Friday Challenge 9/11/09 - memories
At the time the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I was driving to work. The radio was on, but it wasn’t a station that had news, or at least not the what’s-happening-right-this-minute kind of news. I got all the way to my cubicle on the fourth and top floor of the Hornet building and settled in to start work before Tom popped his head over the cubicle wall and told me about it.
Now you have to keep in mind the fact that Tom always popped his head over the cubicle wall and said something strange. Often he just woofed at me (he has Saint Bernards, and yes that is plural) and disappeared. I think this might have been his way of saying it was a good day and he was feeling great. He always got me laughing, and he is a good programmer, which is sometimes a rarity.
By the time Tom told me about the first plane, there were already rumors about a helicopter crashing at the pentagon. At least they knew there was a lot of black smoke there. So it never really seemed to me like it could have been an accident. There was a debate going on amongst the fourth floor occupants about it, but that ended shortly when the second plane crashed into the other tower. After that, nobody did much work. Radios were on all over the building.
The Hornet building, named after the street it is on, is the counterpart of the building ~brb was in that day. It is about a mile from the end of a main runway at Lambert. The usual wind direction made it a main runway for planes taking off. Depending what direction they were aiming for, they would often go right over us. If you happened to be looking at the windows, you would see the plane’s shadow block the sunlight for half a second. Larger planes made the building shake. Being on the top floor made it louder. Sometimes in a meeting or on the phone we would have to wait for the noise to die down before continuing. I had been there for a few months, but I still noticed when the building shook.
When the planes stopped, all the radios became noticeable. And every morning for weeks after that, I noticed the fighter jets taking off. It was the same time every day, and there were always four of them, about a minute apart. No matter how deep my brain was into a program, it came back up at the sound of that first jet, counted four of them, and only then would it be able to return to the task at hand.
And boy, do I remember the day a couple weeks later that plane near Chicago failed to identify itself! I swear there were at least a dozen fighters streaking off to Chicago. It was obvious something was happening, but none of the radios or web sites had any information. I didn’t hear what it was until that evening. Didn’t get much done that day, either.
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As for making sense of it, I just now figured it out. I know, I know, I'm really gullible and naïve.
Hey, there are two dots over that “i.” When did that start happening? The computer knows what word I'm using the “i” in, and puts one or two dots accordingly? But … those two dots are German, aren't they? And naïve is a French word, isn't it? Blastit.
Being here at The Friday Challenge has opened my eyes to a lot of things. Not just books I never heard of, but new ideas to argue about, and gobs of conspiracy theories. But they are hidden very well, and if it hadn't been for the new view on life that I picked up in Nashville this summer, I probably wouldn't have noticed a thing.
The tip-off was Topher's tale of Pompeii's last summer. I searched for disasters in 1883 (and found Krakatoa), and there were loads of them. I never knew about most of them. And it wasn't just 1883. There were disasters every year that wiped out whole villages or families. I began to notice the islands. They seemed to have an affinity for wiping out whole islands, or at least getting rid of all the people on them. There was that island off the eastern seaboard in the sixteenth century. All the people just disappeared.
Manhattan is an island.
I believe their original plan was to convince New Yorkers that Manhattan was sinking, and to fix it they needed to saw off the island, tow it out a ways, turn it around, and push it back.** The only problem was that Long Island was in the way. Of course, what they didn't tell the New Yorkers was that they had no intention of pushing the island back. They wanted to tow it out into the ocean and just sink the whole thing.
When that plan fell through, they thought up a different one.
The only thing I haven't figured out yet is this: Did Topher stumble on this pattern by accident? Or is he one of them? Or is everybody at The Friday Challenge one of them?
Am I one of them?
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** Wikipedia
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Monday, September 14, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
What I did on my summer vacation
The Friday Challenge for 9/4/09 is to write an essay about what you would like to have done on your summer vacation.
This summer, my vacation was very restful and refreshing. I needed that badly after the long, intense project at work. I think the Doctor needed the rest, too, judging by a couple of offhanded comments he made.
We went to some very novel places, but all of them had one thing in common: there were no demands on us. There was nothing on a to-do list, no cooking or cleaning, and most importantly, no stress. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, or make friends with the local creatures. There were a few more exciting moments here and there, like our visit to Trenco, but I never felt in danger. The Doctor has many talents, and he always made sure we were safe.
Our first stop was Zabriska. I had always wanted to see a fontema in person, and I was especially curious about their water needs. The descriptions of Zabriska never included any water. No rivers, lakes, ponds, rain, or even dew. But I found it hard to believe that a creature could exist without water of any kind. I was also curious about Zabriska’s sun. Since it provided all the nourishment a fontema needed, would it be beneficial to a human, or harmful?
We touched down halfway between the equator and a pole, and the Doctor ran his tests on the sunlight. After several minutes, he decided it would not be harmful to either of us, but it wouldn’t be beneficial, either. It was simply very different. We didn’t have the receptors the fontemas had, so we had no way of receiving any energy or nourishment from it.
We opened the door and stepped out onto the dry, sandy surface of Zabriska, and started looking for a fontema. We had brought along our own shade in case we had to wait a while, so we set up the umbrella and lounge chairs and had a picnic. This gave us the chance to experiment a little with water.
We found that a drop of water spilled on the ground would evaporate very quickly, but it seemed to form a tiny thin cloud just above the ground. There was no wind, so the cloud didn’t move. This caused the Doctor to go hunting for more testing equipment so he could test the air. He found the air was full of evaporated water, enough so there wasn’t any more room for the drop we had spilled. It stayed partly condensed in the air rather than completely evaporating.
We were both scratching our heads over that one, but the Doctor couldn’t rest until he figured out how it worked, so he kept poking around with various machines, talking to himself and making vigorous hand gestures. I think he did figure it out, but I didn’t understand much of his explanation. I caught the fact that the ground was hotter than the air, and that made more water able to evaporate on the ground than in the air. He also launched into some theories about fontema skin really being their stomach, which could absorb water from the air and transform sunlight into energy. It was interesting, but too much work for my brain on vacation.
While he was working on the water question, I got out my book to read. I was about halfway through Havah, which was the perfect book to read on vacation. It was very soothing and full of exquisite beauty. I kept checking the stretch of dirt in front of me for any sign of a fontema, and finally I saw a slight movement off in the distance. I picked up the binoculars and tried a closer look. It was definitely a moving creature, coming right toward us.
We had an interesting time playing with the fontema, which completely ignored us no matter what we did. It acted exactly like all the descriptions of it, falling asleep instantly when we shaded it from the sun. I felt much more appreciative of the expression “less brains than a Zabriskan fontema.”
As we were just about to pack up and leave, we spotted another one coming toward us, and we turned around the one we had been playing with to head toward it. We got to see first hand the reproductive process of fontemas, which was about as exciting as that of amoebas. They met, merged, and divided into four fontemas, who immediately moved off in the four different directions.
From Zabriska we went to Trenco. We had a big advantage in our method of travel, because we didn’t have to face the winds or the chaotic perception changes. We could put down inside the shelter instead of having to time our landing during the time of the least wind, then spend a very short time doing whatever we had come for and take off before the winds became too strong.
