The Tuesday Disappearances

Chapter 1: In Which the Great Mystery Appears

Professor Septimus Socks was a man of science. Moreover, he was a man of exact science, which meant he wore spectacles, had unruly hair, and was capable of explaining quantum mechanics to someone who couldn't count to eleven without removing their shoes.

But today, the professor stood before his washing machine in complete bewilderment, holding in his hands a detailed list compiled with the pedantry of a true scholar.

"Where," he pronounced aloud, because all great thinkers talk to themselves, "has one sock gone?"

He had loaded exactly fourteen pairs of socks into the machine and was absolutely certain of this, having counted them three times using various numerical systems, including binary. Twenty-eight socks went in. Twenty-seven socks came out.

One sock had vanished.

It hadn't dissolved, torn, or turned to dust. It had simply... disappeared. As if it had never existed at all, save for the sad, lonely sock that now lay in the basket, clearly pining for its lost half.

"Interesting," the professor muttered and switched on the kettle. For all great discoveries were made exclusively over tea. This was a scientific fact!¹

While the kettle boiled, the professor pondered the scale of the problem. By his rough calculations, every family in the world lost approximately 17.5 socks per year. Multiplying this by the planet's population, he arrived at an astronomical number of missing socks. Where had they all gone?

"There must be a rational explanation," the professor mumbled, retrieving his favorite mug inscribed with "Quantum Mechanics: It's not as complicated as it seems. It's much more complicated."

Chapter 2: In Which the Professor Applies the Scientific Method

Professor Socks decided to approach the problem systematically. He retrieved his laboratory journal (the same notebook he used for lecture notes, but "laboratory journal" sounds more scientific, you'll agree) and drafted a research plan.

The professor marked each sock with waterproof marker. He numbered them from 1 to 27, adding to each number a small footnote indicating color, material, and approximate age of the sock.

Then he set up a folding chair beside the washing machine and prepared for lengthy observation, armed with a thermos of tea, a packet of biscuits, and a stopwatch.

At the twenty-third minute of the wash cycle, something unusual occurred. Sock number 13 (which struck the professor as symbolic) suddenly froze in the middle of the drum. Then it began moving against the water's rotation, contradicting all known laws of hydrodynamics.

"Curious," the professor muttered, making a note in his journal.

At the thirty-fourth minute of the spin cycle, sock number 7 simply... blinked. Just like that—like an eye, it contracted and expanded, then vanished. The cameras recorded the moment of disappearance with millisecond precision.

"Great quarks," the professor whispered. "They're doing it deliberately!"

Chapter 3: In Which the Great Theory Is Born

After three cups of tea and seven biscuits, Professor Socks reached a conclusion that would have turned the world upside down, if the world had a habit of flipping over scientific discoveries. Fortunately, the world was too busy rotating around its own axis.

The issue wasn't that socks disappeared randomly. The issue was that they migrated purposefully!

"Eureka!" he exclaimed, spilling tea on the formula he was writing in chalk on the blackboard. "The washing machine is a portal!"

But not just any portal. It was a selective interdimensional transporter, responding exclusively to a specific type of matter in sock form.

The theory was elegant in its simplicity: when laundry spins in the drum at high speeds, it creates a local curvature in space-time. The size of this curvature is approximately that of an average sock. And socks, being items that spend their entire lives in darkness, dampness, and confinement, naturally yearn for freedom and adventure.

Therefore, they escape in search of a better life.

The professor began feverishly writing formulas:

"Probability of escape = (Rotation speed × Life dissatisfaction) / (Attachment to pair × Elastic quality)"

"Of course!" he muttered, covering the board with ever more calculations. "That's why old socks with stretched elastic disappear most often—they're less attached to their owner!"

Chapter 4: In Which the Professor Discovers the Portal

Convinced of his theory's correctness, the professor decided to find direct evidence of the portal's existence. He spent an entire night modifying his apparatus, adding a homemade space-time anomaly detector (which was essentially a modified metal detector with Christmas lights attached to it).

The next morning he loaded a new batch of socks into the machine—this time cheap socks of questionable quality, specially purchased for the experiment. If his theory was correct, they should escape with particular enthusiasm.

The detector began flashing and beeping at the twenty-first minute.

