There are, of course, problems with this theory, not least of which 
was the fact that the party counted three highly-skilled thaumaturges 
among its number, any one of whom could have performed a 
working to send a psychic distress message. This, and other issues, 
led Durant to propose a second theory: sabotage. 


Durant suggested that the expedition could have been attacked and 
killed by the Thule Society expedition. Randall had suspected that 
they were secretly engaged in an archeological mission — might it 
have been possible that his team had unwittingly stumbled upon the 
Thule’s prize, leading them to kill him? 


Although there is no evidence to the contrary, there is also little 
evidence to support this suspicion — for that is what it is. There was 
nothing to suggest that the Way in JCR-072 was artificially 
collapsed, and based on the exit Way the Thule took out of 
JCR-050, it's unlikely they ever crossed paths with Randall's 
expedition again. 


Based on my own investigations, | have a theory of my own. As 
observed by Randall, and confirmed by later expeditions, branch 
universes do not generate their own reality, instead drawing it from 
the mainline. The lower one goes in the branches, the less real they 
become, displaying greater divergence from the mainline. | believe 
that in their quest to probe as deep into the multiverse as possible, 
the Randall party inadvertently exited reality, disappearing into a 
conceptual unspace. That is to say, they quite literally vanished. 
When exactly this happened is hard to say, but by my calculations 
they likely never got farther than a seventh- or eighth-level branch. 


However it happened, one thing is certain — Doctor John Carver 
Randall and his party will likely never be seen again. — L. Rowe 


Footnotes 

1.The actual Director of A&AM for Prometheus Labs at the time was 
Lucius Darby, who had replaced Petersen in late July of that year. 
However, Randall had no way of knowing this, hence the incorrect 
address.— LR 

2.1 have chosen not to include the Randall Catalogue in this version, 
in order to focus on the expedition itself. For the curious, a full copy 
of the catalogue can be obtained, free-of-charge, from the 


12/25/2010 


11/13/2011 


-.006012 


-.007299 


9.01 d 


11.11d 


168 years, 7 
months, 30 
days 


152 years, 2 
months, 3 


and the 
ejection of 
Titan from 
the Saturnian 
system in 
approximately 
38 years. 
Trajectory of 
Titan's exit 
eventually 
places it 
outside of the 
solar system. 
lapetus 
collides with 
Titan, 
resulting in 
major 
changes to 
Titan orbit. 
Model 
predicts 
subsequent 
breakdown in 
Titanian orbit 
and the 
ejection of 
Titan from 
the Saturnian 
system in 
approximately 
24 years. 
Trajectory of 
Titan's orbit 
predicts a 
collision with 
Mars in 
2209. 
lapetus 
collides with 


International Center for the Study of Unified Thaumatology.— LR 
3.Randall makes multiple references throughout the report to the 
current day relative to the start of the expedition. He also 
occasionally makes note of events that have known temporal 
coordinates. By comparing the count of days to these known 
temporal points, it becomes clear that at some time after the 47th 
day of the expedition, the Randall Party had become 
desynchronized from the mainline timeline. It is estimated that by the 
time of this report's writing, the party was out of sync by three weeks 
ahead. If they were aware of this desynchronization, Randall did not 
make note of it— LR 

4.A full Way map of Three Portlands was finally created in 1952, a 
task which took 35 skilled specialists almost 3 months to complete. 
—LR 

5.This phenomenon is known as ontic bleed, and is the result of 
branch universes drawing all or most of their reality from the 
mainline.— LR 

6.Karin Eichel, one of the party's three skilled thaumaturges. 
Prometheus Labs personnel records from the time indicate that she 
may have had a weak form of subconscious precognition, although 
this speculation was never confirmed.— LR 

7.Randall begins the catalogue at 038, to account for the 37 branch 
universes known of at the time. Although rarely referred to as such, 
Three Portlands is designated JCR-014 in the Randall Catalogue.— 
LR 

8.The Portland Observatory, located in Portland, Maine, does not 
physically exist within Three Portlands. However, its metaphysical 
form extends into the branch universe, manifesting as a shadowy 
"ghost" of itself. It is this metaphysical shadow that Randall refers to. 
—LR 

9.In 1927, before the invention of the Everhart Resonator, this was a 
much more challenging prospect than it is today.— LR 

10.Markos Simonides, one of the party's archeological experts. He 
led Prometheus Labs' 1924 expedition that attempted to find an 
entrance to the Underworld.— LR 