I spent most of my time there staring out through the thick plexiglass, or whatever it was, watching the plants grow. I thought the “tree weeds” in my yard grew fast, 15 feet in a couple of months, but this was unbelievable. These plants lived for one day, because they couldn’t withstand the violent wind and storms during the night. Each morning seeds sprouted, the huge leaves grew in a few hours, more seeds were produced and deposited into the mud, swirled away to another part of the planet during the night while the leaves were ripped up and shredded by the wind, and everything started over the next day.
All I could think was thionite must be some terrific drug to make people risk their lives to gather the leaves to make it.
Our last stop was Arisia. We contacted the authority to get permission to come, and Mentor met us as we walked in the garden. Actually, we had gotten separated by that time, so Mentor met each of us. To me she appeared as a beautiful and very wise woman, dressed in flowing magenta and gold robes. Even though I knew she was really not a single entity, but a four-way Arisian mind meld, it was hard to think of her like that.
I’m not sure how long we were there, but it was completely refreshing to me. I basked in Mentor’s presence as in the sun, and my spirit relaxed and stretched like a sleepy cat. We talked about deep things, both dark and joyous, and I felt my soul growing in wisdom and understanding.
As in all good vacations, I regretted having to come back home. I would especially miss the suite of rooms the Doctor had created for me. They had everything I could have wanted in a house. I would love to spend more time there.
As I opened the door and stepped out into my own yard, I turned back to look at the Doctor. “Will you come and pick me up next year for my vacation?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It will be in August, and we will be going to the sci-fi conference near Henry’s house. We can stop and pick up anybody else that needs transportation – Minnesota for Bruce, Nashville for Vidad, Texas for the Bandit, Colorado Springs for Rain and Waterboy, New Jersey for Snowdog, and even Italy for Vox. There are plenty of rooms for anybody that wants to sleep here, and the Tardis will fit in Henry’s back yard. Just tell everyone to let me know.”
This summer, my vacation was very restful and refreshing. I needed that badly after the long, intense project at work. I think the Doctor needed the rest, too, judging by a couple of offhanded comments he made.
We went to some very novel places, but all of them had one thing in common: there were no demands on us. There was nothing on a to-do list, no cooking or cleaning, and most importantly, no stress. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery, or make friends with the local creatures. There were a few more exciting moments here and there, like our visit to Trenco, but I never felt in danger. The Doctor has many talents, and he always made sure we were safe.
Our first stop was Zabriska. I had always wanted to see a fontema in person, and I was especially curious about their water needs. The descriptions of Zabriska never included any water. No rivers, lakes, ponds, rain, or even dew. But I found it hard to believe that a creature could exist without water of any kind. I was also curious about Zabriska’s sun. Since it provided all the nourishment a fontema needed, would it be beneficial to a human, or harmful?
We touched down halfway between the equator and a pole, and the Doctor ran his tests on the sunlight. After several minutes, he decided it would not be harmful to either of us, but it wouldn’t be beneficial, either. It was simply very different. We didn’t have the receptors the fontemas had, so we had no way of receiving any energy or nourishment from it.
We opened the door and stepped out onto the dry, sandy surface of Zabriska, and started looking for a fontema. We had brought along our own shade in case we had to wait a while, so we set up the umbrella and lounge chairs and had a picnic. This gave us the chance to experiment a little with water.
We found that a drop of water spilled on the ground would evaporate very quickly, but it seemed to form a tiny thin cloud just above the ground. There was no wind, so the cloud didn’t move. This caused the Doctor to go hunting for more testing equipment so he could test the air. He found the air was full of evaporated water, enough so there wasn’t any more room for the drop we had spilled. It stayed partly condensed in the air rather than completely evaporating.
We were both scratching our heads over that one, but the Doctor couldn’t rest until he figured out how it worked, so he kept poking around with various machines, talking to himself and making vigorous hand gestures. I think he did figure it out, but I didn’t understand much of his explanation. I caught the fact that the ground was hotter than the air, and that made more water able to evaporate on the ground than in the air. He also launched into some theories about fontema skin really being their stomach, which could absorb water from the air and transform sunlight into energy. It was interesting, but too much work for my brain on vacation.
While he was working on the water question, I got out my book to read. I was about halfway through Havah, which was the perfect book to read on vacation. It was very soothing and full of exquisite beauty. I kept checking the stretch of dirt in front of me for any sign of a fontema, and finally I saw a slight movement off in the distance. I picked up the binoculars and tried a closer look. It was definitely a moving creature, coming right toward us.
We had an interesting time playing with the fontema, which completely ignored us no matter what we did. It acted exactly like all the descriptions of it, falling asleep instantly when we shaded it from the sun. I felt much more appreciative of the expression “less brains than a Zabriskan fontema.”
As we were just about to pack up and leave, we spotted another one coming toward us, and we turned around the one we had been playing with to head toward it. We got to see first hand the reproductive process of fontemas, which was about as exciting as that of amoebas. They met, merged, and divided into four fontemas, who immediately moved off in the four different directions.
From Zabriska we went to Trenco. We had a big advantage in our method of travel, because we didn’t have to face the winds or the chaotic perception changes. We could put down inside the shelter instead of having to time our landing during the time of the least wind, then spend a very short time doing whatever we had come for and take off before the winds became too strong.
I spent most of my time there staring out through the thick plexiglass, or whatever it was, watching the plants grow. I thought the “tree weeds” in my yard grew fast, 15 feet in a couple of months, but this was unbelievable. These plants lived for one day, because they couldn’t withstand the violent wind and storms during the night. Each morning seeds sprouted, the huge leaves grew in a few hours, more seeds were produced and deposited into the mud, swirled away to another part of the planet during the night while the leaves were ripped up and shredded by the wind, and everything started over the next day.
All I could think was thionite must be some terrific drug to make people risk their lives to gather the leaves to make it.
Our last stop was Arisia. We contacted the authority to get permission to come, and Mentor met us as we walked in the garden. Actually, we had gotten separated by that time, so Mentor met each of us. To me she appeared as a beautiful and very wise woman, dressed in flowing magenta and gold robes. Even though I knew she was really not a single entity, but a four-way Arisian mind meld, it was hard to think of her like that.
I’m not sure how long we were there, but it was completely refreshing to me. I basked in Mentor’s presence as in the sun, and my spirit relaxed and stretched like a sleepy cat. We talked about deep things, both dark and joyous, and I felt my soul growing in wisdom and understanding.
As in all good vacations, I regretted having to come back home. I would especially miss the suite of rooms the Doctor had created for me. They had everything I could have wanted in a house. I would love to spend more time there.
As I opened the door and stepped out into my own yard, I turned back to look at the Doctor. “Will you come and pick me up next year for my vacation?” I asked.
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It will be in August, and we will be going to the sci-fi conference near Henry’s house. We can stop and pick up anybody else that needs transportation – Minnesota for Bruce, Nashville for Vidad, Texas for the Bandit, Colorado Springs for Rain and Waterboy, New Jersey for Snowdog, and even Italy for Vox. There are plenty of rooms for anybody that wants to sleep here, and the Tardis will fit in Henry’s back yard. Just tell everyone to let me know.”
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Southern Knights: The Movie
This is a last minute entry for the 8/28/09 Friday Challenge, write a scenario for a movie of the Southern Knights comic book series.
