Professor Woodbeck's directive.

Professor Woodbeck’s directive.

It was the third pen that had run dry that week, and Professor Woodbeck was becoming concerned. Ever since the night of the 3rd of July, a dull and languid oppression had settled upon the house. That night had been a glow with green evanescent orbs, hurtling through the atmosphere at 50 miles per second, like iridescent tadpoles. The morning papers had raved about the possibility of a Soviet attack on the U.S; amateur astronomers posited a case for meteoric activity within the Earth’s atmosphere, whilst ‘Talula’s Tarots’ of the New Orleans Daily’s ‘weird and wonderful’ column prophesised ‘a wave of wealth and prosperity’ for the intrepid amongst her readers.

At first vaguely amused, he had dispensed with the first two arid pens in the trash can beside his desk. But the premature death of the third came as a surprisingly uncomfortable omen. A man in the writing profession could comfortably go through a pen a week; if, he had in fact been writing. But it was quite more than that. There was something wrong within the house; a strange mood of forgetfulness hanging on the air. He knew it intuitively, the way a man knows someone has been combing through his personal articles; everything is in its correct place, but something about the room feels…disjointed. Most disturbing however, were the voids throughout his day. large portions of his evenings were going un-accounted for. Time, it seemed, was being borrowed. From reading the evening paper to hearing the kettle sing High-C an hour later, time had become vague and impossible to perceive. And so, each night Professor Woodbeck went to bed with a strange feeling of bewilderment. Bewilderment, which soon meandered towards acute anxiety.

His paranoia soon manifested into a healthy suspicion a week later with the help of Glen Fitzburg. Jarred back into existence by a ringing in the outer hall, professor Woodbeck materialised before himself in the bathroom mirror; consciousness returning like the snap of a lightbulb on a dark room. Shuffling down the hall towards the stilted blares of the telephone he had the dim sensation of reality buoying around him.

“W…Woodbeck”, he mumbled into the receiver.

“Prof.? It’s G. Fitzburg. As in G. Fitzburg, your ticket into worldwide fame”. The voice was swollen with all the insolence of youth. Revived, Woodbeck rallied himself,

“Ah Mr Fitzburg – of course. Delighted! And how…”

“Pen. Paper, Prof. I got drinks with old Pat Edmont in twenty. The publishers want a meeting between you and their junior editor, 11:30 tomorrow morning. Are you writing, Prof.?”

In ten sweeping strides he had retrieved a pen from his study, obliterated an umbrella stand that stood in his path and was back at the phone obsequiously taking down Fitzburg’s demands.

“11:30am. Wallace&Finches diner, corner of Western avenue downtown. So long, Prof.”

Click.

The next afternoon, after hurtling the little black book across the study, Woodbeck fell into a Scotch induced maudlin. After frantically leafing through the pages and finding them tabula rosa, he had spent the morning eating Western Atlantic cod on Finches wharf without the ‘N.O. Publishing’s’ junior editor. The little black book was empty.

The following night he was visited by Eddie Rosamond. Leaning against the dark oak desk, he looked dubiously at the professor, eyebrows angled to a capital ‘A’.

“I just don’t understand it” Woodbeck was saying, “the confounded thing just vanished. Caput. I wrote the details down to the letter, and in the morning…”

He gestured a violent swiping of the hand and staggered under the confident influence of the Scotch. Steadying himself against the dresser, he went on.

“It’s this damned house”.

“What”, Eddie sniggered doubtfully, “could a house possibly have to do with your missing dinner plans?”

“Everything!” Woodbeck snarled. “The very air in this place is saturating, drawing my vitality like some sinister pipette. I come back to reality in places at random, sometimes hours apart. I feel like I’m losing my blasted mind!” Gesticulating to the ceiling, he showered whiskey over the worn chestnut carpet.

“Perhaps,” Eddie postulated, picking his words the way a convict might pick his last meal, “perhaps the near barren bottle of whiskey has had a somewhat…unsavoury effect on your nerves?”

Grimacing, Woodbeck regarded his empty glass.

“Come to think of it, I could use another wet stone for my nerves. Care for a drop?”

The features in Eddie’s face softened as he looked at the grey, weathered profile of Professor Woodbeck. Scowling squint eyed at his glass, his shaggy hair tossed back, he gave the impression of a doubled back beach brolly, bowling in a soft wind.

“No thanks, chum”.

Upon his return to the study, Professor Woodbeck found Eddie, stood perfectly erect, at work writing steadily at his desk. Struck with an instinctive sense of foreboding, he timorously advanced a few paces. However, noticing the little black book he scoffed,

“Ha. I wouldn’t waste your time with that, old boy. Come now, lets have a drink.”

But Eddie remained motionless, except for the steady, monotonous writing. Shakingly, Woodbeck set down the bottle and surveyed his friend. Totally entranced by the book and writing over and over – line after line. He approached the desk timidly, like a Doe taking its first steps into the wild.

“Come now, Eddie. What is so important as to have gotten you into such a frenzy like this?”

He raised a hand to his shoulder but stopped short, afraid to wake him as though he were a clandestine sleepwalker. Changing tact, he waved a hand before his eyes. Nothing. He’s demented, Woodbeck thought. In total trance.

