The King of the Cogs Page 3
“Luke. For God’s sake. Your train is in an hour.” The goldfish focused into view and I noticed my mother tugging at my sleeve at the same time.
Yes. You got that right. Fifty-one and living at home, though more out of necessity than anything after my divorce. It could be difficult going back home, but it wasn’t too bad unless you actually told somebody that you were still with your parents. Then you were fucked. At this precise moment however I was struggling with the thought that my mum seemed to have turned into a goldfish when I also began to realise that not only was I lying on the couch, but also that the rest of my body seemed to be doing its best to kill me. There were bits of me aching that I’d forgotten I had.
Placed precariously about three feet in front of where my eyes were attempting to focus there seemed to be a bright orange traffic cone, a small pile of loose change and what appeared to be a stuffed penguin. I vaguely remember falling over a park bench somewhere and my aching shins seemed to be trying to remind me of that. Mum shook me roughly again. The loose change swum out of focus, and then swum giddily back into view. I managed a grunt as I heard mum reminding me that the train for my interview was in an hour. Vaguely my brain managed to grasp this and over the course of the next hour I managed to coax myself off the floor, into the shower and down to the train station.
The train was on time and I had to change trains just once to head out into the Cheshire countryside. I took the opportunity to take a brief nap in the hope of feeling more human as the hangover began to kick in. Luckily I had a hangover cure powder in the top pocket of my hired suit, and mixing that with a little cup of flat coke from the buffet car I began to feel a little bit less wrecked. I looked at the letter and studied the station that I was to get off the train. Glancing up at one of the line maps overhead I followed our journey from station to station as rail passengers frequently do, though God knows why, because there are rarely any shocks in store. From small pretty looking station to identical next pretty station we went until finally Alverscot was next. I straightened my tie in my reflection in the window, noticing at the same time that I still looked awfully pale, and made my way out of the carriage.
I dropped the window as the train slowed, made its way over a small road crossing against which no cars seemed to be waiting, and turned the handle on the door as the train pulled past what seemed to be an old coal yard and came to a halt. I disembarked the train and standing on the platform waited for it to pull out of the station before getting my bearings. The station itself was completely empty, not a soul about at all. As the train rattled into the distance around the bend in the track I looked for the exit. The posters on the wooden boarding around the station seemed curiously old fashioned, and I finally noticed a small wooden footbridge at the end of the platform that led from one platform to the next. About half way along a small wooden gate led into a small car park. An old fashioned black car was parked by the gate, and a tall bald man was stood beside it. As I caught his eye he waved stiffly at me and I waved back, before making my way over the footbridge towards him.
As i got closer I could see that the car was really old fashioned. It looked like something from a mafia film and the chrome sparkled brightly in the early afternoon sun, the black shape of the bonnet almost like a work of art, and on the bonnet a silver Vikings head emblem bearing the words, “Rover 14”. To say it looked spectacular was an understatement. The tall bald man standing next to it was also immaculately suited, two large black suitcases sitting firmly by his feet. He stood watching me as I approached, his face completely blank of any emotion. I held out my hand and introduced myself and the tall bald man shook my hand firmly, verging slightly on the over enthusiastic.
“Hank.” he said, introducing himself. His voice was deep and emotionless. I said I was pleased to meet him and picking up the suitcases he gestured for me to get into the car and closing the door behind me he placed the two suitcases onto the space beside the driver’s seat and got in.
Hank wasn’t a great conversationalist though it didn’t really matter. The inside of the car was just as amazing as the outside, the smell of leather was strong and the metal surfaces gleamed. The countryside was spectacular too, though the roads were awfully quiet. Hank maintained no conversation at all, despite several attempts to pass the time of day myself, and eventually the car turned off the small road and onto a long drive that wound in amongst the trees ahead. I paid strict attention to how the office itself looked, for after all first impressions are important, but so far all I could see was trees. They did seem to have peacocks running about the grounds but that was it really.
