So, what's Roby's deal, anyway? Is she just a wispy dullard swept away in a world she wasn't supposed to understand? Or is she actually a secret genius hiding more than any could guess? Is she partly made from congealed goat milk and a mattress that's been through an industrial shredder? Life is full of questions, and the answers are scarce indeed, except that third one, because that's an obvious yes. I mean, c'mon. Have you seen her?

When the door slammed shut behind her, she spun around, seeking an answer like a fool, but she saw only the closed door, and no slammer at all. She was out of luck this time—doors had two sides, always, but this one's orientation wasn't open to interpretation, and when she went over to the door, and it had that little glass window with the diamond wire pattern in it, she pressed her seeing-eyes right up to the window, and saw nothing on the other side but darkness, shadows, and seven blue eyes peering back at her from the gloom, but their owner slunk away and took their eyes with them, leaving behind naught but a rapidly-gyrating conga line, which went ignored, relevant only to earlier drafts.

“The sides of this door are not of me for deciding, nor de-siding, and so I am resigned to leave this stranger behind!” she said by way of a warmup, because I'm going to have her talk a lot this time.

It didn't even matter that she'd been shut out, since she was going to climb the stairs anyway—that's why she'd entered the stairwell in the first place. But it was rude to slam doors, and so she wanted to see if an apology could be snagged, or at least know the ruder to avoid its future. Anyway, the stairs was—sorry, the stairs were long, stretching up to such heights that most games wouldn't let you see the top, since they always limit the camera angle so that you can't point straight up—to say nothing of render distance. She'd fallen a mile (approx.), so it was destined to be quite a hike.

“I can mount a stair or two,” she said, “and soon the top shall be in view!” With this brightful motivation, she put one of her hands on the handrail—safety first!—and one of her feet on the first tread, and thus was her climb begun.

She ascended. The stairs traced the square of the shaft, landings at each corner, stairfence middleward, and Roby, slave to curiosity, could not resist peering over it, down into the great open center, and marking her passage at intervals. After the first step, she noted she had not gone far. After the second step, she again noted she had not gone very far. After the third step—right, sorry. Moving on.

In that fashion Roby clumb uncountable stairs, and the bottom disappeared into darkness, and the top was still lost in lofty gloom, and so she came to a locale of uncertain height, which she might have speculated was the middle of the voyage, but it would be to her disadvantage to cling to such optimism, for she had not yet passed even one-tenth of one-tenth of the journey. Here is where she beheld the first of the One Hundred Guardians of the Ascent of Fools, as the stair-themed demesne was called. The obstaclish person was in the form of Bloatmen O'Pairwrecker, the eldmost mopper, lugist, and copper-topped bellwether to the foes of celebrities. Bloatmen regarded her with boredom and tuned his plastic comb to 89.1 FM to listen to “Mornings with Shago & the Pike.”

“You ready to place your order?” said Bloatmen.

“An order?” said Roby. “That is bolder than I had thought to be. But sorted! I, cordial, must kindly ask you to leave.” She smiled gladdishly, spirits dry and purpose clear.

“Oh?” said Bloatmen. “And how do you propose I do that? With these eyes? These eyes of mine I'm using for seeing? Why, I've got my grandfather's eyes, everyone's always said—and I'm not givin' 'em back! Now, check out these proceedings!” Bloatmen then leapt into the chandelier district, but not alone, for he had gotten his hooks into Roby's carcass and draggen her along, and placed her in a seat without wheels at a table without hope, where he also sat, opposed at her, and gave her many glares. Roby beheld the pretty district, where all the other tables were quite occupied by the monkeys that were playing cards—the done thing in such regally-defined environ. Bloatmen grabbed a pack and began shufflage.

“A hall of games!” said Roby. “Now, that seems like fun! My passage can wait until my playing is done!”

“A passage-seeker,” said Bloatmen, unsharing her delight. “Oh! Your like! There's been plenty—you're not first or last. No, not special at all. And look—they remain, monkeyfied, shuffling and folding till the end of their days—or day, if they've got the right idea. Being one's up for grabs, and you've got sticky hands!” He grinned vily with an emotion born of scheming. “But! I am Justice. The game is for you to choose, if you guess it matters—I have acumen in all things! So but name the arena you opt to perish in—I fear no selection.”

Now Bloatmen applied requisite cigars to his appellation and the cards fluttered in his hands as Roby pondered her choice.

“I choose the game?” said Roby. “Yet I know few names. If I must make a wish, let it be Go Fish!”

Bloatmen chucked, which is like a bigger chuckle, and said, “A child's game? Well, it's befitting one of your stature. It's in my repertoire, alas for you.” Now he cut the deck and dealt a hand to himself and Roby both, and did not cheat in the doing so, for he wanted not for skill, and had no need for underhanded activities—he was an expert in all carded games, after all, and the pride of a craftishman would unlet him deceive so.

“Shall I review the rules for you?” he said to Roby.

