Free Parallelities by Alan Dean Foster Page A

delightfully droll sense of humor, Max.”
    “Which I am rapidly losing. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
    His host shook his head regretfully. “Not without a great deal of additional study, I’m afraid. I can offer one positive thought.”
    “What’s that?” The distraught reporter was ready to clutch at the tiniest hint of optimism.
    “The effect may be temporary. Given the limited amount of energy available for the experimental run, it most probably is. Even as we sit here discussing the matter, it may already have run its course. The notion of a cure being required may already be irrelevant.”
    “Yeah. Right. How will I know if it has? Run its course, that is?”
    “I should think the answer to that would be self-evident. Go about your business and see if you run into any more multiples, any more paras. If not, then I think we can safely assume that the effect has worn off. The possibility that any measurable results from the propagation of the conjectural field might be extremely transitory in nature was one that always concerned me. It appears that if confirmed, my greatest worry may turn out to be all for the best.”
    “But what if it’s not transitory, or at least what if it takes a couple of days to wear off, or fade away, or dissipate, or whatever it is that it’s going to do? What if the effect is sustainedfor a while and I do run into more of these paras? How many should I expect to have to deal with?”
    The shrug Boles gave him somehow managed to contain within it all the imposing majesty of experimental physics past and present—or at least something more than insouciant indifference.
    “Who can say? Theoreticians have speculated for hundreds of years on the possible existence of worlds that parallel our own. It’s only recently that the math and computing power has become available with which to shape actual hypotheses. I won’t try to explain the algorithms I used to help design and build my system.” His tone grew cold and deep. Suddenly he sounded less like a gracefully aging surfer and more like a highly motivated if slightly addled prophet.
    “There could be hundreds of parallel worlds, Max. Millions. Numbers beyond imagining, many exactly like ours or so nearly alike as to be indistinguishable, others different in minor or extreme ways we can’t begin to imagine. For example, you mentioned that the four sisters differed from each other in very minor but distinctive ways.”
    He nodded. “That’s right. Three were blondes, but one had red hair. Another had a mole, here”—he tapped his right thigh—“but the others didn’t.” He smiled thinly. “I really wasn’t paying much attention to petty differences. There was too much else to look at.”
    Boles was nodding thoughtfully. “Parallel for sure, but notalways identical. A single strand of DNA in one person might be enough to comprise the sole difference between this world and another. At a different level more pronounced differences would appear. A mole, for example. So much possibility for variation!” He downed a long swallow from his glass, but it was an empty gesture, one designed solely to recognize the presence of the tumbler and its contents. His heart and his mind were elsewhere.
    “Resume your life, Max. Right now that’s the best advice I can offer you. As long as you are the one drawing paras into our world, into this world, the effect on your existence, and mine, should be minimal. As the locus, you are likely to be the only one who notices them. I know this is upsetting to you, but neither is it like you’ve been cast down into the lower regions of Purgatory. How bad can it be if the worst that happens is that you lose some home electronics that I will gladly reimburse you for, and that four beautiful women want to ask you out on a congruent date?”
    Max summoned up his last vision of the four Omaha sisters, sitting on the sand, bright sunshine glinting off their para hair, reflecting from their