“Ah! Luke!” exclaimed the man who I assumed was the professor as I entered, and walking around the desk he approached me and we shook hands in the centre of the room, confirming that it was indeed Wingnut.
Professor Theodulus Wingnut was the perfect embodiment of his name. He wore an almost full length white lab coat, at the lapel pocket of which sat several different coloured biros. He appeared to be anywhere between sixty and eighty, wearing a pair of small round spectacles that seemed almost balanced on the bridge of his nose, as if daring gravity to sweep them to the floor. A wide forehead gave way to a shock of thin white hair that looked to me as if the professor had been plugged into the mains just minutes before as it rose wildly in all directions. He had a wide smile though, and a warm friendly handshake, which seemed to last just a few more seconds longer than was entirely necessary, his enthusiasm seeming almost to radiate from him. I smiled in return and noticed Hank in the corner of the room standing as still as a statue. “Come in. Come in!” fussed the professor as he led me to a large chair that was positioned in front of his desk. “Splendid!” he said as if delivering a verdict and made his way back behind his desk. He made a bit of a thing about pulling his chair beneath the table and then clasped his hands together and looked me up and down a few times, pausing only to clean his glasses on his lab coat once. I sat there patiently waiting for the interview to begin, but the professor seemed to be content to continue to beam a warm smile at me as if waiting for me to begin. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe it.
This seemed to go on for at least three or four minutes, but was probably actually only about two before I cleared my throat and said, “Technical support job?” which the professor seemed to either not have heard or even understood. He just sat there beaming at me. From the corner of my eye I saw Hank move and place a single piece of A4 paper in front of the professor and from the corner of his mouth muttered, “The interview” before returning to the same immobile state as before. At this the professor sprang to life and snatched the piece of paper up from the desk.
“Ah yes. The interview. Technical support person.” he smiled from ear to ear. “There you are.” He glanced at me once more before thanking Hank and then turned to face me once more. He removed his glasses once again, forgot to clean them and balanced them back on his nose again. The thick glass in the lenses made his eyes look twice as big as before. I felt as if I was about to interviewed by a vaguely eccentric owl. “By the way Luke did you feel a small discharge of static electricity when you entered the building?” I nodded and the professor seemed pleased at this. “Was it rather strong?” he enquired, and seemed to be genuinely concerned
“No.” I replied. “Just a tingle.” The professor sat bolt upright at this. “A tingle?” he enquired and I nodded again, wondering what in the name of God all the fuss was about a bit of static. “Probably a little over - enthusiastic on the protective radius of the electron capacitor feedback circuit more than anything.” he said almost half to himself and I noticed out of the corner of my eye Hank turning slowly to face the professor. “Turn the feedback circuit down 3 Sharples will you please, Hank?” and Hank nodded stiffly once and then picking up the cases strode with purpose from the room. I heard a bit of a kerfuffle as the door and suitcase juggling thing went on and then the door pulled shut and footsteps could be heard fading down the corridor. I glanced up from the desk and saw the professor beaming at me once again. “Wonderful chap is Hank.” he enthused. I nodded in agreement before the professor continued, “Well, for an android anyway.”
I thought I’d misheard him to be honest so just blurted out a quick, “Sorry?”
“For an android.” repeated the professor as if it was a fact that was plain to see. “1963 model. Completely self-determining, of course. Quite cutting edge for the time.” He paused slightly, before leaning slightly over the desk conspiratorially. “Cheats at chess though.” I nodded my head in a slight daze. Was he really serious? He seemed to be!
The professor almost seemed to hear my thoughts. “All quite foreign to you of course, Luke. I understand that. But perfectly normal around here. “He smiled broadly for a second. “Hank is one of the last generation of androids. But he is as I have said completely self-determining, and been tested in various locales that a mere man could only ever hope to attain.” I nodded dumbly, playing along but also keeping a very careful eye on the exit. The French windows seemed to be the best bet. “Yes. Hank here we have tested in various areas that would cause grave discomfort and danger to a normal man.”
He leaned across the desk conspiratorially as if imparting a great secret. “He has attended every five a.m. “Next” Christmas sale for the last three years without injury. Quite remarkable.” He paused to give me a quick smile before a frown crossed his face. “He has bought quite a few questionable ties though. Still, no accounting for taste. He was indeed extremely advanced technology for the sixties. Quintuple multi-threaded processors working in very close harmony with a titanium positronic matrix makes all the difference.” He paused as if thinking of something else. “Knows 53 languages as well.” he smiled. “Even Glaswegian.” I stifled a small squeal of discomfort. “I know.” continued the professor, mistaking my squeal for one of acceptance, which it most definitely was not. “He can run 37 trillion calculations per microsecond and is physically locatable within 0.00003 of a millimetre from anywhere on the planet. Never eats. Never sleeps. Doesn’t require payment of any kind at all. Though I do believe he is quite fond of Ginger snaps. We always ensure that the canteen has some in stock at all times.”
I gulped, trying desperately to think of a question that would not send the professor off on the by now inevitable axe wielding jamboree, for surely he was some kind of nutcase. There were no such things as androids! I began to look for hidden cameras in case I was going to be the star of a new series of Candid Camera or something.