Dragon has changed into his human guise, Mark Dagon, in order to go shopping for party supplies for the Southern Knights celebration that night. They are celebrating getting out of Atlanta. Their new location will be Hookworm, Mississippi, and they are planning to leave the next day.
While he is in the 7-11, a crazy but beautiful (in a slutty way) woman comes in with a big gun, looking for her ex-boyfriend. She sees Mark and thinks he's the boyfriend and shoots him three times in the back. When he falls down, she sees he's not the boyfriend, and she drags his unconscious body out to her car and drives him back to her dumpy, run-down shack out in the rural outskirts of Atlanta.
He is not quite dead, and she nurses him for a month until he regains consciousness. He has amnesia and doesn't remember he is really a dragon. She has fallen in love with him while he was unconscious, and he becomes her current boyfriend. She convinces him he used to help her rob convenience stores, and they eventually go out to rob one.
Meanwhile back at the ... lair of the Southern Knights, when Dragon never shows up, they go looking for him, but can't find him. They decide he has left the gang because he didn't really want to leave Atlanta, so they go on to Hookworm without him. But about six months later, they see security camera pictures of him robbing a 7-11 in Atlanta with his girlfriend ("Do you know either of these people? Call this number to tip off the police."), and they recognize him and go back to Atlanta to rescue him from this life of crime.
The ex-boyfriend also sees the pics and recognizes the ex-girlfriend, and he knows where to find her. So he goes to her shanty to try to rescue her from this life of crime. He is not the horrible monster you might have thought, but rather just a bumbling idiot. (Perfect part for Larry the cable guy.)
When Larry arrives at the shack, he manages to make Mark really mad, and he changes into Dragon unexpectedly. Dragon is horrified and thinks he has become a monster, and he goes off to find a bridge to jump from. Unfortunately, he can fly, so he isn't hurt by jumping.
At that moment, the Southern Knights show up and explain to him who he is and what he does. They want him to come back home to Hookworm, Mississippi, but he doesn't believe them, and flies off into the sunset.
The remainder of the Southern Knights become very depressed and stop saving people, and Kristin especially begins to act out. She starts dressing in Daisy Dukes and wet t-shirts, and hangs out in bars trying to pick up men by dancing in irresistably sexy ways. When Larry arrives in the bar, they hook up and live unhappily ever after.
The End
Dragon has changed into his human guise, Mark Dagon, in order to go shopping for party supplies for the Southern Knights celebration that night. They are celebrating getting out of Atlanta. Their new location will be Hookworm, Mississippi, and they are planning to leave the next day.
While he is in the 7-11, a crazy but beautiful (in a slutty way) woman comes in with a big gun, looking for her ex-boyfriend. She sees Mark and thinks he's the boyfriend and shoots him three times in the back. When he falls down, she sees he's not the boyfriend, and she drags his unconscious body out to her car and drives him back to her dumpy, run-down shack out in the rural outskirts of Atlanta.
He is not quite dead, and she nurses him for a month until he regains consciousness. He has amnesia and doesn't remember he is really a dragon. She has fallen in love with him while he was unconscious, and he becomes her current boyfriend. She convinces him he used to help her rob convenience stores, and they eventually go out to rob one.
Meanwhile back at the ... lair of the Southern Knights, when Dragon never shows up, they go looking for him, but can't find him. They decide he has left the gang because he didn't really want to leave Atlanta, so they go on to Hookworm without him. But about six months later, they see security camera pictures of him robbing a 7-11 in Atlanta with his girlfriend ("Do you know either of these people? Call this number to tip off the police."), and they recognize him and go back to Atlanta to rescue him from this life of crime.
The ex-boyfriend also sees the pics and recognizes the ex-girlfriend, and he knows where to find her. So he goes to her shanty to try to rescue her from this life of crime. He is not the horrible monster you might have thought, but rather just a bumbling idiot. (Perfect part for Larry the cable guy.)
When Larry arrives at the shack, he manages to make Mark really mad, and he changes into Dragon unexpectedly. Dragon is horrified and thinks he has become a monster, and he goes off to find a bridge to jump from. Unfortunately, he can fly, so he isn't hurt by jumping.
At that moment, the Southern Knights show up and explain to him who he is and what he does. They want him to come back home to Hookworm, Mississippi, but he doesn't believe them, and flies off into the sunset.
The remainder of the Southern Knights become very depressed and stop saving people, and Kristin especially begins to act out. She starts dressing in Daisy Dukes and wet t-shirts, and hangs out in bars trying to pick up men by dancing in irresistably sexy ways. When Larry arrives in the bar, they hook up and live unhappily ever after.
The End
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
This is for the Friday Challenge known as The Second Annual Ultimate Snowdogging Competition!
I'm not quite sure when it's due. Could be 8/13/09 or 8/6/09 or maybe a year ago, but that doesn't really matter, since it's a Snowdogging competition, and all entries are expected to be late. Snowdog invented and perfected the late entry for Friday Challenges.
I'm picking a challenge from last year, before I stumbled across the Ranting Room. It's to write about your favorite or most hated appliance and what it will be like in twenty years.
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
There was no two ways about it: the coffee maker was broken, beyond any fixing. Martha had determined by careful examination, with glasses on, that it was a split piece of plastic tube that was causing the water to leak back in to the water container during the brewing process. It couldn't be taped or glued, because it was split in several places, and she couldn't get in there to apply tape or glue to every spot, even with the tiny pliers she had in the drawer. She couldn't take the tube out to fix it, because it was all one piece with the body of the coffee maker. It was hopeless.
It would only get worse as the cracks widened and multiplied. It already took five times as long as usual to get half a pot of brewed coffee, and impossible to get a whole pot. The water just kept going around and around until it boiled away.
Martha turned away from the coffee maker and as her eyes swept over the refrigerator, her shoulders slumped in complete despair. The refrigerator had been broken for over a year. The thermostat had gotten farther and farther off, until the only place she could keep milk without it going bad was in the freezer compartment, which no longer froze anything.
And the oven wouldn't heat at all, and only one burner on the top would still light. The microwave had quit working two or three years ago, but that wasn't a necessity. She still had the toaster oven, but only one of its elements heated now.
She was trapped. There was no escape. Soon her last working cooking appliances would break, and she would have to give in and buy a foodbot. I might as well just shoot myself and get it over with, she thought.
All of Martha's friends and relatives were now using foodbots. One by one, they had converted over, some eager for the easier lifestyle, some resisting as long as possible. But all of them got sick. She could see it, but they evidently could not. She kept on repairing and stealing parts from one appliance to fix another. As time went by, it became more and more impossible to get new appliances or to have the old ones fixed. There were no more parts and no more repair people. Not since the Food Processing Act in 2016.
The FDA had collapsed under its own corruption fifteen years ago, and after that, all the damaging evidence about plastic, Teflon, and aluminum cookware and food containers had come out, splashing fear into voters everywhere. Laws were passed in record time, making it a federal offense to allow food to come into contact with plastic, Teflon, or aluminum under any conditions in public places or manufacturing companies.
