Chapter 1
The notice arrived on departmental letterhead, which should have been my first warning. Modern universities don’t send physical mail for anything pleasant. The envelope contained a single sheet of cream-colored paper, the kind that costs six dollars per ream and exists solely to deliver bad news with aesthetic dignity.
“Dear Professor,” it began, which immediately put me on guard. They only used “Professor” when about to deny something I’d earned or assign something I hadn’t. “Your application for sabbatical research has been approved pending administrative verification of your proposed methodology.”
I read that sentence three times. In fifteen years of academic employment, no administrator had ever questioned my methodology. They’d questioned my parking tickets, my expense reports, my choice to teach Beowulf in the original, but never how I proposed to spend six months reading books about Scandinavian folk traditions.
“The Department of Interdimensional Studies,” the letter continued, and I should have stopped there, should have called Human Resources, should have perhaps checked whether I’d accidentally ingested something experimental from the chemistry building’s ventilation system. “Has identified your research proposal as compatible with their Field Observation Program. Please report to Room 304, West Annex, Tuesday 9 AM. Bring comfortable footwear.”
I brought comfortable footwear. I always followed instructions. This was, I suspect, my fundamental error as a human being.
Room 304 in the West Annex didn’t exist on any campus map I could find, which meant either the university’s cartography had finally succumbed to budget cuts, or I was about to discover why the anthropology department kept giggling at faculty meetings. The elevator in the West Annex only went to the third floor if you pressed the button for the basement twice and hummed something that sounded vaguely like “The Girl from Ipanema.”
The doors opened onto a corridor that smelled of old paper and something else, something that reminded me of my grandmother’s attic after the roof leaked—dust and wood rot and the particular ozone scent of electrical equipment operating slightly beyond its safety parameters.
A woman sat at a desk that appeared to be made entirely of filing cabinets welded together. She wore a cardigan in a shade of beige that suggested she’d given up on color sometime during the Clinton administration. Her nameplate read “TEMPORARY ASSIGNMENT COORDINATOR,” which I supposed was technically a name.
“Ah,” she said, without looking up from a form that appeared to have been carbon-copied sometime in 1973. “The folklore person. You’re late.”
“It’s 8:47,” I said.
“Exactly.” She made a mark on her form with a pencil that needed sharpening. “Seven minutes of potential observation time, lost forever. Sit.”
I sat. The chair was wooden, unpadded, and designed by someone who either hated backs specifically or humanity generally.
“Your research proposal,” she said, still not looking at me, “involves immersive study of Northern European oral traditions and their relationship to written codification in medieval manuscripts.”
“Yes, I—”
“Standard sabbatical. Six months. Library access. Maybe some travel to archives in Oslo or Reykjavik if you can get the grants.” She turned a page. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick. “However. The Department of Interdimensional Studies has identified a unique opportunity for field observation that would satisfy your research requirements while advancing our understanding of cross-dimensional cultural transmission.”
“I don’t think I applied to—”
“Nobody applies to Interdimensional Studies, Professor. One is selected. Or,” she made another mark, “one stumbles into the wrong elevator while humming Brazilian jazz standards. The distinction is largely academic.” She looked up at me for the first time. Her eyes were the color of weak tea and completely without warmth. “Your particular research interest in the Dragon Cult, the Companions, the Night of Tears—these correspond precisely with documented phenomena in what we designate Reality Designation Aurbis-7.”
I opened my mouth to explain that I studied stories about those things, not the things themselves, assuming they existed, which they didn’t, because I was a reasonable person who believed in peer review and adequate sample sizes.
“Before you waste both our time with objections,” she said, “please understand that this assignment carries full salary continuation, benefits, and—” she consulted another form, “—a guaranteed book contract with Princeton University Press upon your return, provided you don’t significantly alter the timeline or die.”
“Die?”
“Reality Aurbis-7 has a mortality rate approximately 340% higher than baseline Earth standard.” She said this the way someone might mention that a hotel had limited parking. “However, you will be provided with a companion entity selected for complementary skill sets and narrative compatibility.”
“I don’t want a—”
“Your companion will meet you at the arrival point. You depart in four minutes.” She pressed a button on her desk, and a door I hadn’t noticed opened behind me, revealing what appeared to be a supply closet filled with extremely bright light. “Any personal items you carry will be translated into locally appropriate equivalents. Do bring something to write with. The locals are terrible at documentation.”
“Wait, I have questions—”
“Four minutes, Professor. I suggest you spend them walking.”