I asked the only question that I could think of. “What is it with the suitcases?” I said and the professor’s face fell.
“Ah.” he mumbled, as if admitting a guilty secret. “They are his batteries.”
I smiled sickly and the professor seemed a little peeved at having to reveal this. “Shall we continue with the interview?” I nodded in as neutral a way as I possibly could and for the next thirty minutes or so we proceeded along the normal formal routine of an interview. I was quite glad of the return to normality to be honest, and I seemed to be doing okay. Even the professor seemed to be acting relatively normal. Nevertheless I kept the French windows in clear view all the time just in case. Finally, the professor sat back in his chair. He obviously wasn’t a poker player because although I felt I had done quite well there was a vague sense of almost disappointment about him. Maybe my answers had been too vague or formulaic? God knows - he had certainly rattled me with whatever all that crap was about Hank. Still, he seemed unhappy about something or another though he was obviously trying to conceal it.
“One final question!” he said, smiling and leaning on his desk. “If you were a bird, what kind of bird would you be?” To tell the truth it was the kind of crazy bullshit Oxford University entrance examination question that I thought would be sprung upon me without notice at any second, so I wasn’t entirely fazed by the question. It only took me a second to reply with what was an instinctive answer.
“I’d be a pigeon.” I smiled and gave the professor my best smart arse smile. I’ll never forget his expression when I said pigeon. If you ever hear anyone say they were deflated, then whatever has happened to them could not even begin to resemble how deflated the professor seemed to be at that particular moment in time. He almost seemed to sag.
“A pigeon?” He almost sobbed. “Everyone ALWAYS says eagle.” He was almost shouting now. “Why on Earth would you want to be a pigeon?” He removed his glasses and stared at me accusingly.
“Easy.” I replied. “Pigeons lay blue eggs.” The professor stood bolt upright as if he had been the victim of an electric shock a
nd so I decided to offer a token of explanation. “Pigeons lay blue eggs.” The professor looked even more confused, if that was indeed possible. “Blue eggs are cool.” I finished.
The professor almost stumbled back into his chair, crumpling into its no doubt comfortable leather covering as if he was a piece of paper being discarded into a waste paper basket.
“Blue eggs are cool.” he almost sighed to himself. He had an almost defeated look about him, staring away into the distance as if in shock. “They are, aren’t they? Who would have thought it?” he mumbled, and I began to think pigeon was most definitely not the correct answer. “Do you believe in ghosts, Luke?” the professor asked and I thought it was another daft question.
“Not at all.” I said. “They have no scientific validity at all. In real terms, no more than a bit of fun.” The professor nodded uncertainly but I was now on a roll and decided to continue. “Science should never be about fun.” I concluded in a serious tone. The professor looked crestfallen.
“Shouldn’t it?” he said, looking worried. “Oh dear.” His mind seemed to drift a little and he mumbled half to himself, “Maybe it was a bit silly to dress those monkeys in the weather balloon at Roswell in alien outfits. My My, what was I thinking?”
We sat in silence for a minute or two and then as strangely as it had begun the interview was over. Hank appeared once again and I followed the suitcase carrying potential android out to the reception where I was signed out and as we went through the exit again there was a static shock again, though this time it was a little stronger. Another half hour with Hank in the car found once again the same dull lack of conversation but soon we were back at the station once more, though I had noticed that this time there did seem to be a little more traffic on the road. The train was waiting for me at the oddly deserted station and leaving Hank standing at the station almost as if to ensure I actually got on the train, soon I was under way.
To my total amazement, shock and yes, I shall also say, unease, a week later I received a letter stating that I had got the job.
Interval:
Fag Break with Jon:
“Prison Shoes”
“Just because you have decided to dress more casual doesn’t mean you can dress like a teenager.” Said Jon having a drag on his cigarette. We were at the smoking shelter again, and a few groups of people stood around in their own little groups, passing the time of day and so on. This day we were joined by one of the managers from the media section, Colin. Colin had just got divorced, an event that had coincided almost exactly with Colin’s discovery of Primark. Sadly, this had also coincided at exactly the same time as with his forgetting just how old he was: mid-forties, fine start of a bald patch and the conversational skills of a rock.
“I mean.” Continued Jon, a slight smile playing across his face, “Just look at your shoes.” I looked down at Colin’s dark purple canvas shoes that contrasted somewhat with his off mustard coloured chinos and chequered shirt. He looked like an explosion at a clown convention.
“Nothing wrong with these.” Sniffed Colin. He knew there was of course, and there was no malice intended. We were just taking the piss.
“I quite like the shoes.” I said. I didn’t, but I was curious as to see where Jon was going with this.
“Prison shoes them.” Smiled Jon. “All the rage in Walton Prison I would imagine.” Colin just smiled. He knew better than to retaliate.
“You have to remember Colin.” Smiled Jon. “You’re forty-four and therefore logically, not a member of One Direction.”
“Or Buster.” I said smiling.
“Who?” said Jon incredulously.
“Buster.” I said. “Boy band in the seventies.” Jon just rolled his eyes.