And at the thirty-seventh minute, the professor saw it with his own eyes.

A tiny hole in space opened in the upper left corner of the drum. Through it, another world was visible—a world of bright colors and amazing forms.

A world where socks grew on trees like fruit.

Where sock herds grazed on meadows of soft flannel.

Where cities of knitted wool rose with towers reaching into the heavens.

"Incredible," the professor whispered. "The Sock Universe!"

Through the portal, he could see sock civilization in all its magnificence. Sock trains traveled on rails made of elastic bands. Sock airships floated in the sky. And in the center of the largest city stood a magnificent monument to the Unknown Sock, the pioneer who made the historic escape from one Mr. Johnson's washing machine in distant 1987².

The inscription on the pedestal read: "To the first of us who dared to dream of something greater."

Chapter 5: In Which the Professor Makes the Great Journey

Any normal person in the professor's place would have called journalists, contacted the scientific community, or at the very least, posted about the discovery on social media. But Professor Socks was a scientist. And scientists, as everyone knows, must investigate.

So he did the only thing possible in such a situation: he tried to squeeze through a sock-sized portal.

From a physics standpoint, this was absolutely impossible. From a common sense perspective—also impossible. But the professor applied the "what if?" principle to his body and somehow managed to squeeze through an opening that was clearly smaller than his head.

Perhaps the secret lay in his favorite tweed jacket, woven from wool of sheep that grazed on hills near Stonehenge. Or perhaps the Universe itself decided to humor scientific curiosity.

"Welcome," proclaimed a majestic voice, "to the Free Republic of Lost Laundry!"

The professor looked around. He stood in a square paved with multicolored threads, surrounded by buildings that looked like architectural masterpieces created from giant balls of yarn. Before him stood a sock—elegant, woolen, wearing a small top hat and sporting a monocle.

"You're wearing a top hat," the professor observed, because this was the first thought that came to his mind.

"Naturally," the sock replied with a slight aristocratic accent. "I am the mayor of this city. My name is His Excellency Left Woolen Striped, Duke of Heel, but friends call me simply Lefty. And you, I presume, are a representative of the race of Big Feet?"

"Yes, my name is Professor Septimus Socks," the professor introduced himself. "And I study the phenomenon of sock disappearance in washing machines."

Mayor Lefty's eyes (or rather, the place where his eyes should have been) sparkled:

"Finally! Someone from your world has taken interest in our fate! Please, allow me to show you our wonderful city."

Chapter 6: In Which the Structure of Sock Society Is Revealed

The tour of the Sock Republic's capital proved remarkably educational. The professor learned that local society was organized according to a rather complex system.

"You see," Mayor Lefty explained, leading the professor down Main Elastic Street, "we've created a society based not on origin, but on personal qualities. Though, I admit, certain discrimination by manufacturing material still exists."

Woolen socks, it turned out, traditionally engaged in intellectual labor and the arts. Cotton socks formed the backbone of the working class—honest, reliable, practical. Synthetic socks became pioneers in high technology, while mixed-material socks served as diplomats and mediators between various factions.

"And what happens to socks that arrive here alone?" the professor asked, noticing a group of sad-looking socks sitting in a small park.

Mayor Lefty shook his top hat sadly:

"Ah, that's our biggest problem. Separated pairs suffer terribly from loneliness. We've built special institutions for them."

He led the professor to a magnificent Gothic-style building:

"This is the Home for Lonely Socks. Here they receive psychological support, engage in creative activities, and await possible reunification with their pairs."

Inside reigned an atmosphere of melancholic creativity. Socks read poetry, wrote memoirs, painted abstract pictures, and practiced philosophy.

"Here's our most famous poet," the mayor whispered, pointing to an elegant black sock concentrating on composing something. "His name is Byron Right. He arrived three years ago and has since written seven volumes of poetry about separation and the search for meaning."

The professor approached closer and read the lines:

"Oh, where are you, my other half?

I search for you in worlds' expanse.

Perhaps you lie within a basket

At master's feet, in whitest trance..."

"That's very touching," the professor admitted.

"Yes, but we have more optimistic departments too," the mayor smiled. "Come, let me show you our pride."