11. Fractals,a word which would not be coined until the 1970s.— LR 
12.Victoria Travers, a linguist and anthropologist who specialized in 
studying the influence of the occult on ancient civilizations.— LR 
13.Randall's party never made the rendezvous with Travers. She 
would later be found, almost six months after separating from the 


expedition, by the search party sent to retrieve Randall and his 
team. Travers could not be persuaded to return to Earth with the 
search party, electing to spend the rest of her life with the Mettryns. 
Her experiences during the months after she left the party, and her 
later life among the Mettryns, are described in her autobiography,3D 
Goddess.— LR 

14.The Thule Society were a group of German occultists who 
performed a number of archeological expeditions during the 
interbellum. They would later ally with the Obskuracorps during the 
Seventh Occult War.— LR 

15.Konrad Weiss, a veteran of the Sixth Occult War, at the time 
considered to be one of the five most powerful German 
thaumaturges. He would later command the archeological arm of 
Obskuracorps during the Seventh Occult War,until his capture by 
the Foundation.— LR 

16.Aspect radiation flux is the cause of a number of adverse 
psychological and physiological conditions among thaumaturges, 
who are more sensitive to shifts in background EVE levels.— LR 


Zeitgeist 


The old house on the corner of Seventh Portland Street and Too 
Many Portlands Streets Avenue has been legally declared a natural 
ghost sanctuary. 


It's not much of a sanctuary: the house is a husk, a burned-out shell 
that used to look like a Victorian manor. There are tombstones in the 
dirt field that passes for its front yard. Various murders and other 
unsavory happenings have taken place within its walls, and rumor 
has it that the ghost of Charlemagne himself lives there. The old 
house has been a fixture of Three Portlands culture for as long as 
Three Portlands has existed. 


It's also prime real estate. The only problem is that its current 
residents can't be legally exorcised. This is where the Chicago Spirit 
comes in: a particularly enterprising (and unsavory) real estate 
developer has hired them to evict the squatters. The specialist's 
name is Jack, and his specialty is putting the dead to rest. 


It's the middle of the night, and Jack is wearing a charcoal-colored 
slim-fit three-piece suit with a cross and a pinch of salt in the breast 
pocket. The cross vibrates as he steps into the threshold of the old 
house, and on cue, a wraith materializes in the foyer - a skeleton 
clad in a tattered wedding dress with two vines spiraling from her 
eye sockets. She shrieks and rushes at him. 


In a single smooth motion, Jack draws the Colt M1911 pistol on his 
belt, disengages the safety, centers the sight, and pulls the trigger, 
sending a silver-tipped .45 through the center of the wraith's 
forehead. She melts into vapor mid-charge, leaving only a light 
breeze that ruffles his collar. He adjusts it and enters the old house. 


Two spirits lounge on the central staircase. One of them has no 
head, so Jack puts two through its chest. The other takes a slug in 
its remaining eye. When they dissipate, he moves to the door by the 
foot of the staircase and kicks it open to reveal a dreary, cobweb- 


covered kitchen from hell. 


The oven is on, the kettles are whistling, and utensils fly about the 
room. Three spirits spin about at the center of it all as they direct the 
cooking of the damned. The first is a brain with two eyestalks 
protruding from it, the second is a hag wearing a blouse, and the last 
is a fat bearded bastard in ornate robes who can only be the King of 
the Romans. The kitchen stops dead when they see Jack, and then 
he stops it dead proper by blowing the brain apart with two bullets 
and putting two more through the hag. 


Charlemagne cowers in the corner. The magazine falls out of Jack's 
gun. 


He loads a new one into place and racks the slide. 


The old house rattles with the sounds of gunfire and spirits being 
violently put to rest. As the sun rises over Three Portlands, Jack 
steps outside the old house and realizes that his three-piece suit is 
mildly rumpled. In a vexed mood, he readjusts the suit and tries to 
smooth out the creases as he walks down Seventh Portland Street. 


The year is 1929, and this is is what Chicago spirit looks like. 


The magician from the library beyond time and space is looking for 
the greatest trip possible on this Earth. Shrooms are mundane, 
heroin is passé, and acid is tedious. She wants space bhang, a 
special edible made by an old man deep in the swamps who's half 
bhang himself. The bhangman doesn't just sell to anyone, though - 
he has friends, and you have to buy from those friends. The Spirit 
used to have such a friend in mind: a specialist, adept in the art of 
buying, smuggling, and selling various kinds of organic bliss. But the 
Spirit and the specialist are long gone, and all that's left is a young 
man called Scoob. 


Scoob is two miles out of Tallahassee when the red-and-blue lights 
illuminate the night in his rearview. The car is an Eldorado, a sleek, 
white, boxy ride that screams money. The problem, then, is that the 
pigs expect its driver to be the same color. Even if they don't find the 
bhang in the back, Scoob'll be on the ground faster than he can say 


"is there a problem". 
There's also the body in the passenger's seat. 


