Alan Foster - Exceptions to Reality

Sipping a cold frappé brewed solely with rare Atiu coffee, he perused the status of the always interesting Southeast Asian exchanges. It was one of his favorite places to do business. The inherent explosive nature of the region offered potential big profits for his customers, and equivalent commissions for the company and himself. He had done particularly well in that part of the world and fully intended to do so again.

Papua New Guinea kina…no, that was holding steady. Nothing interesting happening there. What about the Malaysian ringgit? Already up 0.5 percent today…too late to jump in. The Singapore dollar he rarely played with, but the Indonesian rupee, with its wild swings, was always worth working, especially when he was in a real gambling mood. Today looked like a bad day on the Manila exchange. Possible opportunities there for him. Knowing his limits to the dollar, he whistled merrily to himself as he put in an order for 22.3 million Philippine pesos, with an eye toward unloading them by the end of the workday. The Manila bourse might be down, but his sources had been assuring him for weeks that the economy was strong and rebounding nicely from the mini-depression of two months back. If he was right, and he usually was, the swing would net the company’s investors between 1 and 2 percent. Not a huge profit, but very nice indeed for one day’s work.

He had authorized the buy and was in the process of plotting another when the middle screen declared, calmly and without emotion, “Purchase confirmed: twenty-two point three million zwebagls .”

He blinked. At first he thought there was a keyboarding error. Then he realized it was a joke. There was, of course, no such unit of currency as the zwebagl . It did sound vaguely like an issue from one of the old Eastern European communist governments, though he knew that could not be so. Geoffrey Parker-Piggott knew the names and denominations of every currency on the planet, from Peruvian inti to Israeli shekel. The zwebagl did not exist. Therefore, someone was pulling an elaborate gag on him.

He ran a systems check. Expensive firewall and second-line-of-defense software assured him that neither office intranet nor his personal units had been compromised. He had not been hacked, whacked, or sacked. Who had the necessary skill to break into his private network without activating security? More importantly, who had the chutzpah? Even if the initial intent was humorous and the final goal amusement, serious damage could result.

Well, no harm done. Undoubtedly he would find out at some future date who was responsible, when the joker chose to reveal himself. Or herself, he mused, allowing himself to recall the face and figure of the exotic and lovely Jennifer Lowen. Ignoring the readout he continued with his work, reentering the order for Philippine pesos. He was gratified to see it confirmed within a few minutes.

Later that afternoon the relevant screen, as it was programmed to do, blinked for attention.

“Your recent zwebagl purchase is up five point two percent. Do you wish to initiate a correction or a transfer of assets? There appears to be a good opening in gyflings .”

His software was programmed to alert him anytime a holding he had authorized rose or fell by 5 percent or more. But according to the machines, he had purchased the twenty-two million zwebagls less than two hours ago! The upward surge was incredible, and without knowing what was going on he had apparently made the right decision. About nothing.

Parker-Piggott licked his lower lip. A wonderful joke, yes. One so sophisticated and adept that few could enjoy its ramifications. All right—no one enjoyed a good joke more than he did. Hesitating only briefly, he entered the necessary commands to sell. Furthermore, a smile playing about his pale lips, he added additional instructions that he felt were wholly in keeping with the tone of the gag. Who said he had no sense of humor?

“Selling twenty-two million plus accumulated five point two percent profit zwebagls . As per request, recommend one-day forward option to purchase three hundred fifty thousand gyflings .”

He left it at that, finishing the day with more ups than downs, and making a game as he left the office of trying to guess who was behind the goofy hoax. Whoever it was did not give themselves away in the crowded hall.

By morning of the next day he had forgotten all about it. He was deep into trying to decide what to do with half a billion new Brazilian reals when a note popped up on one screen indicating that on his authorization the computer had purchased, in addition to his slowly but steadily appreciating gyflings, 2.5 million worth of Posmoo schmerkels .

Enough was enough, he decided. But no matter how hard he tried to purge his system of the intrusion, every piece of software, including his supposedly inviolable backups, insisted that he was committed to acquiring the indicated quantity of schmerkels . Meanwhile, his gyflings continued to do well. The computer also assured him that now was the time to sell any other zwebagls he might be holding, and that there was a new opportunity to grab some Umutu weesfirks before word got out that the Umutun government was going to issue equivalent bonds at an admirable premium.

Furthermore, his commissions on all relevant transactions were substantial. The only trouble was, they were in zwebagls . Staring at the screen, he found himself wondering for a wild moment if he should convert his recently acquired personal profit to schmerkels . Then clarity returned and he wondered what the hell he was doing.

He wanted to stand up and shout, All right—this has gone far enough! He did not because he knew that anyone in the office within earshot of his station would look at him as if he had suddenly gone daft. For a number of good and valid reasons, he was convinced he had not. He was less certain about the sanity of his software.

Twenty minutes into negotiating a price for some Chinese yuan, screen number three, which heretofore had been acting in an entirely prudent and responsible manner, broke in with a special bulletin. War, it declared, had ceased between the Gherash Federation and the United Orb-Urbs of Frebbic, with the Gherashians conceding defeat. News would not reach the public at large for at least six minutes. If he acted quickly…

Parker-Piggott stared at the screen for a long time. An opportunity like this came to a currency trader maybe once or twice in a lifetime. If he moved fast, according to the information appearing on the screen he could make a monstrous killing in the market for Federation norpits. Of course, there was no such currency as the norpit, just as there were no countries named the Gherash Federation and the United Orb-Urbs of Frebbic. Still, the temptation to act swiftly was one that was ingrained in every currency trader.

It was not like him to enter figures in anything less than a crisp and competent manner. His excuse was that it took a couple of minutes to establish the correct exchange rate between the norpit and the schmerkel. If he had calculated the appreciation on the forward schmerkel contract correctly, then he would end up with a windfall in norpits without having to commit any real currency, like dollars or pounds. Not that he would have had to anyway. There is such a thing as carrying a joke too far.

The information provided by the screen turned out to be conservative. News of the Gherash Federation’s defeat did not appear on the third screen for almost fifteen minutes, not six. The creature that delivered the bulletin in a flat nasal tone resembled a warty salamander with a runny nose and unsteady eyes. Watching it, Parker-Piggott reflected on how wonderful it was what creative people could do these days with a few simple wire-and-frame animation programs. Then the creature did something that made his lower jaw drop and his thoughts spin. Of one thing he was abruptly convinced: what he was watching was not the product of some clever CGI specialist’s art. And if not that, then what? The possible conclusions were daunting.