Things rarely shout "Warehouse"...

Artie's been in Milliways for a full month now and still has no solid lead on the damn vampire. It would help, he reflects, if the place had any semblance of organization. It was two weeks before he discovered the library, and he's still trying to make heads or tails out of the cataloging system or lack thereof. Some parts are well-organized; others are well-organized according to a completely different schema; but the majority of the books seem to be just thrown together willy-nilly. Not unlike the Warehouse, only more so.

(Speaking of which, Artie would give his left testicle to have this intact first-edition copy of the Spates Catalogue of Other-Worldely Denyzenns and Desygnationes back home. But given that the thing is an illuminated volume almost the size of the table it's sitting on, it'd be difficult to sneak out of the building.)

It's inventory day at the Warehouse.

Granted, usually every day is inventory day at the Warehouse, for a value of "usually" that includes having more than one person working there. But, alas, they don't have that luxury just now. Agents Mote and Espenson met with an unfortunate accident back in the spring, and the powers that be have yet to find suitable replacements for either of them. So, for the past three months, Artie Nielsen has been forced to leave the Warehouse behind whenever an Artifact rears its ugly head. (Not that most of them have heads, or anything of the kind, but you get the idea.)

However, once in a blue moon there's no Artifact to retrieve, and Artie can get back to the business of maintaining the existing collection. So: inventory day. More specifically, installing some of the new computerized Artifact tags in Toronto sector. One of those tedious, neverending tasks, but given the alternative, he'll take it. He is getting way too old for field work. If he never has--

Artie's train of thought cuts off abruptly when he hears an all-too-familiar sound. Like the crackle of static electricity, but louder, and increasing in volume by the second--

"Whup!" Artie dives for the floor, the flickering purple-white sphere of Artifact energy missing him by mere inches. In the light of its passing, he could swear he sees something squarish and shiny skitter across the floor in front of him and disappear into the shadows.

Only when he gets to his feet and pats himself down does he realize what the skittering thing was.

The Farnsworth.

Shit.

And he's down again, on his hands and knees, hoping to catch a glimpse of where the thing fell when it slid out of his shirt pocket. It can't be that far off, can it? At worst, it would have stopped up against that support pillar a few yards ahead...

The support pillar against which is propped a wooden door, frame and all, with a gap underneath that's just about wide enough to accommodate the Farnsworth.

Shit.

There are certain things you learn in a hurry, working in the Warehouse. If there's an article of clothing on the shelf, don't wear it; if there's a food item, don't eat it; and if there's a door that doesn't appear to lead anywhere, under no circumstances should you ever go through it. If the Farnsworth went through that gap, it's not in the Warehouse anymore, Artie would bet his last nickel on it. And sure enough, when he peers around to the space between the door and the pillar, there's nothing there but dust bunnies.

He scrutinizes the yellowing paper tag hanging from the doorknob. It's hand-written, but the ink has faded to the point of total illegibility (which, he reflects, is why they need to switch out the tags more often--the number of artifacts listed as "unknown provenance" gets higher every day). If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say this door predates Warehouse 13 by a good long while. It might even predate Warehouse 12. Which means that the odds of him finding any record of where the door came from or why it was consigned are slim to nil.

The sensible thing to do, the sane thing to do, the non-suicidal thing to do would be to simply walk away. There may be only two Farnsworths in existence, but surely getting half of the set back isn't worth the risk of going through the door. Right?

Artie takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He pictures some of the strange and otherworldly terrors that might lie behind this door.

Then he pictures how Mrs. Frederick will react if she finds out he's lost the Farnsworth.



Arthur Nielsen has a very vivid imagination.

He opens his eyes and lets out the breath he was holding in a resigned sigh. "I know I'm going to regret this."

Artie takes the doorknob, turns it, and peeks through...