Now, suppose a thing—any thing. If a thing could be done by one person, and if it could be done by two people, they will naturally be drove to compare their ability at the thing, demonstrate it in a contest, and see declared winner and loser both. They would not be the last—more would come, as their hearts were plucked into attention, square pegs fitting square holes finally—they would gather, and tilt with passion, challenges mounting, esteem raising, pride and prestige exchanged with each tournament. They would seek to excel. They would master the requisite knowledge, train the necessary motions, and harden their cores. They would spend skipped meals and missed weddings poring over calculations of minute significance, developing techniques dimensions beyond their comrades, and striving ever further in every sense—all to ensure they had perfected the least and the greatest aspects of their one chosen thing.

“The rules are unsecret,” said Roby, “and no tutor is needed.” She took up her cards.

“I'm dealer,” said Bloatmen, “so you make the first move.”

“This is known,” said Roby, “so on goes the show. A three for me, if you please.”

Bloatmen made a sneering pose. “I've none. Go Fish!”

Now all the cards were spread about the pond, their faces down, their backs identical, and indeed they had been newly born from the pack moments ago, and in their look and sense was sameness, and there was no way to predict which was where. By sight, they were all alike; by sound, they were invisible; by touch, they were illegal; by smell and taste—well, that would rather spoil the spirit of the game. But there were senses beyond the elementary—of balance, of time, of candidate emotivicity, of the weight of fear, need, and love.

Roby put her hand upon a card and said, “The three I need is here, I believe.” She smiled.

Bloatmen smiled.

Roby flipped the card 'neath her paw and lo! it was the sought-for three of diamonds! “My three! Come to me!” she said. “And with it my book is done, and was it not fun? Now, let us continue until there is a winner, and in no time I shall be resuming my climb!”

Bloatmen was put out a portion but not undone, and so the game continued. The play-by-play is not important. To know the look of sunken, strange Roby, smiling and made of overmuch cheer, and Bloatmen in his confidence and vest, looming, is enough.

“What do you think you are?” said Bloatmen as they played. “Everything, yet nothing—the struggling ease; the leisurely labor.”

“I am not so good at poetry,” said Roby, “even though I know it seems to be a thing of ease with me, indeed, I need to cease, I think!” She laughed to herself.

“It's enough to walk on untrodden paths,” said Bloatmen, “not that you'd know.”

They challenged one another, fishing back and forth—Roby was ahead. Bloatmen grew quieter. Perhaps a friending was in order? Roby thought about how her regional knowledge was lacking, after all, and perhaps a nice conversation could be small-talked from that topic.

“Are you a resident of this here settlement?” said Roby. “For I would love to learn lots of local lore and would not be bored by a store of stories said on the steps of the stairs!”

Bloatmen, fishing for an ace and finding the deuce—so close and so far at once—said, “No, you won't. Your curse is peerless attention, and the cross you bear is novel. Alas that your youth is stolen from you, a sacrifice necessary to the Earth, and in recompense, you endure the rod. You shall be a victor unto the fall.”

“Well,” said Roby, “these words tend odd, so my path must wend on, for upwards I climb to return to a time when friends were at hand in a good sunny land!”

Roby then requested a card of unstated value—unstated by me, I mean; Roby obviously said what it was, but it wasn't important, so it's omitted for the sake of brevity, but, for the sake of lancing the boil of unfulfilled desire, it was four—and Bloatmen, in trepidation, instructed Roby to proceed with fishing. She did, and—there, she successfully fished the desired card. She finished her last book. Her hand was emptied. The game was done—and it was a dominant victory for Roby.

Bloatmen pent up his rage. “Passage remains barred!” he said. Upping the requirement to a best-two-out-of-three state would have been a cleaner move, but as the lowest of the Guardians, he possessed not the competence to call for it. As his anger blossomed, he rose and wrathishly said, “Remain here, and be prisoned! Immobility better suits you.”

“A Roby in a suit!” Roby chuckled, which was like a smaller chuck. “That image is a hoot! But I digress—I must impress my desired egress, so if you would bless me with thee leaving the scene with all speed, all can agree is it hotly in need!”

“That will not transpire,” said Bloatmen.

“Shall we trade spitting fire?” said Roby.

“That is not required,” said Bloatmen.

“Yet, it is desired!” said Roby.

“Do not evoke my ire!” said Bloatmen.

“You seem hotly wired,” said Roby.

“This must stop!” said Bloatmen. “You'll not reach the top, for your journey ends here, with you crippled in fear, so prepare for your doom and go to your room!”

“I must go on,” said Roby, “though the trek be long, for my friends are still waiting, their patience abating, and so that they not suffer, I must swiftly hustle! Please place your person apart from my presence promptly, now I need to know the way to go to get out of this stairwell, honestly!”

“All this while,” said Bloatmen, “you've traveled in miles and though shared some smiles, despite all your wiles, you face dooms too vile and now I am riled and eager to see you return whence you came, or to burn you with flame, and spurn you in shame, for you lack luck and stay stuck on the stairs somewhere, forever unpaired!”

