Splyt Adams was startled by the banging outside his door. He was just about to type on his computer where, on the screen, the cursor blinked below the header 'Chapter 23.' He waited a moment, only the noise of the street below coming through the open windows into his small artist's loft. His hands hovered over the keyboard when another bang made him jump in his swivel chair.

The old warehouse was often noisy. The painter next door did his work while playing Broadway show tunes. The sculptor upstairs had recently acquired a nail gun. This noise however was centered at Splyt's door or more exactly on it. The door, a heavy cattle car type that slid across, buckled as if a battering ram were being used against it. The pounding continued until the bottom corner came off the track.

Splyt leapt up as a large man forced his way through the gap in the doorway. He was large in the tall and very muscled sense as opposed to Splyt who was a large man of the short and very rotund variety. The man was grinning broadly. He carried a paper shopping bag in his left hand and a brightly colored toy in his right. He wore bluish-green pants with a matching shirt on which was a large stain of strawberry jam. The man pointed the toy and said:

"Splyt Adams!"

"Uh."

"You are Splyt Adams."

"Who?" Splyt pointed at the stranger.

"I am Jothor Ten-Smith." He dropped the shopping bag, looking around the walls and ceiling. "Guardian Third Class, Entrepid Division."

"Okaaaay," Splyt said, breathing out.

At least he knew what he was dealing with. The Entrepid Division appeared in Loyalty Oath, Splyt's latest book. He had churned it out in two months to fulfill his contract and get the hell away from his publisher. The book was wildly popular and put him back in the top ten of science fiction authors. At the conventions his fans had started dressing like the military units described in the book.

"I'm going to sit down now," Splyt said.

"Yes, please do. I don't have much time."

"Good."

"There is much to explain. You may have doubts but I am Jothor Ten-Smith. I can prove it."

"S'alright. What can I do for you?"

"I need to see the manuscript for your next book."

Splyt nodded and smiled. Just like the other fans, he wanted a sneak peek. Splyt thought it would be easy enough to placate him. He was obviously hopped up on meth or dust or worse.

"Well, I don't have a copy here. It's with my agent."

Jothor, his grin turning into a bit of a snarl, came closer. Splyt leaned back as the man gripped the arm rests of Splyt's chair. He smelled rather funky.

"Perhaps," Jothor said, "you could print out another copy."

"Ss-ss-sure."

As the laser printer spit out the sheets Jothor explained his visit. He had come from a parallel dimension. A device allowed Jothor to cross over for two hours before being pulled back. The artist upstairs started the compressor. The nail gun went 'whacka-whacka-whacka-whacka-whacka'.

"And of all the people in my dimension," Splyt said loudly, making small movements in his chair towards the cell phone on his desk, "you came to see me. I'm honored."

"I had to see you, no other." Jothor paced back and forth with the toy held behind his back. "Your books describe my dimension. The places, the people, the events in your books, they have parallel versions where I exist. Not exactly the same, but very close. Close enough to predict the future. That is why I must see your next book. Those events have not yet happened."

Splyt nodded. If nothing else the experience would make a great article. The man was unhinged and it might be dangerous to dispel his fantasy. Nonetheless Splyt thought he could torment him a little bit.

"Uh huh. Jothor? For the sake of argument, not that I doubt you, but how exactly would you prove to me that you're not, let's say, some crazy fan?"

"Would a crazy fan have this?" Jothor held up his toy, smiling like a child.

"What is it?"

"Oh, this can ruin your day."

"It looks like a Lego toy put together wrong by a drunk dad the night before Christmas."

"This is a dangerous weapon," Jothor said. "Don't force me to use it."

"I think you're going to have to."

"I don't want to."

"How else can I know for sure? Perhaps you have other evidence, maybe in your spaceship?"

Jothor stopped pacing and looked around.

"What object is disposable?"

Splyt sighed and pointed across the room.

"That clock on the bookcase. It was a wedding present."

"The wooden clock?"

"Do you see another one in here?"