The drive turned tightly to the left and a large old fashioned house came into view. I say house. It looked more like a stately home to me. The car drew up outside on the gravel drive, and Hank stopped the engine. He got out quickly and opened the door for me, the two suitcases once again at his feet. “The professor awaits you in the green light room.” he said in his deep voice and gestured for me to follow him into the house.
The entrance was large and imposing, but the doors opened automatically as we approached, Hank leading the way, carrying the suitcases in each hand as he went. We climbed up a little set of broad stairs and approached the twin glass fronted doors that were sufficiently opaque to obscure the interior of the building. Yet as Hank led the way the doors swished open, revealing a large well-lit foyer that more resembled the foyer of a hotel than some kind of office building. As I crossed over the doorstep and entered the building I felt what I assumed was a small discharge of electricity, probably a remnant from the lush finish of the interior of the car, but it soon passed. Following Hank closely the tall man approached the long desk behind which was seated a young man wearing some sort of Bluetooth headset who nodded briefly to Hank and cast a quick curious glance in my direction. I returned the glance but was more concerned with having a real good look at the foyer.
It was a bit weird really. It wasn’t anything like what I would have expected. Opulent was probably the right word, but all my mind could settle on was “flash”. There was money on display here, and loads of it too. Unlike any form of logo or notice of any kind. Hank put what looked like the keys of the car on the desk and in a vaguely monotone voice said, “1957.” before continuing, “Interviewee for Professor Wingnut. Luke Williams.” The man behind the desk merely nodded and sweeping what i assumed to be keys from the desktop and stowed them somewhere out of sight before nodding briefly. He consulted a computer screen the top of which was just visible above the well of the desk and motioned off to his right.
“The Green light room. Professor Wingnut is ready for you.” Hank merely nodded and motioned for me to follow him. Yet again he hoisted the large suitcases one in each hand and motioned with his head for me to follow him. I got a really good feeling that Hank wasn’t a great communicator for so far all he had said to me on arrival and on the journey here seemed to reinforce that opinion. I’d tried a few words of small talk but all I had received in return was either being completely blanked, or at best just a small nod or shake of the head. I could only hope that professor Wingnut was a man of more words, or it was going to be a real bastard of an interview.
We made our way down a brightly lit wide corridor, the walls of which were interspersed with firmly closed wide double doors off to both sides every five yards or so. I found it a bit weird that none of these doors had any signs at all, and yet Hank continued down the corridor at a brisk pace, the two suitcases still clutched in his hands. We swung a left at the end and joined another corridor which ran in both directions before ending about four doorways away at a dead end, double doors forming the end of the hallway here too. The only difference between this set of doors and the others was a row of three small chairs set up against the wall. At the moment they were all completely vacant. Hank reached the double doors and placed one of the suitcases on the floor before knocking twice quietly on the door. There was a muffled sound of what could have been “enter” from the other side an
d Hank turned the handle on the door, and over his shoulder told me to take a seat before hefting the suitcases up once again and going through the entrance which closed quietly behind him.
I sat myself down, staring at the plain pinstriped wallpaper and began to anticipate the interview. I had only been there for about a minute before the door opened again and Hank popped his head through the gap. “Professor Wingnut will see you now.” He said in the same monotone voice and I stood and entered the room, which was surprisingly large. The office was roughly square inside. The far end of the room comprised of ceiling to floor bay windows, through which the grounds outside were clearly visible. A large set of French doors that led out into the gardens stood half open in the wall of glass, before which was placed a large desk. The side walls seemed to be covered almost entirely in bookcases, and a small mobile ladder to access the higher shelves stood off to one side. The books were almost entirely encased in what appeared to be leather of various colours, and there was a definite air of opulence about the room. Behind the desk across the wide room sat a small figure, which I presumed was the professor. Hank stood off to one side, completely motionless, the suitcases at his feet.
“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 and 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.