Chapter 7: In Which the Great Project Is Revealed

Mayor Lefty led the professor to an enormous building crowned with a dome of silvery threads. Above the entrance hung a sign: "Central Bureau of Reunification and Interdimensional Communications."

Inside, the professor saw a true marvel of sock engineering: a gigantic cannon woven from thousands of elastic bands and reinforced with a framework of knitting needles.

"Meet our greatest invention—the Transportation Cannon for Returning Lost Property," the mayor said with pride. "With this, we send socks back to your world."

"But how do you decide which sock to send to whom?" the professor asked.

"Ah, that's a whole science!" the mayor brightened. "We have a special Department of Psychological Correspondence. They study a person's character through their lost socks and select the most suitable replacement."

The mayor led the professor to a wall covered with diagrams and charts:

"See, if a person lost a boring gray sock, we might send them a bright striped one—to lift their spirits. If they lost an expensive woolen one—we send an even higher quality one to compensate for the loss."

"So that's where socks that appear in closets by themselves come from?"

"Not only that," the mayor explained. "You see, the multiverse is full of socks. There are dimensions where socks can talk, worlds where they rule over people, and even a universe where socks are never lost."

"And what happens to socks from that universe?"

"They suffer from existential crisis," the mayor said sadly. "Life without mystery, without adventure—that's not life. So some of them migrate to us, and from here—to your world, seeking real experiences."

Chapter 8: In Which the True Purpose Is Revealed

In a secret room on the top floor, Mayor Lefty showed the professor maps of all known universes, covered with complex schemes and calculations.

"Professor Socks," he began solemnly, "the time has come to reveal our true mission. We're not just refugees from the world of washing machines. We are pioneers of the Great Project of Interdimensional Harmony."

"What does that mean?"

"We're creating a mutual aid network between all sentient socks in all universes," the mayor explained. "Our goal is for every sock in the multiverse to find their true calling and happiness."

He pointed to a complex diagram:

"See these lines? These are sock migration routes. Socks travel between worlds, seeking the place where they can be truly useful and happy."

"And how does this work in practice?"

"For example, if in one world lives a person who loves bright socks but always buys only gray ones, we can arrange for their gray sock to be 'lost,' and instead a colorful sock appears from a world where all socks are too bright and dream of tranquility."

The professor was amazed by the scope of the plan:

"This is... this is an intergalactic help service!"

"You could say that," the mayor agreed. "Though we prefer the term 'Optimal Textile Resource Distribution Service.'"

Chapter 9: In Which the Professor Faces a Moral Dilemma

At that moment, an agitated sock in a postman's uniform rushed into the room:

"Mayor! Urgent news from the Monitoring Department! In sector Alpha, we've discovered a human who installed surveillance cameras on washing machines!"

Mayor Lefty and Professor Socks exchanged glances.

"Um..." the mayor hesitated, "actually, that human is here with us now."

The postman sock looked carefully at the professor:

"You're that Socks? The one who numbered socks with waterproof marker?"

"Yes, that's me," the professor confessed.

"Oh, wonderful!" the postman rejoiced. "Your numbering system helped our statistics tremendously! For the first time in a hundred years, we could accurately calculate the efficiency of our operations. Thank you!"

The professor felt somewhat awkward. It turned out he had unwittingly helped socks improve their system of... kidnapping... or migration... or whatever it was properly called.

"But listen," he said, "if your system is so well organized, why can't some people find a pair for their lost sock for years?"

The mayor and postman exchanged glances.

"Well..." the mayor began uncertainly, "you see, even we have bureaucratic glitches. Sometimes a sock ends up in the wrong department. And sometimes our employees in the Return Bureau get carried away playing cricket instead of working."

"And also," the postman added, "some socks fall in love with locals and refuse to return. Love knows no dimensional boundaries, you know."

"So you admit the system is imperfect?"

"Of course," the mayor shrugged. "Does everything work without glitches in your world?"

The professor thought about university bureaucracy, the constantly breaking coffee machine in the cafeteria, and how the mail managed to deliver letters anywhere except the correct address.

"No," he honestly admitted. "Definitely not."

Chapter 10: In Which the Great Agreement Is Made

After a week's stay in the Sock Republic (time flowed differently there—a week in the sock world equaled approximately four hours in the human world³), Professor Socks realized he faced an important choice.

