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dynamism that formed where something else used to be. It came from nowhere. It led nowhere. It did nothing.
    He might climb into that hole and disappear forever…
    By the time the elevator clattered to a halt, Dr Teufelsdröckh had convinced himself that Truth was telling the truth, at least in the case regarding the errant bottle of carbonated olive oil, while in the kitchen, Truth explained to Beauty just how one commits a true act of idiocy.
    “Lights.”
    The laboratory came alive with a hydraulic grandeur, with ticking clocks, vibrating wires, glass tubes of canned voltage running from floor to ceiling, whistling pipes and pan-flutes, swinging levers and light bulbs, streamlined aquariums teeming with sturgeon and suckfish, Bunsen burners the size of torch lamps, purple and red and blue and yellow spotlights, test tubes and beakers and percolators and vials that frothed and bubbled, ergometers, enameled pedals, discs and balls, homunculi that crossed and recrossed their eyes pickled in great jars…The technologized rattle and hum clashed with the sound of a sentient theater organ that played and replayed the overture from Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Phantom of the Opera . A long wallscreen ran fasttime footage of Frankenstein adaptations and offshoots, skidding into slowtime only when a mad scientist exclaimed, “It’s aaaalliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiivve!” The footage oscillated between monochrome and Technicolor…
    Grinning, Dr Teufelsdröckh stepped into a pair of crab slippers that delivered him to the opposite end of the room where a red velvet curtain had been draped over what might have been a hat rack, or a floor lamp, or a mailbox. He ran his fingers over the delicate fabric of the curtain. Then he clenched the curtain and yanked it aside.
    …The skin of the stick figure was black—so black it seemed two-dimensional. And yet its body clearly possessed depth. There were no features. There were no fingers or toes. Its gender was difficult to place; the figure lacked genitals and looked androgynous. Something about it, though, was altogether human. Or rather, more human than human. Or, as the doktor liked to think, more human than more human than human (and, in some senses, even more human than that).
    He placed a hand on the stick figure’s chest as if to feel its heartbeat, then leaned over and whispered something into its tympanic membrane. Static electricity played on his lips.

03
    Interview with a MAP Man
     
    SAMSA. Syncretic Amerikan Metaformulaic Stock Agent.
    There were SAMSAs everywhere.
    Vincent Prague dodged a charging bull as he strode down the hallway. He was taller than the SAMSAs and saw the animal coming, so he had plenty of time to duck out of the way. Shoulder-to-shoulder traffic in the hallway, though, and he tripped and fell…Somebody caught him. SAMSA…067. That’s what his hat claimed, anyway.
    Prague said, “They got you up and running again already? I kicked your ass two seconds ago. These weird bastards are quick.”
    “Quick is a frame of mind, Mr Prague,” said the SAMSA icily. “I see you’ve managed to—”
    The SAMSA was ripped from Prague’s line of vision as a horn pierced his chest and another bull carried him away…
    …Prague kicked open the door. Its hinges came off and the door sailed across the office and slammed into a glass trophy cabinet, shattering it.
    Commodore Rabelais sprung to his feet. His knees knocked against the edge of his desk. He fell back into his chair. He doubled-over and vanished beneath the desk.
    Prague scratched an Achilles tendon with the toe of his opposing shoe.
    Moaning, Cdre Rabelais crawled back into the chair and stared at Prague as if he had murdered his children. “ Scheiße! Do you how much a nice door costs? What’s the matter with you? Scheiße! ” He pushed a button and reported the damage. A swarm of nanomites flowed into the office through a ceiling vent and ate the door on the floor. Two SAMSAs in orange jumpsuits