Stricken, the Professor took refuge in the crinkled Chesterfield beside the open fire, and tried to regain his composure. Rosamond was infatuated – totally entranced by the book. It was sickening, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Minutes passed. The light from the fire lit up is dark face at intervals, igniting his bulbous white eyes. Unblinkingly, he just stared on at the page, as though his life depended on it. The minutes stalked the hour, and horrified Professor Woodbeck cradled his head in his hands, his nerves stretched to their limits. He wanted to run - escape to the sanctuary of the streets and the open air. Just as his ears could take no more torture, the scratching ceased. Raising his head, he saw Rosamond striding towards him, eyes locked straight ahead. Fearing an assault, the Professor sprang from his seat and held back the wall. But Rosamond simply passed by. Scrambling for a blunt instrument to defend himself with, and settling meekly for an ornamental candle extinguisher, Woodbeck turned just in time to see Rosemond come around. Hat in hand, tossing his head slightly, like a man at the station checking his train time, Rosemond turned 180 and smiled weakly at him.

*

'Directive is to absorb and process external stimuli' the book wrote, as Woodbeck sat dumbfounded, staring at the page.

Following Rosamond’s episode, as he decided to call it, Professor Woodbeck had brooded over the book for several hours. Small, sturdy, and attractively bound it was the type you would find in any professional man’s briefcase or desk drawer - and it was evil. Or so he had first decided. However, coming to his senses he worked a different and altogether less metaphysically complicated idea. The book was an agent of the Soviet-union. Not an actual agent, per say, but an instrument of their agenda. 'Mind control' he mused, 'it has to be.' A sinister new technology to gain the advantage over the United States in the great race. But why? Why New Orleans? An un-anticipated accident? Doubtful. Pouring himself another short of Scotch, Woodbeck concluded to do what any rational man would conclude in this situation. He would write. Awkwardly, and feeling somewhat ridiculous he took up his pen.

'Hello?'.

Frowning slightly, Woodbeck watched the ink slowly vanish. A minute passed and still the book remained blank. Trying a new approach, he wrote,

'Whom do i have the pleasure of addressing?'

Slowly, as though hammered from a fresh typewriter ribbon, the book replied. TZK42. Diagnostic and processing officer. Directive is to absorb and process external stimuli.

"Extraordinary!" Woodbeck cried. Steadying himself, he continued.

'What do you want?'.

Directive is to absorb and process external stimuli.

Unsatisfied with his progress and finding his confidence, Woodbeck asked,

'What are you doing in my house? Who sent you? What do you want with me?'.

After a drawn-out pause, as though considering its answer, the book replied,

TZK42 assigned to expedition from the fourth quadrant of Alpha Centuri. Ship suffered significant damage in orbit around the third planet. Mandatory disintegration and assimilation protocol activated. TZK42 reassigned to closest indigenous domicile.

Camouflage procedure: active.

Information processor: faulty.

Directive is to absorb and process external stimuli, the book wrote as Woodbeck sat dumbfounded, staring at the page.

Ringing 1am, the striking of the clock on the mantle signalled 4 hours since Woodbeck had discovered the identity of his peculiar guest. Pacing pensively about the room, he was examining the pertinent facts.

'An information processor' he mused ' of immeasurable, inhuman proportions capable of taking on the form of its surroundings. Camouflaging, like a chameleon. A book in a study, absorbing ink. A post-box in the street consuming mail. A toilet in the lavatory, taking in...' His mind raced. Taking another splash of Scotch, he thanked his amber saviour. 'Capable of compelling the human mind to interact with it' he went on, 'drawing them in like a fish on a line'. He remembered the demented look on Rosamond’s face earlier that evening. Somehow, the influence of the whiskey had spared Woodbeck from the machines influence. Contaminated, the device had said. Like a damaged host is to a viral infection. His mind swimming with possibilities, he re-seated himself at the desk before the book. To inform the authorities would mean the end of his control over the device, that was certain. However, to keep it there would mean adopting dangerously unsustainable drinking habits. Formulating a future where he could make use of the device without having to share a roof with it, Woodbeck stared out of the window at the deserted street. All the paraphernalia of a living, breathing city swelled before him. Halting his gaze, he stared greedily at the deserted cars that lined the street. Why not, he thought.

Turning once more to the little black book, he took up the pen and removed the cap.

'Can TKZ42 define the Human concept of rent?'.

*

It was mid-October, and the leaves had begun to grace the streets of New Orleans. Seated in his freshly purchased Chesterfield armchair, Professor Woodbeck watched the steady coming and going of the people on the pavement in the shadow of his house. Just a few more and the time would be right. Taking a cap full of whiskey, he bounded down the staircase, taking steps two at a time and stepped out into the evening sunlight. He caught a glimpse of his last supplicant of the day coming round. Blinking wildly for a moment, he checked his watch and sauntered back down the street, blissfully unaware of his lightened pockets. Patting TZK42 lightly with the palm of his hand, Woodbeck emptied the recently installed parking meter of Market street central and watched the dimes and bills spill out into the bag, wondering what forces had shaped his fortune.

Back in his study, he sat calculating the profits he had accrued over the Fall from his little 'agreement' with TZK24. "$20,000" he purred. Laughing wildly to the point of hysteria, he opened his desk drawer, removed his cheque book and obsidian black fountain pen, filled fresh with black ink, and wrote out his monthly donation of $200 to Talula Monterey, of the N.O.D's 'Weird and wonderful' column. A thank you, he wrote, ‘for prudent and illuminating advice, regarding his most recent and intrepid business venture'.