Martha vividly remembered the chaos of 2015. That was when she had started hoarding appliances. She had been able to get hold of several small appliances at garage sales. Since individuals were not included in the new laws, she could buy them, and their owners were eager to sell them, but that didn't last long.
More research was done that year than ever before. It took only a few weeks for new products to appear, one of which was the foodbot. It started out as a replacement for fast food restaurants, which had all closed. Then the personal foodbot appeared. All houses being sold were required to have a foodbot, thanks to the Food Processing Act.
Foodbots were made of human-friendly materials: glass, some ceramics, and specially treated iron or steel. They were like a combination of all the old appliances. You put food in, it was stored at its optimum temperature until you requested it to be prepared for eating, whereupon the foodbot would wash it, cut it, cook it, or whatever was appropriate, and then serve it up in human-friendly dishes. When you finished eating, you would put the remains into a different part of the foodbot, and it would clean the dishes and dispose of the food scraps.
Reluctantly, Martha put on her coat. She would need to go pick out her new foodbot, and on the way she would stop at MacBot for coffee. Their coffee wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't think about what might be in it.
The salesman at the foodbot showroom met her as she walked through the door, which made her nervous. She always preferred to browse by herself until she had her mind made up. But he was very nice and never made her feel captive to his persuasions.
There wasn't a lot of decision making required when buying a foodbot. Of course they tried to make it fit in with your kitchen style and color scheme, but by the time you take out the refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher, and half of the cabinets, you're pretty much starting over, anyway. She picked out a cream color with Indian style trim in turquoise, pick, and orange.
“What persona would you like,” asked the salesman. “We have man, woman, boy, or girl, of course, but we also can copy your voice and personality.”
At Martha's look of surprise and interest, he continued enthusiastically. “That's brand new last month. I've installed twenty of them so far, and all twenty customers like them much better than their old ones. They say their bot understands them and knows how to fix things the way they like.”
That was too appealing to pass up, so Martha found herself answering many questions and reading some printed material out loud in a soundbooth, where her voice and personality were recorded for programming into her new bot.
After several hours, everything was set up for the installation and personal training session by her salesman, who was apparently much more than just a salesman. She only had to wait four days. She walked out, headed to TacoBot for a late lunch.
Installing a foodbot was an all-day event. First the old appliances were removed, and cabinets were rearranged or removed, then the bot was brought in and assembled. It was too big to fit through the door in one piece. The training session was last on the agenda, serving a dual purpose as a way of testing that the bot was running correctly.
Martha was amazed at the mass of details the bot had to think about. Well, if the bot thought. It was an AI computer, of course. It would track everything she put into it and let her know if something was getting close to its expiration date. It knew how much of each ingredient to use to make one serving, and it could adjust that if she said she was extra hungry or not very hungry. It would track how much and what foods she ate, and make suggestions for optimum health. It could detect spoiled food and would dispose of it. It would help her plan ahead and provide shopping lists. It would even know if it had a broken part or was not running correctly, and it would tell her.
“What's her name?” the salesman asked.
“Oh,” replied Martha. “It's Betty.” Not bottie, or batty, but close, she thought, secretly smirking while the salesman programmed in Betty's name.
“Okay, you say her name and then give her instructions. When she hears her name, she will know the instructions are for her.”
After everyone was gone, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at Betty. She needed to try something. “Betty, make a cup of coffee, the French roast.”
Her own voice said, “The coffee will be ready in two point six minutes.”
Martha heard a grinding noise, then something that sounded for all the world like percolating. It wasn't exactly the same as her old coffee maker, which she had hidden under her bed to keep it from being confiscated by the installers. At the end of the percolating, her coffee maker always opened its lid slightly, and she had to punch it down. She saw a mental picture of herself pounding her fist on Betty and giggled.
“The coffee is ready,” said Betty, ignoring the giggle. A door opened at one end of the bot, disclosing a cream colored cup with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange.
Martha moved over to get the cup, and saw the coffee was black. “Oh. Betty, put cream in the coffee.”
This would be the acid test. The cream that Martha had transferred from the old refrigerator was raw cream, organic, unpasteurized, unhomogenized, with no contaminants of any kind. It was so thick the bot wouldn't be able to pour it. It was solid. She picked it up once a week from Tim, a dairy farmer forty miles out of town.
The door closed. There were a few faint clicks and a humming noise. Then the door opened again and Betty said, “One serving of cream is in the coffee. It was not pasteurized or homogenized. That has been corrected. The coffee is ready. All caffeine has been removed.”
Martha frowned, or rather, glared at the foodbot. “Betty, how much cream is one serving?”
“One serving of cream is one half teaspoon,” was the reply. “The cream was diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
“Betty, put more cream in the coffee. I want ten servings of cream. Do not dilute it!”
“Ten servings of cream is not healthy,” Betty responded.
Martha picked up the cup of coffee and tasted it. The door closed. “This is awful!” Actually, the coffee tasted quite a bit like the MacBot coffee she had been living on for the past several days. It wasn't that bad.
“This is awful!” Martha repeated. “I want you to make another cup of coffee, and I want you to leave the caffeine in it, and I want you to leave my cream unpasteurized and unhomogenized and undiluted, and I want at least a tablespoon of it in my coffee!”
Silence.
I guess I should have named her Simon Says, thought Martha.
“Betty, make another cup of coffee with the French roast. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.”
A piece of paper slid out of a slot next to the door. Betty said, “A shopping list has been printed. You need coffee and cream. All the caffeine has been removed. All the cream has been pasteurized. All the cream has been homogenized. All the cream has been diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
Martha's mouth opened. She blinked.
“Betty, I want to plan tomorrow's meals. Today I will get the things on the shopping list: coffee with caffeine in it and unpasteurized, unhomogenized, undiluted cream. Tomorrow morning I want you to make a cup of coffee. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.” Martha pounded her fist on the foodbot's top surface.
More faint clicks and humming exuded from the foodbot. After what seemed like a very long time, there was a loud clunk, and then silence.
“Betty, print the meal plan for tomorrow morning.”
“The meal planning module is not able to plan tomorrow morning's meal.”
“Betty, why can't the meal planning module plan tomorrow morning's meal?”
“The meal planning module is unable to find coffee with caffeine and cream that is not pasteurized, homogenized, and diluted. The shopping list adjusts the quantity of coffee and cream, but when the cup of coffee is made tomorrow morning, the caffeine will be removed and the cream will be pasteurized and homogenized and diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency and one half teaspoon of cream will be put in the coffee. Six servings of cream is not healthy.”
“Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty!' groaned Martha, burying her face in her hands. “Just shoot me now and get it over with!”
After several more faint clicks, another door opened in the foodbot, near the floor. A cream colored gun with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange protruded. And fired.
I'm not quite sure when it's due. Could be 8/13/09 or 8/6/09 or maybe a year ago, but that doesn't really matter, since it's a Snowdogging competition, and all entries are expected to be late. Snowdog invented and perfected the late entry for Friday Challenges.
I'm picking a challenge from last year, before I stumbled across the Ranting Room. It's to write about your favorite or most hated appliance and what it will be like in twenty years.
