The letter is scrawled in pencil on the back of set of blueprints. The device described on the other side is extremely complex, and annotated with many equations full of numbers and Greek and Hebrew letters.
My Dear Estimable Monks and Pilgrims of the Flying Temple, I give you good greetings.
I am afraid that I have gotten myself into a spot of trouble, and frankly, I can not think of anyone else who might have a chance of getting me out of it. Hence, I am sending you this missive which you are hopefully currently reading, describing my problem.
It all started when I was a child. I was an extraordinary child, the product of an extraordinary line of scientists and inventors. The greatest of our line -- standing head and shoulders above the rest -- was my grandfather, Malcolm McGillivray. Now, I had never met my grandfather -- we McGillivray's tend to marry late in life, science being the harsh mistress it is -- but I grew up studying his papers. Ah, Grand-père McGillivray's papers! What mysteries, what knowledge, what sheer, unadulterated brilliance was contained there within! I don't mind telling you that they obsessed me. And three of them obsessed me more than the others.
These three papers obsessed me in particular because they were incomplete. That is, while my grandfather had recorded the problem and the solution, he had neglected to record the steps in between, leaving me with no means to truly understand his work. And I desired that understanding with the heat of thousand burning suns! But alas, no matter how long I studied the papers, no enlightenment came. Grandfather's brilliant reasoning was beyond me.
Time passed, and I grew from child to adult (as is the usual tendency amongst mankind), and I put aside the interests of my childhood. I became a well-respected scientist in my own right, and eventually, upon the death of my progenitor, inherited control of the McGillivray Corporation and its superb laboratories. Then, for many years, I was content, inventing useful items for the betterment of mankind, supervising the business of the corporation, and occasionally presenting a paper or three for the approval of my peers. It was a life of, and for science, and it suited me most excellently.
However, as I came into my late thirties, I noticed a certain restlessness in myself, a certain decrease in my élan vital, a certain ennui, if you will. The life I was living was no longer enough, science was no longer enough -- I needed something more. I consulted my grandmother -- the matriarch of the McGillivray family, well known for her wisdom (even, alas, if she could not shine any light about my grandfather's researches) -- who told me that likely marriage would cure my woes. Upon due consideration of her advice, I resolved to find myself a wife.
And find one I did! The beautiful and brilliant Stephanie Delacroise soon consented to be my wife. She was what I had been missing in my life.
When I returned from my honeymoon, revitalized, I cast my mind around for a project worthy of my new estate. And then, for the first time in decades, I bethought myself of my grandfather's papers. Ah, there was something worth doing! I quite reasonably assumed that what was an insurmountable challenge for a child would fall quite readily to an adult's intellect. I was wrong; utterly, terribly and completely wrong.
My childhood obsession soon returned. I could not eat, I could not sleep, I could only study the papers. I would create theory after theory about the processes described within, and without exception they would prove false. This continued until one day, I collapsed in my laboratory, and had to be carried into my bedroom by the servants, ranting and raving about the papers. At last, I collapsed into an exhausted stupor. But as I slipped into the blessed realms of Morpheus, I heard my darling wife murmur to herself: "My poor husband! Alas, if only he could simply ask his grandfather these questions in person!
When I awoke, many hours later, I was in command of myself once more. I ate an immense meal, and then shut myself in my laboratory. For my wife's wise words had given me the answer to my dilemma, I would simply ask my grandfather my questions myself! Fortunately, many years earlier, I had noticed a quaint mathematical oddity in one of Einstein's equations that made building a functioning time portal merely a simple technical matter.
In just a few days it was done. The portal consisted of two parts: a main chronological generator with an attached gate structure, and a small recall device, built into a pocket watch. To go, one merely set the time one wished to visit on the generator, and stepped through the gateway. To return, one simply activated the recall device by pushing the stem of the watch while twisting it counterclockwise. As a precaution, I anchored the generator to the time-stream to avoid potential problems with temporal flux of any form or kind.
Then, I had a good night's sleep, bid a fond good bye to my wife, and dressing in clothes appropriate to my grandfather's time, off I went! I set the time and date for one hour before the lecture where he had presented the three mysterious papers.
I arrived just outside the McGillivray Corporation headquarters (where the lecture was to be held), over thirty years before my date of birth! I quickly made my way to the lecture hall, secured myself a seat in the front row, and waited impatiently for the lecture to start.
Ah, the thrill of seeing my grandfather -- whom I had never laid eyes on in the flesh -- standing before me, alive and vibrant! The lecture itself, however, was sorely disappointing, for, with three papers to deliver, he found it necessary to restrict himself to statements of the problem and their solutions without actually elucidating the actual solutions I so strongly craved. I thought my heart would actually burst with the frustration! But then, at the end, he apologized for the omitted material, and generously offered to explain his methodology to anyone who remained after the lecture.
As it turned out, only myself, and vaguely familiar looking young woman remained. While she gazed at my grandfather with admiration, I asked question after question about his papers. All was revealed! All that I had lusted after, all that I had pined for, was given unto me.
This discussion, of course, took rather a long while. By the time we had finished, the young lady had vanished. Thanking my grandfather (and wondering idly why the young lady seemed so familiar) I stepped out of lecture hall, and activated my recall device. However, instead of returning me to my native time, it brought me here, a place lightness, soundless, empty place that I can only describe as limbo.
When I recovered from my shock, I first carefully examined the recall device. It was, as far as I could tell, fully functional. Then I considered my environment: it was dark and silent, but it was neither hot nor cold. There was no light, but somehow I could see. After due consideration and a certain amount of calculation, I came to the realization that for some reason I was entirely outside the time-stream.
Suddenly, a realization struck me! That young lady that had seemed so maddeningly familiar must have been my grandmother! Had she not once said that she met my grandfather at one of his lectures? Then a second, disturbing realization occurred to me: had I possibly prevented them from meeting? Had I inadvertently prevented the birth, not only of my father but as an inevitable consequence, of myself as well? No wonder I could not return home -- as far as the universe was concerned, I no longer existed!
For a time I surrendered to my despair. But we McGillivray's are made of sterner stuff than that. I took stock of my position. I had anchored the time portal irrevocably to the time-stream, so somewhere, somewhen, it still existed. As for myself, in this strange place I knew neither hunger nor thirst nor had any need of sleep or rest. I had my clothes, my recall device, a pencil and paper for taking notes, and the blueprints for my time portal (which I had considered showing to my grandfather, not done so because of worries about damaging the time-stream). While I was cut off from the entire reality that I knew of, if occurred to me that there might be one point of contact with the time and place I left behind: The Flying Temple.
It is well known that many things that the Flying Temple and its inhabitants do are completely impossible according to science. This matter, however, has never concerned the monks and pilgrims. And perhaps chief amongst the impossible things that the temple did was to collect letters from all the worlds without any significant delay or expenditure of energy. Perhaps limbo was not beyond their reach? So I have written this message on the back of the blueprints (my notes on my grandfather's work being far too precious to part with), and I shall roll it up until it disappears (which is topologically impossible, of course, but that is what happens when you dabble with magic). With any luck the pilgrims can use my time portal to prevent me from preventing my own existence!