[Danial Beard]

A cautionary tale.

It was just after sundown on a Friday night. It was coming into a long weekend, but the report needed to be on the boss’s desk tonight. No one knew exactly why, that’s just the way it was. Blaming it on an over-inflated administrative ego wouldn’t have been too far from wrong.   Outside, a fantastically dramatic sunset was strutting off the stage in the western sky , but he wouldn’t really know it without checking his watch. Time had compressed with frustration.   The only light in the room came from the glow of a 40 inch monitor, and an illuminated keyboard. Basement office rooms are like that. Somewhat of a curse to be sure, but it did allow for uninterrupted work flow. It also allowed — nay, encouraged a fairly severe eye-strain headache.

A timeless articulated desk lamp hung low on the right side of the desk, which was a work desk in name only. In reality it was a forty year old vinyl  card table with cigarette burns and permanent melt rings from overly nuked coffee cups.     Warped well beyond level, it was currently stabilized by an equally old paper matchbook, and a graphics card owners manual parked under opposite legs. The lamp had succumbed to a burned out compact fluorescent bulb.   Like most of them, it had gone years before the warranty said it should. It hadn’t been replaced in two months, partly due to stubborn disgust, partly a warranty process which advertised much, but surrendered very little. Claims were all convoluted hoops and treacherous escape clauses. No one in living memory had ever successfully negotiated a factory replacement. The lack of a receipt long since tossed in the trash sealed the deal. There was simply no chance. It was also partly a matter of budget. That part of the budget for new LED bulbs had gone to an emergency purchase of a refurb low-end Chinese video card, which proved no better investment than the light bulb.

The frankensteinian cobbled together computer which contained that card, and a vengeful overabundance of entropy was currently precariously balanced on a stack of old QST magazines under the table.   It fed its meager locked output to the TV above. That output, however was currently anything but constructive. Neither so were the words the old man was muttering.

When it came to computers, he had well remembered most of the basics. He understood they were expensive to buy, costly to feed, contrary to a fault, perverse in form and function … but in a moment of heedlessness, he had let slip from his mind the primal law which ruled them all. A single crack in his concentration, a momentary lapse in critical awareness, an unguarded thought had drifted. And that was all it took. The unresponsive screen in front of him was proof enough. Perhaps it had been the twitch of an eyelid, a stuttering finger caressing the keyboard, a hesitant motion of the mouse, maybe the single drop of sweat on his brow. It mattered not now. It had been far too long since he had saved, and the machine had known that, too. Now hours of work were lost. The fan noise from the box under the table fluctuated in a surging pattern which sounded suspiciously like an evil chortle.

He knew the mistake was his as he rested his forehead against the tabletop, and reached below for the power button.  And in the blip of darkness as the screen died, the forgotten rule of computers came clearly back through his mind.   Never — ever — let them see you sweat, and always remember … they sense hesitation …

…and they can smell fear.

 

-30-

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