The Fatal Cup of Coffee
There was no two ways about it: the coffee maker was broken, beyond any fixing. Martha had determined by careful examination, with glasses on, that it was a split piece of plastic tube that was causing the water to leak back in to the water container during the brewing process. It couldn't be taped or glued, because it was split in several places, and she couldn't get in there to apply tape or glue to every spot, even with the tiny pliers she had in the drawer. She couldn't take the tube out to fix it, because it was all one piece with the body of the coffee maker. It was hopeless.
It would only get worse as the cracks widened and multiplied. It already took five times as long as usual to get half a pot of brewed coffee, and impossible to get a whole pot. The water just kept going around and around until it boiled away.
Martha turned away from the coffee maker and as her eyes swept over the refrigerator, her shoulders slumped in complete despair. The refrigerator had been broken for over a year. The thermostat had gotten farther and farther off, until the only place she could keep milk without it going bad was in the freezer compartment, which no longer froze anything.
And the oven wouldn't heat at all, and only one burner on the top would still light. The microwave had quit working two or three years ago, but that wasn't a necessity. She still had the toaster oven, but only one of its elements heated now.
She was trapped. There was no escape. Soon her last working cooking appliances would break, and she would have to give in and buy a foodbot. I might as well just shoot myself and get it over with, she thought.
All of Martha's friends and relatives were now using foodbots. One by one, they had converted over, some eager for the easier lifestyle, some resisting as long as possible. But all of them got sick. She could see it, but they evidently could not. She kept on repairing and stealing parts from one appliance to fix another. As time went by, it became more and more impossible to get new appliances or to have the old ones fixed. There were no more parts and no more repair people. Not since the Food Processing Act in 2016.
The FDA had collapsed under its own corruption fifteen years ago, and after that, all the damaging evidence about plastic, Teflon, and aluminum cookware and food containers had come out, splashing fear into voters everywhere. Laws were passed in record time, making it a federal offense to allow food to come into contact with plastic, Teflon, or aluminum under any conditions in public places or manufacturing companies.
Martha vividly remembered the chaos of 2015. That was when she had started hoarding appliances. She had been able to get hold of several small appliances at garage sales. Since individuals were not included in the new laws, she could buy them, and their owners were eager to sell them, but that didn't last long.
More research was done that year than ever before. It took only a few weeks for new products to appear, one of which was the foodbot. It started out as a replacement for fast food restaurants, which had all closed. Then the personal foodbot appeared. All houses being sold were required to have a foodbot, thanks to the Food Processing Act.
Foodbots were made of human-friendly materials: glass, some ceramics, and specially treated iron or steel. They were like a combination of all the old appliances. You put food in, it was stored at its optimum temperature until you requested it to be prepared for eating, whereupon the foodbot would wash it, cut it, cook it, or whatever was appropriate, and then serve it up in human-friendly dishes. When you finished eating, you would put the remains into a different part of the foodbot, and it would clean the dishes and dispose of the food scraps.
Reluctantly, Martha put on her coat. She would need to go pick out her new foodbot, and on the way she would stop at MacBot for coffee. Their coffee wasn't too bad. As long as you didn't think about what might be in it.
The salesman at the foodbot showroom met her as she walked through the door, which made her nervous. She always preferred to browse by herself until she had her mind made up. But he was very nice and never made her feel captive to his persuasions.
There wasn't a lot of decision making required when buying a foodbot. Of course they tried to make it fit in with your kitchen style and color scheme, but by the time you take out the refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher, and half of the cabinets, you're pretty much starting over, anyway. She picked out a cream color with Indian style trim in turquoise, pick, and orange.
“What persona would you like,” asked the salesman. “We have man, woman, boy, or girl, of course, but we also can copy your voice and personality.”
At Martha's look of surprise and interest, he continued enthusiastically. “That's brand new last month. I've installed twenty of them so far, and all twenty customers like them much better than their old ones. They say their bot understands them and knows how to fix things the way they like.”
That was too appealing to pass up, so Martha found herself answering many questions and reading some printed material out loud in a soundbooth, where her voice and personality were recorded for programming into her new bot.
After several hours, everything was set up for the installation and personal training session by her salesman, who was apparently much more than just a salesman. She only had to wait four days. She walked out, headed to TacoBot for a late lunch.
Installing a foodbot was an all-day event. First the old appliances were removed, and cabinets were rearranged or removed, then the bot was brought in and assembled. It was too big to fit through the door in one piece. The training session was last on the agenda, serving a dual purpose as a way of testing that the bot was running correctly.
Martha was amazed at the mass of details the bot had to think about. Well, if the bot thought. It was an AI computer, of course. It would track everything she put into it and let her know if something was getting close to its expiration date. It knew how much of each ingredient to use to make one serving, and it could adjust that if she said she was extra hungry or not very hungry. It would track how much and what foods she ate, and make suggestions for optimum health. It could detect spoiled food and would dispose of it. It would help her plan ahead and provide shopping lists. It would even know if it had a broken part or was not running correctly, and it would tell her.
“What's her name?” the salesman asked.
“Oh,” replied Martha. “It's Betty.” Not bottie, or batty, but close, she thought, secretly smirking while the salesman programmed in Betty's name.
“Okay, you say her name and then give her instructions. When she hears her name, she will know the instructions are for her.”
After everyone was gone, she sat at the kitchen table and gazed at Betty. She needed to try something. “Betty, make a cup of coffee, the French roast.”
Her own voice said, “The coffee will be ready in two point six minutes.”
Martha heard a grinding noise, then something that sounded for all the world like percolating. It wasn't exactly the same as her old coffee maker, which she had hidden under her bed to keep it from being confiscated by the installers. At the end of the percolating, her coffee maker always opened its lid slightly, and she had to punch it down. She saw a mental picture of herself pounding her fist on Betty and giggled.
“The coffee is ready,” said Betty, ignoring the giggle. A door opened at one end of the bot, disclosing a cream colored cup with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange.
Martha moved over to get the cup, and saw the coffee was black. “Oh. Betty, put cream in the coffee.”
This would be the acid test. The cream that Martha had transferred from the old refrigerator was raw cream, organic, unpasteurized, unhomogenized, with no contaminants of any kind. It was so thick the bot wouldn't be able to pour it. It was solid. She picked it up once a week from Tim, a dairy farmer forty miles out of town.
The door closed. There were a few faint clicks and a humming noise. Then the door opened again and Betty said, “One serving of cream is in the coffee. It was not pasteurized or homogenized. That has been corrected. The coffee is ready. All caffeine has been removed.”
Martha frowned, or rather, glared at the foodbot. “Betty, how much cream is one serving?”
“One serving of cream is one half teaspoon,” was the reply. “The cream was diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
“Betty, put more cream in the coffee. I want ten servings of cream. Do not dilute it!”
“Ten servings of cream is not healthy,” Betty responded.
Martha picked up the cup of coffee and tasted it. The door closed. “This is awful!” Actually, the coffee tasted quite a bit like the MacBot coffee she had been living on for the past several days. It wasn't that bad.
“This is awful!” Martha repeated. “I want you to make another cup of coffee, and I want you to leave the caffeine in it, and I want you to leave my cream unpasteurized and unhomogenized and undiluted, and I want at least a tablespoon of it in my coffee!”
Silence.
I guess I should have named her Simon Says, thought Martha.
“Betty, make another cup of coffee with the French roast. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.”
