Existence

cottage, actually. The wooden, clapboard walls seemed quite realistic and Earth-homey, down to paintbrush strokes covering each exterior panel. Alighting near the front porch, Hamish wiped his feet on a doormat that read EXPECT CHANGE.

Glancing down at his bathrobe and slippers, he thought.

This isn’t appropriate. I wish-

– and voila, in a whirl of what had to be simulation pixels, his attire changed, transforming into the gray suit he used to wear for interviews, back in days of Old TV.

That’s better. You know, I could get used to this.

Raising a fist, he knuckle-rapped on the door and waited… then knocked again, louder. But no one came. Nobody was home.

Ah well. In fact, that’s a good sign. People have things to do. Places to go. Folks to see and matters to attend to.

He had worried about that. Back home, some of the experts tried to explain about subjective time flow rates and the danger of interstellar ennui. They discussed a number of solutions. Such as sleep. Or slowing the mental clock rate. Or else keeping busy. Even a simulated mind must find many ways to survive the long epochs, with no way to affect or influence the external, objective universe.

They made it sound more cramped in here than it is, Hamish pondered, leaving the porch and launching himself again across the sky. Glancing back, he saw the little house diminish behind him. Soon, Hamish passed other constructions. One was a medieval castle, covered in vines. Another combined glassy globes and glistening spheres, in ways that he deemed much too modernist, impractical, even alien. I guess I’ll want to fashion a home of my own. Providing I learn how.

Or ever figure out how to get anywhere or meet anyone!

In fact, tedium was already setting in. The simulated reality’s expanse, which had seemed pleasingly vast, was now starting to frustrate and bug Hamish. It would help a lot if I met someone who could answer questions. I wish-

Behind him. A soft sound, like the chuffing of breath, an ahem-throat-clearing. While Hamish struggled to turn quickly, thwarted by the queer footing, a voice spoke.

“It is good of you to join us at last, Mr. Brookeman. Might I be of assistance?”

“Thanks. I could really use-”

Hamish stopped, his mouth freezing shut when he saw the figure who had popped into being behind him.

Rotund-chubby, its roundish head topped a height even taller than Hamish. The entity was also a much more massive being. Yet the impression wasn’t threatening. More Buddha-like, with slitted eyes that seemed permanently squinting in amusement. A thick-lipped mouth even curved slightly upward at the ends, as if with an enigmatic smile. There was no nose-breathy sounds came from stalky vents that opened and closed rhythmically, at the top of its head.

An alien. One of the artifact beings, among the earliest discovered, in the very first crystal the public ever saw. Hamish recognized the figure-who wouldn’t?

“Om,” he said, nodding a stiff bow of greeting. It stood for “Oldest Member.” “No one told me you’d be aboard.”

“Are you surprised to see me, in particular? Or any aliens at all?” Om seemed indulgently amused. “By the time this first batch of probes got launched, some compromises were made. Come now, you knew the reasons.”

Hamish recalled. There had been design flaws in the probes sent out by the home planet of Courier of Caution that carried just one simulated species aboard. The inhabitants of that world tried to copy only themselves into their warning-messengers, in order to help safeguard new worlds against infection, but the effort failed. Attempting to rip out every embedded trace of previous programming had resulted in a crystal that was too fragile, too easily corrupted. Apparently, if you were going to use this ancient technology, some of the older extraterrestrial personalities had to be included. For technical reasons.

“Well… so long as the mission remains-”

“-to alert other races about the Big Bad Space Virus Plague? And to offer them the Cure?

“Yes, that is still the plan, Mr. Brookeman. The function of this probe. This fleet. Perhaps, if we all are very lucky, we aboard this very crystal may get a chance to tell some bright new sapient species the wonderful news!”

Hamish raised an eyebrow, archly.

“And you don’t mind helping to spread the Cure? You were part of the plague!”

The Oldest Member shrugged, a human gesture that took some contortion, making Hamish realize that the entire conversation took place in flawless English. Well, it was already known that artifact beings could learn. A good thing, since Hamish planned to learn a lot.

“I suppose I was part of it, for millions of your years,” Om said. “So? Should I repent until eternity? Or shall I atone as best I can-with this new-improved version of myself-by assisting you humans in your sacred mission to help other cultures survive?”

Hamish felt his ersatz eyelids blink several times as he roiled with questions, objections! “But… but…”

“Look,” Om said. “You wanted help. You wished for a guide. Shall I assist you now, and answer your prudish denunciations later? There will be plenty of time, believe me.

“Moreover, let me point out one central fact. That there is no way to go back to Earth and alter the situation. Our probe is dispatched and on its way, beyond any conceivable recall. As you humans say: what’s done is done.”

A pause. Then Hamish sighed with a shrug of his own. And a nod.

“Very well. Then teach me.”

Om bowed with evident satisfaction, giving Hamish a clear view of the breathing vents, puffing like flexible chimneys atop the alien’s bulbous head.

“What would you like to see first, Mr. Brookeman? I will take you. And along the way I shall explain a thing or two about scale.”

90.

TRANSPARENCY

Hamish soon realized why he’d been having so much trouble getting anywhere. As one of the institute boffins once explained it, the inner world of crystal probe was limited, yet there were ways to cleverly maximize its sense of roominess. As an inhabitant, you could adjust yourself down to any number of “fractal levels” of size. The smaller you shrank, the more personal space you had. And the greater your freedom to make things happen simply by wanting them to.

The boffins had warned (while ninety-year-old Hamish half slept through tedious briefings) that entities aboard a crystal probe could “die,” vanishing from any future contact with the universe. One way for this to happen was for the simulated being to dive way down the scale ladder, plunging smaller, ever smaller-into realms where wishes and magic reigned, and where you became too small to matter anymore, to anyone back in the “real” world.

That is, unless a new civilization starts dissecting your probe. Or tries building uncontaminated versions. That’s when we discovered hidden ones are always there, tucked inside the atom-by-atom structure of the crystal itself, but able to rise out of deep scale-dormancy, protecting the virus and its self-serving mission.

No wonder it had taken decades to perfect the Cure.

“Let me show you the way,” Oldest Member told Hamish. “Try to follow me.” And he departed… without traveling or even leaving. Instead, Om started growing larger.

Hamish, who had spent most of his life as the tallest person in almost any room, didn’t like the sensation of tilting his head to stare up at a giant. It added to his sense of motivation-wanting to catch up with the alien. If only there were a bottle labeled “drink me.” There’s got to be a trick to it!

Focusing hard on changing his sense of scale-on growing-he found that the secret