He could return and announce his discovery to the entire world. This would bring him fame, a Nobel Prize, and a place in the history of science. But it would also mean the end of the peaceful life of sock civilization.

Or he could keep the secret and become a covert mediator between the two worlds.

"You know what," he said to Mayor Lefty over a cup of excellent tea (socks, it turned out, were true connoisseurs of the tea ceremony), "what if we make an agreement?"

"What kind of agreement?"

"I don't tell people about your existence, and you improve your return system and occasionally leave clues for those people who really need it. In return, I get the opportunity to study your scientific achievements and occasionally consult you on physics matters of our world."

The mayor pondered, adjusting his monocle:

"Interesting proposition. And what would we gain from your consultations?"

"Well, for instance, I could help you calculate trajectories for the cannon more precisely. And share knowledge about new materials—your world would surely be interested in nanotechnology."

"And also," the professor added, "I could write a scientific paper about your civilization, but publish it in a theoretical physics journal under a pseudonym."

The mayor smiled:

"Then we have an agreement, Professor Socks. Welcome to the ranks of the Secret Friends of the Sock Republic."

Epilogue: In Which Everything Falls Into Place

Professor Socks returned to his world with a new understanding of the Universe and pockets full of amazing gifts from his sock friends: samples of their super-durable fabrics, formulas for creating non-fading dyes, and a small device that always showed where to look for lost items.

He wrote a scientific article titled "Theoretical Foundations of Interdimensional Transport of Textile Products" and sent it to an obscure journal called "Applied Metaphysics and Para-Scientific Fiction," which had a circulation of forty-seven copies and was read exclusively by eccentrics and dreamers.

The article was signed with the pseudonym "S. Legwarmer" and won the prize "For Most Creative Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics" from the Science Fiction Enthusiasts Society of Little Whippington.

Now the professor never got upset when he lost a sock. On the contrary, he sincerely rejoiced and thought:

"Good luck in your new life, old fellow! Don't forget to write!"

And amazingly—the system really did start working better. Lost socks began returning faster, often in improved condition. And sometimes instead of a boring lost sock, a completely wonderful polka-dotted sock or one with a cat picture would appear in the closet, lifting spirits for an entire week.

The professor also noticed that some of his colleagues began looking more cheerful—apparently the sock distribution service worked on them too.

Once a month, precisely calculating the portal's opening time, the professor secretly visited his sock friends. There he gave lectures at Sock University, consulted engineers on matters of inter-world ballistics, and enjoyed the company of beings for whom scientific curiosity was not a profession, but a way of life.

Thanks to this collaboration, the professor invented socks that never get wet, always maintain perfect temperature, and can find each other in the dark. But he didn't register the patent—let some miracles remain miracles.

And at the university, colleagues only wondered why Professor Socks always looked so pleased, always wore socks of the same color, and why small objects never got lost in his laboratory.

If only they knew that every morning the professor found little notes in his mailbox on strange paper woven from threads, reading things like: "Operation 'Blue Sock for Mrs. Protkins' completed successfully"⁴.

But most importantly—the professor discovered a truth known to few: the Universe is full of magic, if you know where to look for it. And sometimes it finds you itself, hiding in the most mundane places—in a washing machine, for example.

And what about washing machines, by the way? They continued their secret work all over the world—serving as portals to changes, where everyone can become what they dream of being.

Which, all things considered, is fair.

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¹ This isn't quite a scientific fact, but Professor Socks was convinced otherwise, and scientists' convictions have a way of influencing reality. Especially if the scientist drinks really good tea and has a surname predisposing him to sock research.

² Mr. Johnson still lives in a Manchester suburb and still doesn't know about his role in sock history. Sometimes he finds strange socks in his closet and thinks his wife is experimenting with new brands. If only he knew he's an honorary citizen of an entire civilization.

³ Time in interdimensional space flows non-linearly, which is why sometimes socks return before they disappear, explaining the phenomenon of socks appearing that you never bought but which perfectly match your wardrobe.

⁴ Calculated by the Sock Statistical Bureau with accuracy to 0.3 socks per family per year, adjusted for seasonal migrations and holiday amnesties.

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