A piece of paper slid out of a slot next to the door. Betty said, “A shopping list has been printed. You need coffee and cream. All the caffeine has been removed. All the cream has been pasteurized. All the cream has been homogenized. All the cream has been diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency.”
Martha's mouth opened. She blinked.
“Betty, I want to plan tomorrow's meals. Today I will get the things on the shopping list: coffee with caffeine in it and unpasteurized, unhomogenized, undiluted cream. Tomorrow morning I want you to make a cup of coffee. Do not remove the caffeine. Put one tablespoon of cream in it. Do not homogenize the cream. Do not pasteurize the cream. Do not dilute the cream.” Martha pounded her fist on the foodbot's top surface.
More faint clicks and humming exuded from the foodbot. After what seemed like a very long time, there was a loud clunk, and then silence.
“Betty, print the meal plan for tomorrow morning.”
“The meal planning module is not able to plan tomorrow morning's meal.”
“Betty, why can't the meal planning module plan tomorrow morning's meal?”
“The meal planning module is unable to find coffee with caffeine and cream that is not pasteurized, homogenized, and diluted. The shopping list adjusts the quantity of coffee and cream, but when the cup of coffee is made tomorrow morning, the caffeine will be removed and the cream will be pasteurized and homogenized and diluted with filtered water to the correct consistency and one half teaspoon of cream will be put in the coffee. Six servings of cream is not healthy.”
“Oh, Betty, Betty, Betty!' groaned Martha, burying her face in her hands. “Just shoot me now and get it over with!”
After several more faint clicks, another door opened in the foodbot, near the floor. A cream colored gun with Indian style trim in turquoise, pink, and orange protruded. And fired.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Supersubstantial
This story is a response to the Friday challenge for 7/10/09. Please forgive my lack of Greek letters, but my computer refuses.
Supersubstantial
For Robert
Martin Luther sat at his desk ostensibly working on his translation of the Lord's Prayer from Greek into German. Even after comparing the various texts available to him, the more times he went over that center phrase, the more frustrated he became. His quill lay unmoving next to the ink bottle.
Surrounding his hunched figure were an astonishing number of unseen demons, and an equally astonishing number of unseen angels were present, waiting expectantly in the background. This was an important moment, and none of them wanted to miss it. It was so important that the Evil One himself had been hovering in the vicinity for days, sending faint thoughts from his mind into Luther's, trying to influence his decision without being noticed. And it was so important that heaven opened a window so all the angelic beings could watch. God Most High watched from his throne with a sad look, for he was the only one who knew what was going to happen.
By contrast, Satan was busy at work, expertly inserting confusion and tiredness into Luther's feelings, adding just a touch of “I really want to do this right.” Steadily he nourished the attitude he had introduced many years earlier, that of viewing the common people as not quite able to understand the deeper, more complicated ideas in Scripture. After all, most of them couldn't read or write. Their lives were full of the mundane tasks of getting enough to eat and a place to live for their families. They had neither the ability nor the desire to study these ancient writings in an unfamiliar language. That was why it was so important to Luther to give these people the scripture in a form they could understand and remember.
Luther's usual routine when he came to a difficult passage was to go back to "How would the people say this?" He had spent many hours walking in the villages, listening to the conversations, wanting to absorb the words, the turns of expression, every nuance of current German language. He didn't want any part of his translation to sound like a monk or priest secluded for years with only other clerics to talk to and dusty, outdated writings to read.
This time that wasn't helping. He couldn't put a phrase into the common tongue when he didn't really know what it meant, himself. It was that one word in the center, "epiousian", that had him stuck. The problem was that no one really knew what it meant. It could not be found in any other Greek text, not just Biblical texts, but any writing whatsoever.
Eleven centuries ago, Jerome had translated it from Greek to Latin, phrasing it “Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie,” or “Our bread supersubstantial give us today.” Luther had even consulted Wycliffe’s translation from Jerome’s Latin to English, but it wasn’t much help. Wycliffe put it “yyue to vs this dai oure breed ouer othir substaunce.”
It seemed obvious to Luther that Jesus was speaking of some bread that was out of the ordinary, perhaps symbolic, or more likely a reference to Jesus’ statement that he was the bread of life, a bread that ended all hunger. But how to translate that into an idea that the common people would understand?
All the spiritual beings grouped around Luther intensified their focus, waiting for this man’s decision upon which so much would hang. Satan no longer sent thoughts into his mind, feeling perhaps that his work was complete. Luther’s head hung over the desk. There was no sign that he heard any tiniest whisper from the Spirit of the Holy One within him. Was he listening for it, or was he distracted and deceived by the swirl of conflicting goals in his heart, planted there and nourished devotedly by the father of lies?
At last he sat up, his decision made. The people would never be able to understand something so esoteric. It would cause them to hesitate, even to stumble in the center of this most important of prayers. He would exchange the difficult phrase for one they would feel comfortable repeating. The prayer asked God for bread this day. Therefore it was daily bread. “Give us this day our daily bread” would remind them how wonderfully God provided for their needs, and how dependent they were on him. Luther nodded once, satisfied at last.
Satan and the other demons danced wildly in celebration of stealing one word from the mouth of God. They didn’t yet know the whole result of their deception. God alone could see hundreds of years into a future where people would demand rather than ask, where they would portray him as Santa Claus, a jolly elf whose function was to give them everything they wanted, where materialism reigned, where food was distorted beyond any recognition and worshipped by its slaves, where almost no one knew God as the provider of a bread that satisfied the heart and the spirit for eternity.
Creation groaned.
Romans 8:22-23 (New American Standard Bible)
22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.
23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body.
Supersubstantial
For Robert
Martin Luther sat at his desk ostensibly working on his translation of the Lord's Prayer from Greek into German. Even after comparing the various texts available to him, the more times he went over that center phrase, the more frustrated he became. His quill lay unmoving next to the ink bottle.
Surrounding his hunched figure were an astonishing number of unseen demons, and an equally astonishing number of unseen angels were present, waiting expectantly in the background. This was an important moment, and none of them wanted to miss it. It was so important that the Evil One himself had been hovering in the vicinity for days, sending faint thoughts from his mind into Luther's, trying to influence his decision without being noticed. And it was so important that heaven opened a window so all the angelic beings could watch. God Most High watched from his throne with a sad look, for he was the only one who knew what was going to happen.
By contrast, Satan was busy at work, expertly inserting confusion and tiredness into Luther's feelings, adding just a touch of “I really want to do this right.” Steadily he nourished the attitude he had introduced many years earlier, that of viewing the common people as not quite able to understand the deeper, more complicated ideas in Scripture. After all, most of them couldn't read or write. Their lives were full of the mundane tasks of getting enough to eat and a place to live for their families. They had neither the ability nor the desire to study these ancient writings in an unfamiliar language. That was why it was so important to Luther to give these people the scripture in a form they could understand and remember.
Luther's usual routine when he came to a difficult passage was to go back to "How would the people say this?" He had spent many hours walking in the villages, listening to the conversations, wanting to absorb the words, the turns of expression, every nuance of current German language. He didn't want any part of his translation to sound like a monk or priest secluded for years with only other clerics to talk to and dusty, outdated writings to read.