Jothor looked around the room, jerking his head up and down. Satisfied that there were no others, he pointed the weapon at the clock. Splyt heard a hollow plastic click followed by a louder Bang! There was a flash that blinded him. A wave of heat came over his face followed by bits of charred wood. When he blinked away the spots he saw black streaks on the bookcase and on the wall above it. Wisps of smoke curled in the air.

Jothor pointed the weapon toward Splyt who heard a beeping noise. Jothor nodded toward him. Splyt shuddered, not wanting to die. The beeping was persistent. Jothor came in close again, crushing the cell phone with the butt of the weapon. He nodded toward the beeping noise with his teeth bared like an angry cat.

"Your printer. It's out of paper."

The nail gun compressor upstairs had cycled off. Splyt stood up slowly when the printer was done. Several heavy paper weights on the desk had potential as weapons. Jothor looked nimble enough to dodge them, plus he would still block the path to the door. Splyt could jump out the window but the fall from fifty feet might kill him. He picked up the thick stack of manuscript pages from the printer tray and handed them over. Perhaps the lunatic would leave once he had what he came for.

"Is this all?" Jothor asked.

"That's it, that's all of it."

Jothor sat down on a low filing cabinet next to the door.

"The others were further along."

"Others? What others?"

Jothor looked up, his eyes shifting around the walls. "Uh, nothing."

"Other writers?"

"Er, sort of."

"Who else have you been threatening?"

"Trying to read here."

Splyt put his hands on his hips. "Who else?"

"Just you. You're the only writer, the only important writer," Jothor said, shaking his grinning head. "They all get uppity when they think there's competition."

"They who?!"

"They you," lowering the manuscript. "You exist in other dimensions. You aren't the first 'you' I've visited. Happy now?"

"Then how do you know I'm the right one? The right Splyt Adams?"

"You're the right one. I got all your books before I came here. I had to check the facts to be sure."

"Really? All of them?"

Jothor shook his head. He picked up the shopping bag and dumped out a pile of books.

Jothor was reading quickly, dropping the pages on the floor as he scanned them. He glanced every so often at Splyt who had taken up a station leaning against his desk. Splyt was getting annoyed. Jothor was cutting into his afternoon latte break.

"How did you find out that my books contained your history?" Splyt asked.

"The priestess had a vision-" Jothor began through gritted teeth.

"Priestess? What priestess?"

"This was long ago, about a thousand years. When the Star cult was formed-"

"Star cult? That's backstory! That's never been published!"

"May I continue?"

Splyt nodded. Maybe the guy had broken into his office and read his notes on the novel series. The Star cult was a minor reference, a pre-pre-cursor Splyt had come up with to explain future events. From the cult came the fanatical school of science which later developed faster than light space travel.

"The priestess saw this dimension, saw the pages and words in her vision. These were transcribed and held secret. When the prophesies came true the Star cult dedicated itself to developing the crossover device."

"The cult still exists?"

Jothor pulled back his left sleeve and raised his arm. Splyt could see a tattoo made of a cluster of asterisks and other symbols. The tattoo shifted in the light like a hologram.

"We have been developing the device for centuries. Once we could cross over, we hoped to find the rest of your books."

"Why?"

"Knowing the future would give us a great advantage in overthrowing the scientific establishment," Jothor said, lowering his arm and looking at the manuscript again. "They rejected the spiritual doctrine and led our people into sin and sloth. The leaders are weak and vulnerable now. But the cult needs new prophecies to convince the unbelievers to come back to Haht-Man."

Splyt sat down again, stunned. Haht-Man didn't appear in the books or in the backstory notes. He never spoke of Haht-Man to anyone and had never written it down, emulating the tradition of his fictional cult. Haht-Man was the Star cult's secret name for God.

Time passed and pages fluttered to the floor.

"How is it that you got here?" Splyt asked.

"Haven't we been over this already?"

"I understand the dimension stuff," Splyt said, opening his desk drawer slowly. "I am a science fiction writer after all. You and I live on different membranes or 'branes', right? The problem is, you should be stuck there and me stuck here. There's no way for you to travel through the 'bulk' that exists in between."

"I don't pass through," Jothor said, twitching and smiling. "Particles are organized by quantum processes. I am assembled here. Photons and gravitons are what pass through the bulk as you call it. They carry the message and the energy to assemble me. It is the gravity that pulls me back after two hours."

