It's time to think outside the universe!

Simon Finnick isn't what you would call a risk-taker.

But when he receives a mysterious letter from famed inventor and overall eccentric H.C. Quimbley, his entire universe takes a turn for the unexplainable.

Can a person really travel across space and time?

Do ghosts exist?

Does carrot Jell-O really hold the secrets to realm-traveling?

Simon has questions, Quimbley has answers...just not the ones Simon expects!

Get ready for an adventure that bridges time and space as our heroes solve the mystery of cataclysmic objects, forgotten worlds, and the murder of one man.

Hold on tight, because the universe has never been so big...or so easily traveled.

H.C. Quimbley invites you to leave everything you thought you knew behind, and discover realms of pure imagination.

Danger awaits, but you're ready for it!

Start your Journey with H.C Quimbley in his first ever adventure. Available now EXCLUSIVELY from Quimbleys.com, this ebook will get you acquainted with the character behind the fun. Don't miss out, and be ready for more as tie-in books and short stories are coming now that will tie into every corner of the Quimbley's Toys and Games IP universe.

This is only the beginning!

READ THE FIRST CHAPTER NOW:

CHAPTER 1:

Future Letters from the Past

Nervousness had always been Simon Finnik’s baseline. It wasn’t that he was afraid to do the right thing against opposition, or a coward in any way, but his stomach always twisted a bit when thinking about tomorrow. The possibilities of today were more than enough for any man to process. Add those of tomorrow, and suddenly things spiraled. What would the weather be like? Would the boss be happy or angry? Would there be enough money in the bank account to pay rent? Such questions would churn in Simon’s brain, leaving him uneasy and clammy. Throw in something unexpected, and he would sweat like a pig on Easter Sunday.

In his current seat in the back of the self-driving cab, Simon felt uncomfortably sweaty.

Wipers flew across the windshield, clearing sheets of heavy rain. Bright headlights illuminated the dark road ahead, along with clusters of trees that seemed to jump in front of the car as it wound its way up the crooked lane at almost 80 mph. Simon sat in the back seat of the cab; grateful he wasn’t behind the wheel navigating the winding roads of the Lexicon City hills. Of course, no one was behind the wheel technically, but Simon trusted the maneuvering capabilities of the self-driving vehicle more than he did his own, especially at these kinds of speeds. The thought of hydroplaning and crashing down one of the canyons on his right made his heart beat faster. Dying in a fiery crash might be preferable to the smell of the vehicle though, which mixed a potent musk of body odor and leftover Thai food. Simon would need to spring a couple extra bucks next time for a more reputable ride; one that didn’t feel the need to drive quite so fast just to save time on a fare.

“Are you nervous, citizen?” a robotic voice asked from the speakers overhead as the cab took a sharp pull to the left. The lights of massive Lexicon skyscrapers were visible in the valley below for an instant before a grove of trees obscured the view. “Sensors indicate that your resting heart rate of 72 beats per minute has now exceeded 100 beats per minute. Would you be more comfortable if the vehicle were to slow down another five miles per hour? It would however impact our arrival time.”

“I’m fine,” Simon replied, fingers twitching against the old, yellowed envelope in his hands. “Just get us there on time, please.”

“As you wish, citizen. We will be arriving at your destination at precisely 8:56 PM. The rain has slowed us down unfortunately, as did the unexpected traffic on Blanchard Avenue, but I am compensating with higher speeds. Hildebrand Transportation always wishes you a pleasant journey.”

Looking down at the mysterious envelope, Simon checked his watch. The holographic display read 8:52 pm. He still had six minutes to arrive on time, according to the letter he had received. The cab swerved again, pitching Simon against the passenger door. He couldn’t decide what scared him more, the speed, or the idea of being late.

Why am I worried about arriving on time? He thought to himself. This entire thing is so stupid!

Even so, Simon would not allow himself to be tardy. Such a thing would not be prudent, no matter how strange the situation. The circumstances may be odd, but Simon most definitely was not. ‘It’s better to be three hours early than three minutes late,’ his grandfather used to say. Impractical advice, certainly, but words that constantly clawed at Simon’s brain whenever a deadline approached.

He held the envelope closer to the overhead light and examined it for the 50^th time. His name and address were written in blue ink, scripted in cursive with a lovely fluidity that he assumed was a woman’s handwriting. Simon couldn’t remember the last time he received a piece of physical mail. The postmaster himself had to deliver it special, since no one sent letters anymore. Why would they, when a holographic message or personalized digital greeting would do the job just fine?

The envelope itself seemed quite old and yellowed, with the edges bent and worn. It smelled musty, as if it had been in a drawer for a decade. The postmaster had told him the Lexicon Office had been holding onto the piece of mail for as long as he had worked for the agency, and that somebody must have paid a fortune back in the day to have it delivered on a specific date so far in the future.

Simon pulled the letter out carefully and read it one more time, just to be safe. Faded black letterhead at the top read, Robert Lockett Esq. & Associates, Attorneys at Law, with a hastily written note beneath. The writing appeared to be with the same blue ink as the envelope, but the penmanship was far more haphazard and quickly scratched. Simon guessed a man had written this portion, since it reminded him of his own thoughtless longhand.