This time that wasn't helping. He couldn't put a phrase into the common tongue when he didn't really know what it meant, himself. It was that one word in the center, "epiousian", that had him stuck. The problem was that no one really knew what it meant. It could not be found in any other Greek text, not just Biblical texts, but any writing whatsoever.
Eleven centuries ago, Jerome had translated it from Greek to Latin, phrasing it “Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie,” or “Our bread supersubstantial give us today.” Luther had even consulted Wycliffe’s translation from Jerome’s Latin to English, but it wasn’t much help. Wycliffe put it “yyue to vs this dai oure breed ouer othir substaunce.”
It seemed obvious to Luther that Jesus was speaking of some bread that was out of the ordinary, perhaps symbolic, or more likely a reference to Jesus’ statement that he was the bread of life, a bread that ended all hunger. But how to translate that into an idea that the common people would understand?
All the spiritual beings grouped around Luther intensified their focus, waiting for this man’s decision upon which so much would hang. Satan no longer sent thoughts into his mind, feeling perhaps that his work was complete. Luther’s head hung over the desk. There was no sign that he heard any tiniest whisper from the Spirit of the Holy One within him. Was he listening for it, or was he distracted and deceived by the swirl of conflicting goals in his heart, planted there and nourished devotedly by the father of lies?
At last he sat up, his decision made. The people would never be able to understand something so esoteric. It would cause them to hesitate, even to stumble in the center of this most important of prayers. He would exchange the difficult phrase for one they would feel comfortable repeating. The prayer asked God for bread this day. Therefore it was daily bread. “Give us this day our daily bread” would remind them how wonderfully God provided for their needs, and how dependent they were on him. Luther nodded once, satisfied at last.
Satan and the other demons danced wildly in celebration of stealing one word from the mouth of God. They didn’t yet know the whole result of their deception. God alone could see hundreds of years into a future where people would demand rather than ask, where they would portray him as Santa Claus, a jolly elf whose function was to give them everything they wanted, where materialism reigned, where food was distorted beyond any recognition and worshipped by its slaves, where almost no one knew God as the provider of a bread that satisfied the heart and the spirit for eternity.
Creation groaned.
Romans 8:22-23 (New American Standard Bible)
22 For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now.
23 And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
MS Open Window
Entry for The Friday Challenge for 6/26/09
MS OPEN WINDOW
"Roberta will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young assistant; "in the meantime you may look over any of the brochures on the side table, or you may try out some of our products on the computer wall."
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the assistant of the moment without unduly discounting the H.R. Director that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nervous breakdown cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
"I know how it will be," his therapist had said when he was preparing to migrate to this new city; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just have your recruiter set you up with a series of interviews with all the companies in the area likely to be hiring at the moment. You should have a job in no time."
"Are you familiar with any of our VR products?" asked the assistant.
"Hardly at all," said Framton. "My sister talked about buying one, but I don't believe she did."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about our company? Have you met Roberta yet?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"No, I have not even talked to her. The only information I have about the company is what I was able to find on line.”
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the assistant.
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this modern, bustling building tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that computer displaying a window with an unmoving, empty scene," said the assistant, indicating the wall-sized screen showing a large French door that opened onto a lawn.
"It looks like a security camera," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Three years ago to a day, Roberta's husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting in beta VR Shoot. They never came back. All the engineers and VR architects searched through the code and the video for weeks, but they never found the virtual hole they fell into." Here the young woman's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor Roberta always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that door just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open around the clock. Poor dear Bertie, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--"
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when Roberta bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Framton.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be back directly from beta testing in the shooting VR, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they'll make a fine mess over the virtual carpets. Or at least they should, if the VR is doing its job."
She rattled on cheerfully about the testing and the scarcity of good VR developers, and the prospects for VR Shoot becoming a best seller. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his interviewer was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window on the computer screen. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have scheduled his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Framton was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the assistant with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The young lady was staring at the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening virtual twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the building, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Framton grabbed wildly at his keys and briefcase; the lobby door, the concrete walk, and the parking lot were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A car turning into the entrance had to run onto the grass to avoid an imminent collision.
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the assistant calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere in VR Vampire by a pack of wild dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
Romance at short notice was her specialty.
MS OPEN WINDOW
"Roberta will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young assistant; "in the meantime you may look over any of the brochures on the side table, or you may try out some of our products on the computer wall."
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the assistant of the moment without unduly discounting the H.R. Director that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nervous breakdown cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
"I know how it will be," his therapist had said when he was preparing to migrate to this new city; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just have your recruiter set you up with a series of interviews with all the companies in the area likely to be hiring at the moment. You should have a job in no time."
"Are you familiar with any of our VR products?" asked the assistant.
"Hardly at all," said Framton. "My sister talked about buying one, but I don't believe she did."
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
"Then you know practically nothing about our company? Have you met Roberta yet?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
"No, I have not even talked to her. The only information I have about the company is what I was able to find on line.”
"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the assistant.
"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this modern, bustling building tragedies seemed out of place.
"You may wonder why we keep that computer displaying a window with an unmoving, empty scene," said the assistant, indicating the wall-sized screen showing a large French door that opened onto a lawn.
"It looks like a security camera," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
"Three years ago to a day, Roberta's husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting in beta VR Shoot. They never came back. All the engineers and VR architects searched through the code and the video for weeks, but they never found the virtual hole they fell into." Here the young woman's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor Roberta always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that door just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open around the clock. Poor dear Bertie, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--"
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when Roberta bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.
"She has been very interesting," said Framton.
"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be back directly from beta testing in the shooting VR, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they'll make a fine mess over the virtual carpets. Or at least they should, if the VR is doing its job."
She rattled on cheerfully about the testing and the scarcity of good VR developers, and the prospects for VR Shoot becoming a best seller. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his interviewer was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window on the computer screen. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have scheduled his visit on this tragic anniversary.
"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Framton was saying.
"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the assistant with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The young lady was staring at the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening virtual twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the building, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
Framton grabbed wildly at his keys and briefcase; the lobby door, the concrete walk, and the parking lot were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A car turning into the entrance had to run onto the grass to avoid an imminent collision.
"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
"I expect it was the spaniel," said the assistant calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere in VR Vampire by a pack of wild dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
Romance at short notice was her specialty.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Guitar, Chapter 5
Entry for The Friday Challenge, 6/12/09
Jorn couldn't help running on his way to the lodge. It would be his last time to meet with Elcor and play guitars together before leaving for Amber. He knew this past year of music with Elcor had improved his playing immensely, and he would sorely miss it. But of course, Amber would make him even better.
He slowed down as he neared the lodge, being cautious in this time of growing evil. Ambushers were more bold than he could ever remember. He noted the smoke curling up out of the chimney and the dark green scarf draped over the door handle. He was reassured, but still got out his pipe and sounded his personal signal. A few seconds later he heard Elcor's signal coming from inside the lodge, so he stepped up to the door and knocked.
Elcor opened the door and pulled him in, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Jorn suddenly noticed another man sitting at the small table in front of the fire. Elcor introduced him with a proud smile. “This is Justor, my son. He has been at Amber for a year now, and he has volunteered to help you settle in. I'm sure your mother will appreciate a companion for your travels.”