“Good result yesterday!” shouted one of the managers to Jon, walking across the car park as they passed the smoking shelter heading to the main door. Everton had lost yesterday, and as Jon was the most renowned Evertonian in the building it was obviously him all the Liverpool supporters couldn’t wait to bump into.
“Whatever!” shouted Jon back as the manager rounded the corner and disappeared.
“I think perhaps you’re trying to achieve “available”. Said Jon and Colin looked confused.
“Your clothes.” Said Jon, pointing in particular to the shoes. “You are trying to make a statement.”
“I just liked the colours really.” Smiled Colin.
“Yellow and purple?” I asked doubtfully.
“Mustard, not yellow.” Said Colin. “You could hardly say that these are banana pants now, could you?” Jon just raised an eyebrow.
“Well it doesn’t say, “Available” to me. I laughed.
“Go on then, Luke – what does it say?”
“More like, “rapist”” I laughed. Jon snorted, putting his fag out in the ash bin.
“Desperate.” Said Jon, smiling. “Or maybe “three years for robbing some newsagents. One of the two.”
“Piss off you two.” Said Colin, extinguishing his cigarette and making to return back inside. “I’ll see you later.” And off he went.
“Poor bastard.” Smiled Jon as he waited for me to finish my smoke. “Probably living off Pot Noodles and Cup a Soups.” I laughed, knowing he was probably right. “Probably be a bright red Ferrari next.”
“And a wig.” I mused, and we both laughed.
“Did you see what bloody Alan has gone and suggested now?” asked Jon. Alan was the latest member of the sales team who was very good at questioning every aspect of what the business did rather than realising that was how it worked and to leave it alone.
“No.” I said. “What’s he suggested now?”
“Well.” Began Jon, grinning. I put my cigarette out and we began to wander back across the car park to the main doors. “He has put a plan forward where if we all chip in ten quid a month for the electric bill then the company gets a tax rebate which would earn us back such a rebate that the company could then reimburse us double the amount.”
“What?” I laughed. “He wants us to pay the company’s electric bill?”
“Yes.”
“Tit.” Laughed Jon as we entered the main door, crossed reception and headed back to our desks.
Ten minutes later I heard my email ping and opening up a message from Jon, in which he also copied Colin, there was a picture of a pair of bright yellow pumps and a ball and chain.
“You’re dead.” Came back an email to the both of us shortly after, to which I replied to the pair of them with an email containing a picture of a pair of bright pink trousers and a cell door. From across the sales floor Jon gave me a thumbs up as he sent an email to both Colin and I containing a picture of a bright red Ferrari.
It took less than a week for the car brochures to arrive on Coli’s desk. They were free to send off for and so Jon had signed Colin up for the newsletter too. We had observed the brochures arrival at reception and the pair of us watched in silence as Colin opened his mail and began poring over the brochures.
Nodding to each other we then established a sweepstake with all of the office as to how long it wold be before the Ferrari arrived. One pound a go, soon we had fifty members of the sweepstake, all without Colin’s knowledge of course.
Much to Colin’s disgust, the eventual winner was Laura from the research department with sixteen days.
Chapter Two
“Vague statements are interchangeable.”
(Robert Mager)
“Luke?” the professor asked, squinting at me through his smeared round spectacles across the dining room table. “Do I own a cat?” In all fairness it wasn’t the weirdest question he had ever asked me, not even close. “Prof” as I preferred to call him (never when he could hear me though, that would usually end up with him giving me an over the eyebrows glance, which was definitely in the arse kicking end of the staring scale) had a bit of a talent for either asking or stating all kinds of weird shit. I had come to the decision that he didn’t make any sense at all most of the time. Yet w
e got on okay. It was almost like looking after a child sometimes, and yes, sometimes he would look at me as if I was like some sort of kid. I guess I admired his casual eccentricity, his unique and slightly off centre way of looking at the world sometimes so funny that I had to actually excuse myself from the room.
On this particular day however I was sitting in the professors book lined study at my small desk by the door going through the day’s mail. We had only just started work and it was quite early. The professor always insisted on starting early as according to him before 8am was “the best part of the day”. It took some getting used to. Believe me. Before I started this job I don’t think I even realised that there were two one O’clock’s in the day, never mind getting up early. I think that the entire idea of morning was like an alien concept to me. This job had put an end to that. No problem whatsoever.
“Don’t you know if you own a cat?” I smiled, taking a swig from the cup of tea in front of me that I had made sure I had made. The last one the professor had made for me had been almost undrinkable and vaguely blue in colour. I suspected he had used one of the not quite empty flasks from the laboratory downstairs to fill the kettle. The professor smiled at me from across the table and picked one of the many pens that littered his desk. Almost without thinking he moved it forward about two inches and placed it back down carefully, almost as if moving a chess piece. In an Absent minded way, he looked under the table as if try to spot the cat in question and then smiled back at me.
“Well I’m not quite sure.” he said, removing his glasses and wiping them on his ever present lab coat. “If I do indeed possess a cat then I haven’t seen it relatively recently.” As if to emphasise this he looked under the table once more and then straightened up, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he did so.
The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney Page 40