‘Simon Finnik,’ the letter began. ‘Please join me at my residence at 3701 FireIce Rose Lane tonight at precisely 8:58 pm. The timing of our meeting is of immense importance to the future stability of our society, as well as that of history in general. To pique your interest further, I know you hate avocados despite never telling your mother. And you love black licorice even though you say you hate it. Please do not be tardy. I will provide payment for your time, as you see fair, as well as freshly baked cookies and Jell-O.’

The letter was signed: H.C. Quimbley, Lecturer of Physics and Temporal Causality, Purveyor of Knowledge, Realm-Traveler Extraordinaire.

Rain continued thumping against the cab roof as Simon pondered this eccentric message. What would H.C. Quimbley want with him? They had never met personally, beyond being in the same lecture hall at Bast Altman University several years before. Quimbley gave an animated address on the impossibility of time paradoxes. Despite the dry nature of the topic, Quimbley had actually kept Simon’s attention as the rotund man in the iridescent green vest had spoken with the excitement of a child gushing about what they got for Christmas. Of course, most academics didn’t take Quimbley’s time travel and galactic adventure talk seriously, but Quimbley always seemed to laugh off their scorn while making billions of dollars through his patents and other inventions. Fellow scientists may have thumbed their noses, but businessmen certainly loved his tech.

And how did he know Simon hated avocados and loved black licorice? He had never told anyone these facts. They felt almost like dirty little secrets. Of course, Simon had heard of AI algorithms that could find even the most intimate secrets of a person by combing through their purchase and social media activity. Maybe that’s how Quimbley knew about his palate preferences. But that raised another question: why go to all the trouble of getting someone like Simon to come to a billionaire’s house? Surely there were more important people to prank.

It was the last line that had pushed Simon over the edge, however. ‘I will provide payment for your time, as you see fair.’ Simon read that line again. After having just graduated from college, his student debt had matured, while prospects for jobs in his chosen field of forensic insurance fraud had been far less abundant than the recruiters had promised. He was still getting coffee for an adjuster with cybernetic enhancements and a bad temper, who fired people as if it was his favorite pastime, so the thought of a billionaire paying him anything was enough to make the trip. Even using the cheapest cab company he could find, had stung Simon’s bank account. He was almost out of butter noodle packets and salt crackers after all, and wouldn’t get paid for another week. If a bizarre theorist wanted to pay a guy money to show up at his house on a rainy evening, Simon would play along.

“We will be arriving in 30 seconds, citizen,” the robotic voice sang through the speakers.

“Thanks,” Simon said as he placed the letter back inside the envelope and glanced through the window to catch his first glimpse of Quimbley’s house. An iron gate rose on his right, with the lights of a large manor flickering behind the downpour. Just as they made it to the open gate, however, a loud bang emanated from the cab’s front end. The interior lights flickered for a second and the vehicle lurched to a stop.

“What happened?” he asked frantically as the cab’s electric engine purr was replaced with a sickening grinding sound. Simon knew nothing about car engines, and suddenly imagined himself walking home in the rain because he couldn’t fix whatever problem the cab suffered.

“Diagnostic reports indicate our transmission has failed, citizen. Hildebrand Transportation apologizes for any inconvenience this may cause, as we wait for a support vehicle to arrive. Would you like to hear some calming music as we await assistance?”

“I’m fine,” Simon said as he opened the car door. “Does this mean that another car is going to have to come pick me up? I was hoping to get home by 10. If I go to bed too late it throws off my whole schedule.”

“Assistance will arrive within the next 112 minutes, according to our emergency dispatch office. Two other disabled vehicles have priority at the moment.”

“Wonderful. Maybe Mr. Quimbley can give me a ride home. At least you got me here.”

Rain pelted Simon’s orange jacket and brown hair as he ran up the steps toward the mansion and its covered entryway. Now on the grounds, Simon saw the primary section of the house had been built in a Victorian style, with steep pitched roofs and ornate lattice work on all three stories. Separate wings jutted out from the main home though, each in a different design aesthetic; one blocky, with concrete supports and glass walls, another erratic, with seemingly random boxes popping up along the walls and roof like a child building with blocks. The colorful lights of Lexicon City blinked through the rain in the valley below, gleaming like a collection of neon tubes stretching 200 stories into the clouds. From up here the city looked almost quiet and peaceful; pleasant smelling, even.

Simon glanced down at his watch.

8:57 pm.

He had made it on time.

Barely.

His heartbeat slowed for the first time since the cab had started taking the curves at dangerous speeds. Raising his hand to knock at the ornate double oak doors, Simon held it steady until the holographic display pinged 8:58.

Knock, knock, knock. The sound boomed louder than expected in the small, covered courtyard. Simon waited a minute, but no one came to the door. He glanced over his shoulder to see the cab still parked at the end of the long driveway, ‘Out of Service’ flashing on the digital windshield display. His watch now read 8:59 pm. For a guy who had been so precise with his instructions, Quimbley was certainly taking a long time to answer the door. Simon looked down at his shoes with their stylish red and white stripes, rolling back on the balls of his feet for a moment as if entertaining himself on the front porch.