Jorn's grin matched Elcor's, who had only met his mother once, but knew her fears. It had taken him quite a while to persuade her to let Jorn go to Amber. He decided his mother would approve of Justor and be glad he had an elder friend.
“Well, let's get some playing in!” remarked Elcor. He picked up his old guitar while Jorn unslung his from his shoulder. Justor pulled a beautiful, dark red guitar out of the bag at his feet. It had black and white inlaid mosaic trim around the edge. Jorn could hardly keep his eyes off of it while they were running through the first song. Someday he would have a guitar like that! He would be proud to play it for the king. In comparison, his own guitar seemed childish and embarrassing. With a great effort, he brought his mind back to the music. It was really good. Justor played very well, better than Jorn himself, but not better than Elcor.
The time flew by while the three musicians reveled in their artistry. Both of the young men were used to playing with Elcor, and it was easy for them to fit their music together. After a while, Elcor stopped and put his guitar down on the table.
“We should be going to your house, Jorn. It will be supper time soon. But before we do, I have a gift for you.” He opened Justor's bag and pulled out a beautiful, new, dark green guitar with the same black and white mosaic trim, and set it down on the table beside his old, worn one.
“I'm giving you a guitar, and you may choose which of these two you would prefer.” He motioned to the new dark green one and his old one.
“They were made by the same guitar master, both fine instruments, but one has never been played, while the other has been played every day for many years.”
Jorn's mouth had dropped open in surprise when the green guitar had been placed on the table, but now he could only stand still in complete amazement, at a loss to pick one. The green one was so beautiful. He would be proud to have it. But he had admired the old one ever since he had met Elcor and first played with him. He knew its sweet sound well.
All he could say was, “I don't know.”
Elcor chuckled at his confusion. “Perhaps it would help if you tried them both. Play a little bit of your favorite song and see which one suits you best.”
Jorn reached out slowly and picked up the green guitar. He played a few notes. It sounded perfect, and he saw both of the other men were nodding in appreciation. “Yes, that one suits you. You will do well with it. Now try the other one.”
He put the guitar back on the table and picked up the other one. Again he played a few notes, and their heads were nodding. “Yes, that one is good, too. Which one do you want?”
His arm began to move to put the old guitar back on the table, but then he knew he didn't want to let go of it. It was old and worn, not as pretty as the green one, but it could teach him things. And it would be a bit of Elcor to go with him to lights school. He looked up at his friend's face. “You would really give me your guitar? Won't you miss it?”
“Perhaps I will miss it a little, but I'm going to become friends with this new green one.” He picked up the guitar and packed it in his bag.
Jorn hesitated, looking down at the smooth, worn surface of the old guitar. “I don't know if I can do it justice.”
“You will put your heart into it,” replied Elcor, “and that will be a great honor for it. Someday you will play it for the king. I'm sure of it.”
“Yes!” shouted Jorn. He slung the chosen guitar over his shoulder and raised his fist into the air. “I will play for the king!”
Justor looked startled, but Elcor laughed joyously. They chattered and laughed all the way to Jorn's house, and continued the celebration during supper and after, when the three played their new guitars together, and Jorn's parents danced until they were too tired to dance any more.
Jorn couldn't help running on his way to the lodge. It would be his last time to meet with Elcor and play guitars together before leaving for Amber. He knew this past year of music with Elcor had improved his playing immensely, and he would sorely miss it. But of course, Amber would make him even better.
He slowed down as he neared the lodge, being cautious in this time of growing evil. Ambushers were more bold than he could ever remember. He noted the smoke curling up out of the chimney and the dark green scarf draped over the door handle. He was reassured, but still got out his pipe and sounded his personal signal. A few seconds later he heard Elcor's signal coming from inside the lodge, so he stepped up to the door and knocked.
Elcor opened the door and pulled him in, shaking his hand enthusiastically. Jorn suddenly noticed another man sitting at the small table in front of the fire. Elcor introduced him with a proud smile. “This is Justor, my son. He has been at Amber for a year now, and he has volunteered to help you settle in. I'm sure your mother will appreciate a companion for your travels.”
Jorn's grin matched Elcor's, who had only met his mother once, but knew her fears. It had taken him quite a while to persuade her to let Jorn go to Amber. He decided his mother would approve of Justor and be glad he had an elder friend.
“Well, let's get some playing in!” remarked Elcor. He picked up his old guitar while Jorn unslung his from his shoulder. Justor pulled a beautiful, dark red guitar out of the bag at his feet. It had black and white inlaid mosaic trim around the edge. Jorn could hardly keep his eyes off of it while they were running through the first song. Someday he would have a guitar like that! He would be proud to play it for the king. In comparison, his own guitar seemed childish and embarrassing. With a great effort, he brought his mind back to the music. It was really good. Justor played very well, better than Jorn himself, but not better than Elcor.
The time flew by while the three musicians reveled in their artistry. Both of the young men were used to playing with Elcor, and it was easy for them to fit their music together. After a while, Elcor stopped and put his guitar down on the table.
“We should be going to your house, Jorn. It will be supper time soon. But before we do, I have a gift for you.” He opened Justor's bag and pulled out a beautiful, new, dark green guitar with the same black and white mosaic trim, and set it down on the table beside his old, worn one.
“I'm giving you a guitar, and you may choose which of these two you would prefer.” He motioned to the new dark green one and his old one.
“They were made by the same guitar master, both fine instruments, but one has never been played, while the other has been played every day for many years.”
Jorn's mouth had dropped open in surprise when the green guitar had been placed on the table, but now he could only stand still in complete amazement, at a loss to pick one. The green one was so beautiful. He would be proud to have it. But he had admired the old one ever since he had met Elcor and first played with him. He knew its sweet sound well.
All he could say was, “I don't know.”
Elcor chuckled at his confusion. “Perhaps it would help if you tried them both. Play a little bit of your favorite song and see which one suits you best.”
Jorn reached out slowly and picked up the green guitar. He played a few notes. It sounded perfect, and he saw both of the other men were nodding in appreciation. “Yes, that one suits you. You will do well with it. Now try the other one.”
He put the guitar back on the table and picked up the other one. Again he played a few notes, and their heads were nodding. “Yes, that one is good, too. Which one do you want?”
His arm began to move to put the old guitar back on the table, but then he knew he didn't want to let go of it. It was old and worn, not as pretty as the green one, but it could teach him things. And it would be a bit of Elcor to go with him to lights school. He looked up at his friend's face. “You would really give me your guitar? Won't you miss it?”
“Perhaps I will miss it a little, but I'm going to become friends with this new green one.” He picked up the guitar and packed it in his bag.
Jorn hesitated, looking down at the smooth, worn surface of the old guitar. “I don't know if I can do it justice.”
“You will put your heart into it,” replied Elcor, “and that will be a great honor for it. Someday you will play it for the king. I'm sure of it.”
“Yes!” shouted Jorn. He slung the chosen guitar over his shoulder and raised his fist into the air. “I will play for the king!”
Justor looked startled, but Elcor laughed joyously. They chattered and laughed all the way to Jorn's house, and continued the celebration during supper and after, when the three played their new guitars together, and Jorn's parents danced until they were too tired to dance any more.
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