and start nattering in your ear?”
“Sorry,” Noomi said. “I didn’t realize you needed to work in silence.”
“He doesn’t,” Investigator Chumley assured her. “It’s just his little joke.”
“Gets ‘em every time!” TOM chuckled.
“You little shit!” Noomi exclaimed.
“Time for pleasantries later,” TOM replied. “The transdimensional energy is coming from the stiff. Take me closer.”
Investigator Chumley waved TOM up and down the body. It turned out that the transdimensional energy flowing into the room centred around the dead man’s head.
“Well,” TOM said after reporting this fact, “that’s a big surpri…aaaaaand, it’s gone.”
Noomi rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “So,” she said, “we should get the Home Universe Generator ™ back to the lab to see if they can figure out how it was tampered with, and we should tell the coroner to focus on the dead man’s brain.”
“Okay,” TOM said, approvingly, “Monkey-girl knows Transdimensional Authority protocol.”
“Stop calling me that!” Noomi snapped at him. “It’s racist!”
“No it isn’t,” TOM snippily countered. “It’s fleshist!”
“When we started working together,” Investigator Chumley snuppily interjected, “I was Monkey-boy for six months. TOM’s not a racist. He hates all human beings he hasn’t worked with before equally, regardless of race, creed, colour, sexual orientation, shoe size, blood type, personal grooming products use or firmness of handshake.”
“Is that supposed to be admirable?” Noomi, incredulous, asked.
“Damn straight,” TOM replied.
Noomi stared at TOM and Investigator Chumley for a moment. Deciding not to pursue the issue, she asked, “Is there any way we can boost TOM’s reception so that he can trace the signal back to its universe of origin?”
“Oh, and we were getting along so well,” TOM said.
“R and D may be able to create a software patch to do that,” Investigator Chumley thoughtfully stated. “I can ask when we get back to Earth Prime.”
“WHOA!” TOM shouted. “Nobody’s patching Mama Apple’s bright young boy! You think I don’t know what you two are planning? You want to change my sparkling personality! Yeah, that’s it! I go in for a software upgrade, I come out like Little Orphan Ferking Annie!”
“We have no intention of changing your personality algorithm,” Investigator Chumley assured the orb.
“You say that now,” TOM insisted, “but you’re not the one who’s gonna be singing ‘The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow’ every day for the rest of your life!”
“Why are we even arguing about this?” Noomi wanted to know. “TOM is just a machine. He –”
“Oh, like you’re not a machine!” TOM yelled at her.
&nb
sp; “I have free will,” Noomi told it.
“Really, Monkey-girl?” TOM acidly responded. “Let’s see you try to make that argument the next time you walk by a Baskin-Robbins!”
“Okay, enough, you two,” Investigator Chumley calmly interjected. “We’re not going to resolve the paradox of consciousness at a crime scene. Noomi, we need to question some witnesses. TOM, when I ask about the patch, I will make sure it only affects your ability to pick up transdimensional signals.”
“Can I get that –” TOM started, but, before he could complete the thought, Investigator Chumley dropped him back in his pants pocket. “Oh, nice way to end an argument!” TOM muffledly shouted.
Investigator Chumley sighed. “TOM is beautifully designed,” he said.
Noomi responded: “Too bad the design didn’t allow for an off switch.”
* * *
CASE LOG: 45-23-8789-Bubbles
INCIDENT: unauthorized tampering with a Home Universe Generator™, death of Gauguin di Presto
LEAD INVESTIGATOR: Crash Chumley
JUNIOR INVESTIGATOR: Noomi Rapier
DATE: now, EST
After an initial investigation of the crime scene, Investigators Chumley and Rapier canvassed Gauguin di Presto’s neighbours on the 99th floor of his block.
They learned that Gauguin di Presto was “a party animal who kept us awake until all hours of the night” (Gelid Schmoomian, apartment 9926) and “a loner who would rush past you, claiming he ‘had to deal with his ferret problem, ASAP’ if you ever tried to engage him in conversation” (Crimea Rivers, apartment 9922). One of Gauguin di Presto’s neighbours claimed that she was “constantly amused by his impressions of famous Renaissance door to door linoleum siding salesmen” (Clementia Serrano, apartment 9925) while another was “impressed that he knew how to swear in 27 languages, including Urdu, Turks and Caicos Island, and purple” (Sergiy Shchavyelyev, apartment 9923).
When asked “How would you complete the sentence: Gauguin di Presto is most likely to…?”, one of the witnesses responded: “save a small African village from the ravages of illegal jewel smugglers by starting an international campaign against blood diamonds” (Shchavyelyev). Another of the witnesses replied: “abuse the domestic robots when nobody was looking” (Serrano). A third witness answered: “embarrass himself at a karaoke bar by singing Shirley Bassey’s theme from the movie Goldfinger even though he obviously doesn’t have the legs for it!” (Schmoomian). A fourth witness retorted: “make sweet love to a woman, satisfying her in a way that only another woman can!” (Rivers).