Roby said, “But my quest is the best for it ends meeting friends, and if it a test or for making amends, then I greet the task and when we meet I ask whether better fought or never thought—whatever got, like as not, betokes a spot like a dot! My drop is not a lot, I know, and my lot may be one just for show, so though you know coming fore is madness, I am glad this sad list is read in full, though dreadful, my handful is a sandhill, for splendid deeds demand doing, and many need that too, then! I will go, you know, above or below, and braced for the quiz that is awaiting me, so, although, so tough is the road, the race is a blitz berating me, I know I can make it, and to show I can take it, walk aside me, not behind me, to witness as I pit this frame mine so frail against dangers and strangers that sprinkle my tale!”

But Bloatmen took not this offer, and with no further words, cascading fury drove him to take the table entire and upend it, and cards went willy-nilly. All the monkeys were highly distracted and inspired by this, and they each tossed their own tables in every direction, and so cards fluttered through the air, and got caught in the air conditioning vents, and littered the floor literally, and no one had ever though to stock the place with security guards, so there was no cure for the chaos.

“Jazz!” declared Bloatmen, and then with a twist of his wrist, wrote out all the first names of the children in the last chapter, dotting the I's and crossing the T's, and even though that's not technically the proper way to pluralize a letter used as a word, a tennis coach couldn't find the remote control, but it didn't matter, since the batteries were dead anyway. The TV would have to stay off.

Roby dove into an empty pack of cards for a moment of safety, and found unwantable stale gum in there, sadly. She said, “An unfight is preferred, sir, by me, and if you could or would see fit to be moved, or move, to permit the travel of me, then that is a thing greatly in need!”

“Spectrometer!” said Bloatmen, and then he said, “Outcast as a lamb, derived and stinking, veering not enough! Let's see you down to the bones, and then the rent's safe, at least—it'll be the scaffolding no more!”

Turning to page three, Bloatmen had a great trident, and he swung it hither and yon, seeking to land a blow on or near Roby, and in peering at this activity, tridenteers from all across the country came to measure their own trident skills against him. Brackets were arranged, and quickly it was seen that no one was his equal, but everyone was magnanimous in their defeats, and they decided to give him awards for his swinging, such was the smoothness of his strokes and the firmness of his thrusts. Bloatmen was pleased and flattered and knew joy. Pretty soon, he had so many awards that he had to rent a second garage to store them in, so he went to the garage rental service, and inquired about renting a fine new garage, but the garage rentist told him they had none left.

“A pity,” said Bloatmen sadly, and he went home and threw all his awards not into the garage but into the garbage, the only place he had room for them, for they were thus of no use to him, and he wanted them away from his sight and to be dispensed with the memories attached to them, for they only caused him to weep at what might have been, and soon the garbage truck came and took away all the garbage and trophies, and as it drove up the street, Bloatmen moped about the house, inconsolable.

Bloatmen's wife, Sloganworthy, said, “The awards don't change the fact—you're a damn fine sight with that trident.”

“Dearly beloved,” said Bloatmen. “I only wanted to have them—something to bear record to the feats. I just, just thought it'd be nice to have something, some tangible thing that said how good I was at the one thing that ever made me happy. There's value in that—and that alone.”

That's when Sloganworthy revealed her secret: she had kept one of the trophies, a handsome but modest cup with BEST TRIDENT SWINGER engraved in the nameplate, and also that she was part worm. Bloatmen beheld it, and touched it gingerly.

“Can it truly be?” he said.

Sloganworthy closed the three doors, despite the gap.

In the back of the garbage truck, Roby muttered, “A seeming of garbage is of me, or so it seems—news to me!” She shifted and pulled more trophies over her, and lay hid until she and the whole entire truck went over the hill and down the road and were well far away.

So, if you light a match and put it to a firework's fuse, the future's set in stone. Even though it hasn't happened yet, it's already locked in place. It's settled now. Does it even still need to happen? Or, take a string. You hold it by one end. Do you need to see the other end to know it has one? Okay, well, maybe you want to know how long the string is. How... how long it is? What does that matter? It ends—it has to. That's the point. Otherwise it wouldn't be a string. It'd be everything.

Well—obviously, not the whole future. Just the firework's future. And, yeah, the specifics aren't in yet. Oh, sure, it'll be an explosion, it'll be however many miles in the air, it'll be blue, it'll be about yea big. But the particular location and trajectory and orientation of every single fragment, the statistics of the composition of every separate piece, all the details as far down as they possibly go—that remains unknown.

Oh, please. No one's going to the fireworks to apply the uncertainty principle to the embers and smoke.

What happens after the light fades and the boom's last echo hushes library-style? What happens?

Are you seriously telling me you only brought one firework?

She jingled her keys and changed her name, buttoned her coat, and was a little taller. She changed her name again, and again. She was lying every time.

Now, those keys opened every lock, and started every car, and laid bare every passage in the world—all but one, I mean. It goes without saying that they were of Oopertreepian make. Who else could pull off a stunt like that? That knowledge is gone, and for good reason. In Old Oopertreepia, when they were still pioneers—well, they were bold, but very stupid. Reckless. Even now they dared to exist, which she found surprising. What was it doing back after she just got done putting the damn thing away?

She'd need more fireworks, and more names, and maybe, just maybe—

—more keys.