According to the current iteration of the constantly reorganizing map, Professor Parallax's office was located in Section 4-B, Subsection Γ (Gamma), Floor ∞/2. The map helpfully noted that this location may "require completion of Form 23-A to access, unless Form 23-A has been superseded by Form 23-A-1, in which case please disregard this message and report to Cabinet #4721 for further instructions."
I swallowed hard. This was going to be a long day.
Following the map's current configuration, I navigated through a maze of corridors that seemed to rearrange themselves when I wasn't looking directly at them. Twice I found myself back where I started, and once I somehow ended up walking on the ceiling for thirty seconds before gravity remembered how it was supposed to work.
The sounds of bureaucracy surrounded me: the scratch of quills on parchment, the rustle of forms being shuffled, the occasional mechanical ding of what I assumed were magical typewriters, and the distant sound of someone arguing with what sounded like a filing cabinet about proper alphabetization procedures.
"Excuse me," I called to a passing goblin clerk who was carrying a stack of papers taller than himself. "Do you know where I can find Professor Parallax's office?"
The goblin stopped, adjusted his tiny spectacles, and consulted a clipboard that materialized in his free hand. "Professor Parallax, Professor Parallax... ah yes, Dimensional Displacement Department, Section 4-B, Subsection Gamma. Take the third corridor on your left, then the elevator that only appears on days ending in 'y', proceed to Floor ∞/2, and follow the signs that haven't been updated since the last administrative reorganization."
"When was the last administrative reorganization?"
"Which one? We've had seventeen this morning alone." The goblin shuffled off, muttering about quota systems and temporal filing deadlines.
I found the corridor easily enough, it had a helpful sign reading "Third Corridor (Left)" that flickered occasionally to show "First Corridor (Right)" or "Seventh Corridor (Up)." The elevator, when it materialized, was an ancient brass contraption with buttons labeled in what appeared to be mathematical symbols rather than numbers.
I pressed the button that looked most like ∞/2 and held on as the elevator lurched into motion. It moved sideways for a while, then diagonally, then seemed to pause while reality caught up with whatever it was doing. Finally, with a cheerful ding that sounded suspiciously sarcastic, the doors opened.
Professor Parallax's office door stood before me, bearing a nameplate that read "Professor Parallax, Department of Dimensional Displacement, Temporal Consultant, and Part-Time Reality Adjuster." Below that, a smaller sign had been hastily taped on: "CURRENTLY ON VACATION - PLEASE DISTURB THE MECHANICAL OWL FOR ASSISTANCE."
I knocked anyway, hoping against hope that the sign was outdated. When no response came, I tried the door handle. It turned easily, revealing an office that was as expected; bigger in the inside in contrast to the outside. The walls were covered with charts showing dimensional coordinates, photographs of what I assumed were various realities, and a large whiteboard covered in equations that where solving themselves.
Perched on a stand in the center of the room was the most elaborate mechanical owl I'd ever seen. It was the size of a real owl but constructed entirely of brass gears, crystal lenses, and what appeared to be miniature clockwork. Its head swiveled toward me with a series of soft clicks and whirs.
"HOOT-CLICK-WHIR," it announced in a voice that sounded like someone had trapped a professor inside a grandfather clock. "Welcome to the temporal consultation services of professor parallax. The professor is currently enjoying a well-deserved vacation in temporal dimension 7b."
I blinked. "I need Professor Parallax to sign my Form 88B for the tournament."
The owl's crystal eyes rotated in opposite directions before focusing on me again. "AH, A SIGNATURE REQUEST! Temporal signature acquisition is subject to the following paradoxical conditions: the signature exists before it is given, but cannot be obtained until after it is received. the professor is both present and absent, much like Schrödinger's administrative assistant."
"That... doesn't actually help me."
"HELP IS A RELATIVE CONCEPT, LITERALLY! What helps in one timeline may hinder in another. However, Temporal Regulation 47-C provides three acceptable solutions for signature acquisition during professorial absence:" the owl clicked mechanically as it accessed what I assumed was its information database.
"OPTION ONE: Locate the professor's temporal echo, which manifests for precisely three minutes every four hours at random locations throughout the department."
"Option Two?" I asked, though I was already getting a headache.
"OPTION TWO: Create a signature forgery that satisfies the magical verification system. Note: the verification system is sentient, suffers from trust issues, and has been known to reject authentic signatures on Tuesdays."
"And Option Three?"
"OPTION THREE: Discover the proxy signature authority hidden within the employee handbook. The handbook is currently 17,000 pages long and updates itself every seven minutes. Good luck finding the relevant section before it becomes historically inaccurate."
I stared at the mechanical owl, feeling the familiar sensation of my probability field beginning to fluctuate with my rising stress levels. A nearby filing cabinet spontaneously reorganized itself alphabetically, then by color, then by what appeared to be emotional resonance.
"Is there any way to contact Professor Parallax directly?"
"THE PROFESSOR'S TEMPORAL PHONE NUMBER IS CURRENTLY DISCONNECTED DUE TO A CAUSALITY LOOP INVOLVING A WRONG NUMBER THAT HASN'T BEEN DIALED YET. HOWEVER, HE DID LEAVE A MESSAGE." The owl's head tilted at an impossible angle. "QUOTE: 'If any students need my signature while I'm away, tell them it's a wonderful opportunity to learn about temporal problem-solving.' UNQUOTE," the owl recited with perfect enunciation and just a hint of smug satisfaction."