"You can't just appear out of thin air," Splyt said as he sharpened a pencil. Perhaps he could stab Jothor in the eye and escape. "You have to be made of something otherwise you'd violate the most basic law of physics. The law of conservation: matter cannot be created or destroyed. Therefore you cannot possibly exist. Ah ha!"

Jothor wiped a line of drool from his mouth. He waved the weapon in the air.

"So what, you have a ray-gun. Could be some kind of laser, or just a trick. You're not answering my question."

"One object, namely me, is assembled in this space using available matter. The corresponding object is then assembled in my dimension using matter there."

"Must have been a big chunk of matter," Splyt said.

"Yes. I am in your dimension and the man down the street in apartment #17 is not, nor his toaster, nor, uh," Jothor looked down at the strawberry red stain on his shirt, "most of his cat."

"Most?"

"On the bright side, it wasn't most of his wife."

The nail gun started up again: 'whacka-whacka-whacka-whacka-whacka'. Splyt was bored. He thought perhaps this maniac was telling the truth and really was from another dimension. Jothor knew things he couldn't know otherwise and he had blown up a clock. On the other hand, that didn't give him the right to hold people hostage. Splyt had had enough and he had to pee.

"Having fun?" Splyt asked.

"What?"

"Fun! You've been smiling since you got here."

"I have?" Jothor got up and crossed over to the mirror on the wall next to the bookcase. Spittle was foaming at the corners of his mouth. He poked at his face.

"The problem with your bodies," Jothor continued, "is there are so many muscles to control and keep track of. Not to mention these ears. It's like being surrounded by sound."

Splyt stood up. He had three pencils in each hand. He edged toward the door. "Your people look different? I made you human in my books."

Jothor turned and rushed forward. Splyt tried to confuse Jothor with a stutter step but his belly worked against him. Jothor grabbed Splyt by the shirt and hoisted him up. Pencils jabbed into Jothor's neck did nothing to slow him down. Splyt was slammed onto the desk.

"Don't move!"

"Gask!"

Jothor let go and scanned the last dozen pages as Splyt coughed. The nail gun was performing a samba. The pages dropped to the floor.

"What happens to the princess?"

"Princess?" Splyt croaked.

"Princess! Princess! What do you call her? Tatrianna? She wields the influence over the president."

"She's not called Tatrianna in your world?"

"I cannot translate the name. It's like the singing of your mice."

"Mice? Mice sing?"

"Yes! Can't you hear them? There must be hundreds in this, this place! Singing. A melodious squeak!"

"Princess Squeak?"

The grin was a death's head. Blood dripped along the pencils and onto the desk. Jothor grasped Splyt's neck.

"My time is short. What happens to the princess?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me!"

"I don't know! I haven't written it yet!"

"Does she succeed in her plans? Does she die?"

"I-uh. Plans?" Splyt was dizzy. And tired. He was pretty sure he was soiled.

"If you do not tell me, I will kill you and your family. I have enough time to reach your wife and daughter."

"Daughter?"

"Yes, your daughter. Cally. You dedicated the last two books to her."

Splyt started laughing. Jothor let go of Splyt's neck. He sorted through the books on the floor and picked one up, displaying the dedication.

"Cally's my sister," Splyt said, still laughing. "I've been divorced for five years. We never had kids."

"This can't be. The other books. The events. Everything matches! But the priestess said you fathered a child."

"You've got the wrong dimension again," Splyt said, sitting up on the desk. "Good luck next time, sucker!"

Click, Bang!

Below the open window a man found bits of flesh on the roof of his car and a fine mist of blood on the windshield. The police investigated. The nail gun artist could provide no information. Inside the loft the police found the body of Joel Bronson, a retired marine who had lived down the street in apartment #17. The forensics team determined he was not the person present when Mr. Adams was killed. While it wasn't clear why Mr. Bronson's body was in the loft, the autopsy showed he had died of a heart attack elsewhere. Mr. Bronson was cleared of any wrong doing. This was of great consolation to his widow who was able to bury him with full military honors. Along with most of his cat.