Scoob thinks quick and pulls over to the side of the road. The cop 
car slows to a halt behind him and then its driver steps out. As the 
officer approaches carefully, one hand gripping a flashlight and the 
other his holster, Scoob slaps a hand over the corpse in the 
passenger seat and whispers a few words of power. 


The cop stops and peers through the window. "License and 
registration?" 


Scoob hands over his forged credentials, whispering an extra 
sentence under his breath. The cop inspects it carefully. 


"Is there a problem, officer?" 
The cop inspects him equally carefully. "Your taillight’s out." 


"Damn. | thought it was failing - | was hoping to get home before 
then. Thank you for letting me know, officer." 


The officer looks past him at the corpse. "Heavy sleeper." 


"Had a bit too much to drink," he replies mildly. "Today's his 
birthday." 


"That so?" The officer looks thoughtful. "Tell you what - I'll let you off 
with a warning. Get that taillight fixed before another officer sees 
you." 


"| appreciate it, sir. Have a good night." 


The cop walks off and Scoob sighs with relief. At the same moment, 
the glamour evaporates and his skin reverts from a pale pink to a 
light brown. 


He shifts into gear and drives into the city. The bhang is safe - and 
so is Scoob's skin. 


The year is 1962, and this is what Chicago spirit looks like. 


Eugene is moving up in the world. His business recently acquired a 
contract from an auction house to provide janitorial services, and 
today is their first job for the client. In his halcyon days, Eugene 
provided those services to the Spirit. That was a long time ago - but 
the work hasn't changed. He's eager to make a good first 
impression, so when the first call comes in at 2:30 in the morning, he 
and his boys are at the client's by 3. 


The auction floor is covered in bodies: men in crisp, bloodstained 
suits and ties locked in death with balaclava-clad operatives in 
military body armor. Blood and gore are spattered over all the 
hardwood chairs. Small fires are burning on the auction floor. 
Shattered glass, bullet casings, jade pieces, tatters of parchment, 
and other bits and pieces of antiquity litter the room. It looks like a 
small tornado has hit. 


Eugene's cleaned up worse. He ushers his boys into the room and 
they get to work. The crew starts with the bodies, wrapping them in 
cling wrap and then wrapping them again to make sure nothing 
leaks. The glass, bullets, and fragments of antiquity are briskly and 
efficiently swept into large piles and then shoveled into large plastic 
trash bins. The fires are extinguished and the floor underneath is 
given a thorough mopping, shining, and waxing until the natural 
hardwood gleams. The salvageable chairs are cleaned and shined - 
the ruined chairs will make kindling to dispose of the bodies. 


In no time at all, the room is spotless - but the memories remain. 
Corpses are floppy; the wrapping helps, but it's still a hassle for 
Eugene's boys to shove the lumps into the van, squeeze them past 
each other, and pile them one on top of the other. Eugene himself 
sits in the back, touching each of the body bags as they're loaded in 
turn. Their emotions wash over him: fear, pain, and determination 
curdling into terror. 


The people who died in that room had friends and family. People 
who will ask questions, and Eugene's clients cannot allow that. So 
he expands his conscious mind, delving into the few synapses still 
flickering beneath the plastic wrap and following the trail of 
emotional connections to the people still keeping these men alive. 


The first man Eugene enters has no family apart from a sister 
wasting away in an asylum. She doesn't do much besides stare at 
the walls and ask about her big brother. Eugene clambers across 
the strong familial bonds between the two of them and starts poking 
around in the sister's brain, searching for all the traces of her big 
brother, scraping them away, and piling them into his own 
subconscious. By the time Eugene is done, she doesn't do much 
besides stare at the walls. 


The fifth man Eugene enters has a loving family: a wife who loves 
him, a son who idolizes him, and parents that are proud of him. One 
by one, Eugene walks the connections between them, searching for 
the common link and eradicating it, slowly, carefully, and thoroughly. 
The man goes from supposed accountant to drug addict - from 
family man to deadbeat dad. By the time Eugene is done, his wife 
hasn't seen him in years, his son has never known him, and his 
parents will always wonder where they went wrong. 


To Eugene, it takes hours to erase the legacies of those bodies. To 
his men, it takes seconds. The work drains him both mentally and 
emotionally, but he basks in the knowledge of a job well done. 
Eugene is pleased with himself, and he's confident that his client, 
Marshall, Carter, and Dark, will be too. 


The year is 1989, and this is what Chicago spirit looks like. 


Rukmini throws herself behind the summoning table and topples it 
over, scattering the chalk pentagram outline to the wind as bullets 
whistle overhead. The demon isn't going to be happy but that's the 
least of her worries - her gun is in the next room and there's a pair of 
masked assassins between her and the only entrance. All she has 
on her is the ritual knife.