"Alright," I said, more to myself than to the owl. "Let's think about this logically."
Option One seemed like a nightmare of timing and luck, even my chaotic probability field couldn't guarantee I'd be in the right place at exactly the right time to catch a three-minute temporal echo. Option Two was clearly a trap; if a sentient verification system had trust issues, my reputation as the "Probability Incident" boy would probably trigger every security protocol it had.
That left Option Three: finding something specific in a 17,000-page handbook that updated itself constantly.
"Where can I find this employee handbook?" I asked.
"EXCELLENT CHOICE! The employee handbook is located in the reference section, which is simultaneously on every floor and no floors, depending on your current relationship with the concept of up and down. Follow the signs marked 'Reference' unless they've been temporarily replaced with signs marked 'Unreference,' in which case follow those instead."
The owl clicked thoughtfully. "A WORD OF ADVICE: the handbook responds well to specific questions but poorly to general browsing. Also, pages 4,731 through 4,847 are currently experiencing a temporal hiccup and may show content from next month's edition."
"Any other helpful hints?"
"DEFINE 'HELPFUL.'" The owl's crystal eyes whirred as they focused on me. "Actually, you're the probability anomaly the entire department has been discussing. The filing cabinets have been taking bets on whether you'll complete this task or accidentally tear a hole in bureaucratic reality."
Great. Even the furniture knew about my reputation.
I left Professor Parallax's office and followed the signs toward the Reference Section, which turned out to be exactly as confusing as the owl had suggested. The signs kept changing between "REFERENCE," "UNREFERENCE," "CROSS-REFERENCE," and once, memorably, "REFERENCE TO REFERENCES THAT NO LONGER EXIST."
The Reference Section itself was a vast library space filled with floating bookshelves that occasionally rearranged themselves with soft whooshing sounds. In the center sat a massive tome on a pedestal, the Employee Handbook. It was easily three feet thick and bound in what appeared to be leather that shimmered with mathematical equations.
As I approached, the handbook flipped open on its own, revealing pages covered in tiny print that seemed to move like living text. At the top of the current page, bold letters announced: "Chapter 847: Proper Procedures for Filing Complaints About Temporal Paradoxes Caused by Improper Filing Procedures."
I placed my hands on either side of the book and spoke clearly: "I need information about proxy signature authority for Professor Parallax."
The pages began flipping rapidly, creating a small windstorm of bureaucratic knowledge. After what felt like several minutes, the book settled on a page titled "Subsection 12.7: Emergency Signature Protocols for Faculty Experiencing Dimensional Displacement."
My eyes scanned the dense text, looking for anything related to proxy authority. Most of it was standard bureaucratic nonsense about proper forms and filing procedures, but then I found it:
"In cases where faculty members are temporarily displaced to alternate temporal dimensions, signature authority may be delegated to their most recent dimensional echo, provided said echo can be located within the current probability matrix. If no echo is available, signature authority defaults to the Emergency Academic Protocols outlined in Appendix J-7 (Temporal Amendments Section)."
The handbook immediately flipped to Appendix J-7, revealing another wall of text. I was beginning to understand why students might spend their entire allotted time just reading this thing.
Appendix J-7 was more promising: "Emergency Academic Protocols may be activated by any student who can demonstrate practical application of the displaced faculty member's core academic specialization while simultaneously solving a bureaucratic challenge of equivalent complexity."
In other words, I needed to prove I understood Professor Parallax's dimensional displacement magic while navigating the bureaucratic maze. The handbook continued: "Students attempting Emergency Academic Protocol activation must complete the following: 1) Successfully demonstrate spatial folding technique in the presence of a Certified Bureaucratic Witness, 2) Locate and complete Form 77-X (Temporal Academic Emergency Declaration), and 3) Obtain verification stamps from three different filing cabinets, each representing a different aspect of bureaucratic approval: Efficiency, Accuracy, and Begrudging Compliance."
I could feel my probability field starting to align with the challenge ahead. This wasn't just about finding a signature anymore, it was about proving I'd actually learned something from Professor Parallax's classes.
The handbook thoughtfully provided a map to the locations of Form 77-X and the three filing cabinets I'd need to visit. According to the footnotes, Form 77-X could be found in "The Archive of Forms That Probably Should Exist But Don't Technically," while the filing cabinets were located in different sections of the department: Efficiency in the Speed Processing Zone, Accuracy in the Double-Check Department, and Begrudging Compliance in what was ominously labeled "The Complaint Processing Center."
I closed the handbook and looked around the Reference Section. Several other students were scattered throughout the space, most looking as bewildered as I felt. One girl appeared to be arguing with a floating dictionary, while a boy I didn't recognize was attempting to organize a shelf of books that kept alphabetizing themselves incorrectly.
Time to find Form 77-X and convince three filing cabinets that I deserved their approval. All that in a magical bureaucracy where the furniture had opinions and the rules changed every seven minutes. I really do love my life.