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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The machine rose like the metal skeleton of some gigantic
mutant, its denuded bones an impractical hodgepodge
of nature’s blunders, creating the perfect vehicle for the
execution of a singular, if only accidental, function—time
travel, of a sort. Imagine the wonders that might haunt the
world if only nature indulged some of the more radical—
and perhaps unreasonable—creative processes. A thousand
mistakes and happenstances could be collected into the
same space like so many imprecise pencil scratches, melting
into exquisite amalgams of unbidden oddity. But such is not
the way of the Deadworld, where routines of trial and error
are carefully balanced against the production of a dismal
and mindless functionality. Regardless, beyond everything
the machine could have been, it was merely a door—leading
back to the Great Darkness.
The chair proved to be far less comfortable than I had
supposed, but after a few moments I forgot all about the
loose springs corkscrewing into my back. I focused my
attention on the massive computer screen filling up with
all manner of systematic absurdity—laughing caterpillars,
dancing skyscrapers, singing tornadoes, that sort of thing.
The visual ridiculousness intimated volatility, as if the
imagery concealed a great power which could, given
sufficient levels of nonsense, disrupt if not destroy the
surrounding ordinariness, leaving a candy-coated crater
where once only concrete and steel predominated. Despite

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