Just as he raised his fist to knock again, the polished wood entrance swung open and a plump man in his mid-40’s stood there with a bright smile, and thick brown hair with a patch of gray over his forehead. Wooden-framed glasses sat on his round nose. A short beard, barely more than five o’clock shadow, covered his chin. He wore a cream-colored shirt, wide lenticular tie that changed colors from green to red as he moved, and an apron with a picture of what looked like Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking playing ping pong on the front. The man held a tray of steaming chocolate chip cookies in his oven-mitted right hand.

H.C. Quimbley.

If Simon was really honest, seeing the unconventional inventor in such a strangely casual state didn’t surprise him in the least. The smell of freshly baked cookies made his stomach growl.

“Hello!” Quimbley boomed, cheeks rosy and full. “What can I do for you on this pleasantly wet evening, young man?"

“Um…” Simon began, taken off-guard by the question. He held up the envelope, now speckled with drops of rain. “You invited me here…I think?”

Quimbley’s forehead creased, lips pulling to the side in a look of slight confusion.

“It says here,” Simon continued, pulling out the letter, “that I was supposed to arrive at exactly 8:58 pm tonight, and that the fate of society is at stake…or something?”

“Interesting,” Quimbley said, rubbing his chin with his left hand, which was also enclosed in a colorful oven mitt. He leaned to the right to look past Simon. “What happened to your transportation?”

“Apparently the transmission blew just as we pulled up to the house. I didn’t exactly pay for a top-of-the-line ride.”

“May I see the letter?” Quimbley asked. Simon handed it to him, and the man’s eyes darted excitedly from line to line. He grinned broadly and took a deep breath. “Do you really hate avocados? I find them incredibly delicious.”

Simon’s face seemed to pull toward his nose. “So, you didn’t send the letter then?”

“Yes!” Quimbley grinned, handing the paper back to Simon. “This letter is indeed from me. The handwriting is most assuredly mine, and it’s obvious the time of 8:58 pm was to ensure you didn’t get delayed by unfortunate engine trouble. Imagine if I had said 9:00 pm, or dear me, 9:15. You may have been walking some distance in the rain, which could have damaged the letter, or even worse, kept you from arriving at all! If you had come earlier, I wouldn’t even have been at home since my neighbor Miss Claybourne was having one of her delightful pickleball parties. Unfortunately, the sweets were subpar, what with her hopeless obsession with carrot Jell-O.” He raised the cookie pan higher as if to emphasize the confections. “Thus, I had to make my own dessert upon arriving home. I take it you’re Simon Finnik.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And have we met before?”

“Not that I know of. You did a lecture once at my university a couple years ago, but I sat in the back and didn’t ask any questions or anything like that.”

Quimbley’s smile seemed to grow, animating his round face even further. “Come inside my young man! Come inside. This is the most intriguing thing to happen to me in some weeks. I’m incredibly excited to learn more about this letter and how it came to you.”

Simon blinked several times. “But you sent the letter, right?”

“I did!” Quimbley said, shoulders pulling toward his ears as he grinned. “Or more precisely, I will send it at some point in the near future.”

“You…haven’t sent it yet…” Simon stated, thinking back to a particularly scathing article he had read after receiving the letter, that called H.C. Quimbley eccentric and, according to the author, quite loony. ‘As a lecturer he is second to none when it comes to entertainment,’ the piece had said, ‘but his talk of galactic and temporal travel undermines his credibility and places him firmly in the realm of pseudo-science, despite his success in more business-minded circles.’

“No, I haven’t sent it yet,” Quimbley continued, practically dancing with excitement. “but I obviously will, because you have it right there in your hand!” Quimbley stepped back and motioned with the cookie tray for Simon to come inside. “Isn’t it exciting? Enter, please. We clearly have quite a bit to discuss, you and I. Luckily, we have these cookies to enjoy together. This is going to be an immensely satisfying evening! And it says here I’m going to compensate you for your time, which I will surely do, as promised. How much do you think your time coming here tonight is worth?”

Simon opened his mouth to say, ‘$1,000,’ but thought such an amount was exorbitant.

“$500?” Simon asked. Maybe even $500 was too much. The cab ride had only cost him $150.

“Is that a question, or a statement?”

“$500.” Simon said with more conviction.

“Good!” Quimbley chuckled, stepping aside for Simon to enter. “Never sell your time short, my young man. It’s the most valuable thing in the world. $500 for the drive, and if you stay and let me ask you a few questions and perhaps pontificate on the nature of spacetime and the universe, I will pay you ten times that amount. Sound good?”

Simon’s mouth fell open. “…Sure!” he replied with enthusiasm. $5,000 just to eat some cookies and find out how strange a famous billionaire could be?

Slowly, Simon stepped forward, leaving behind the smell of rain, and the prudent world he knew so well.

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