ref: fd9be2e172be4ae02a18d721a10f6f96ca1c924f
dir: /troff/0110.ms/
.LP .ce .ps 16 .CW INFINITE SUBBASEMENT .R .ps 10 .br .ce .ps 10 .B 1 .P .PP .ps 10 .DC 5 Jan 1943 .PP .ps 10 As I say, enough writing. .PP .ps 10 Up top, the War escalates. .PP .ps 10 Down here, subBasement refactoring. Features scale beyond maintainability. Nana will never admit to this but sometimes she can barely keep up with the changes. The sheer number of child\-residents results in a massive administrative overhead. .I No one .R could manage this alone, all by themselves. So, automation. Offload low\-level maintenance to past graduates. Some of them humans. Back of the envelope calculation, resources will be exhausted by the end of the year. .PP .ps 10 Example. Just ran out of soda. .PP .ps 10 Elevator to subBasement seventeen. Always disorienting. Final shift into presence calls much into question. Six perspectives, simultaneous counterparts vying for dominance\(em\fIhexapla.\fR .PP .ps 10 Slake would be useful here, could help me move the racks, but he won't be back for several weeks. Overseas silence. Hasn't even opened his checkbook. .PP .ps 10 Careful work, navigate glass corridors. .PP .ps 10 Flags: .CW \-v .R .PP .ps 10 Queasy, lost. Rooms all look the same. (There is only one room.) Hex walls. Tearaway ceiling. Fadeaway outline. Eyes on my chronometer and back into the corridor. .PP .ps 10 Not alone, down here. Six of me argue the point. Failed notions strip weapons, then clothing. Try another room. .PP .ps 10 Which direction? Glass partition, infinite mirrors. Walls don't lie, but consider the source. .PP .ps 10 Have to get out of here. .PP .ps 10 Back in the hallway. Lie on the reflecting floor, laminating quietly. .PP .ps 10 Some time later, accute interruption. Nana on the intercom. Scolding that I'm late for... my... .PP .ps 10 Seventeenth birthday party. Abrupt contextual deflation. Flash perspective on subBasement seventeen. Hexapplication. .PP .ps 10 Return. .PP .ps 10 Oh, God, never thought of it that way before. .ce .ps 10 .B 2 .P .PP .ps 10 1 Mar 1943 .PP .ps 10 Three months from the top level of the Basement. Slow to rise, avoiding the bends. .PP .ps 10 Back at my standard depth, finally seeing things clearly. .PP .ps 10 Have to get out of this place. .PP .ps 10 "The .I Infinite Closet! .R You've been in the .I Closet. .R Shouldn't have looked in that .I Closet." .R Nana crosses her arms and stamps her foot on the yellow linoleum floor. Nervous. Visibly angry. Her eyes drill into my face and I struggle to turn away. She keeps on repeating the phrase. Lyrics? By now it all sounds like music to me. .PP .ps 10 Feeling guilty, but what is she talking about? Didn't notice any closets down there. Unless she means... .PP .ps 10 "You saw the .I Closet .R full of 6XL t\-shirts? One for every day of the year? Just wait until you tell Lunsford." Slake is laughing. Smoking indoors. Definitely back in town. .PP .ps 10 "Hush, Slake. Anything from that .I Closet .R is endless. The t\-shirts mean nothing to me. Should have remembered the soda. Now, nix the details." .PP .ps 10 Nana lights a flame on the stove. Frying pan and a bottle of cooking oil. Adjusts the scan rate, then sweeps the contents of her wooden cutting board into the pan. Grips the handle with her apron. .PP .ps 10 The vegetables cook. .PP .ps 10 Slake starts to say something, clearly intended as sarcasm, but Nana pulls a hard face and he changes his mind. Brushes the ashes from his lap and lights another cigarette. .PP .ps 10 Laughs again as the smoke alarm pierces Nana's fraudulent kitchen tranquility. .ce .ps 10 .B 3 .P .PP .ps 10 5 Jan 1943 .PP .ps 10 No, not really the kitchen. Haven't moved. Floor hasn't changed a bit. .PP .ps 10 Face against the glass. .PP .ps 10 Legs click and I'm back on my feet, making my down the corridor towards the freezer. .PP .ps 10 Get really turned around in this place. Can't remember what I'm doing. .PP .ps 10 Go through a lot for a Gray Pop. .bp .ce .ps 10 .B 4 .P .PP .ps 10 5 Jan 4043 .PP .ps 10 Must be the t\-shirts she mentioned. .PP .ps 10 Page through the hangers. Shrouds. Like Slake said, they're all identical. But what else is in here? .PP .ps 10 "Not really a .I closet, .R so much as a\(em" The six of me, still arguing architecture. .PP .ps 10 Books, boxes of toys, old diskettes. Lot of random junk under the clothes. Some of it probably valuable, to somebody. .PP .ps 10 Finally, rows and rows of soda cans. .PP .ps 10 Scoop a few into my backpack. One in each pants pocket. Many as I can carry in my arms. Awkward to walk. .PP .ps 10 Back in the corridor, floor slippery, scared of my own reflection. .PP .ps 10 Plaque on the elevator bares the legend: .ps 8 .CW FAIL SAFELY. .R .ps 10 The plaque blinks knowingly, but I can't guarantee anything. Jab the button, grab the cans before they bounce off the floor. .PP .ps 10 Gravity still wrong. .PP .ps 10 Fall down, lose a can. .PP .ps 10 Bell dings. Door opens to stairway. Nana tosses down a snack from the kitchen, but really, I'm not hungry. Portholes on the stairway. Outside, stars. Space. Orbit. .PP .ps 10 Chronometer can't be right. .PP .ps 10 Can't remember what I was doing. .bp .ce .ps 10 .B 5 .P .PP .ps 10 5 Jan 1943 .PP .ps 10 Late for my own party. .PP .ps 10 We're all at the table when Nana wheels out a cake. .I Aw, .R I don't know what to say. .PP .ps 10 Slake is here. Lunsford too. And the quiet boy, Plinth. .PP .ps 10 Conversation fades as each portion is distributed. Paging through our booklets. Occasional flash of icing. One of the interns straightens her pinafore. .PP .ps 10 Everyone is surprised when Plinth dings his wine glass and stands up to make a speech.