R. MacAvoy - Tea with the Black Dragon

He tried to call Fred; his voice failed him. On the second try he succeeded.

Frisch appeared. Long pointed to the box in front of him. “Is this a microprocessor?”

Fred smote his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What a jerk I am! Here I am, clawing my way through the back labs looking for something esoteric and here it is.

“Sure. The box is a Vector—that’s 8080 all right, and the rest of the system… well I don’t know.”

Long eased out of the chair. “I had hoped you would know.”

“Nope.” Fred explored the desk with nimble fingers, searching for the various power switches.

“Will you be able to use it?”

“Dunno that either,” grunted Fred, offhand. A fan began to whirr. After five minutes he succeeded in lighting the screen with gibberish.

A harsh, rattling sigh reached Fred’s ears. He swiveled in the chair.

What he saw broke through his concentration. Long was crouching on the carpet behind the desk. His knees were up and his head rested between them. His usable arm encircled his legs and his left hand hung limp, trembling visibly.

With a squeal of chair wheels, Fred got up. He stepped awkwardly over to Long and laid his own hand on the glossy black hair. “Don’t worry,” he said. “When I said I didn’t know how, that didn’t mean I couldn’t learn. I’m pretty good at this impromptu kind of thing. And you know what they say. ‘If you know what you’re doing, it isn’t research.’ ”

Long lifted his head. His eyes were faceted with gold. Fred smiled.

“Ignore my noises. It’s only that I’m losing my voice,” rasped Long. Suddenly his eyebrows lifted and he added, “Mr. Frisch, you are stuffed like a sausage full of little sayings.”

Fred laughed. “Surprise you to learn that I’ve read Don Quixote, too. I always thought I’d make a good Sancho Panza.” He brushed off his knees and returned to the console.

“Actually, I’m not entirely your typical North Californian, with head carved out of redwood burl. You know, ‘Nuke the Whales’ bumper sticker, doing yoga suspended in a vat of blood-temperature salts.” Fred typed as he talked, trying to establish some sort of rapport with the green box.

“I’m not even from California. But then who is? I’m a good half-Jewish boy from Shaker Heights, Ohio. I’ve been afraid to tell my friends here, but I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

Fred scowled and backed his chair away. “This isn’t working. I don’t think the bootstrap is in ROM at all. Who, this day and age, would be so clunky as to…”

His quick eye covered the desk, the table set against it, the file cabinets along the wall. Finally he noticed a box the size of a toaster covered by an embroidered cozy which read “Bless this Mess.” With a flourish he yanked off the cover, revealing a paper-tape reader with a neat row of spools built into the front.

“White ribbons! What a sight. Now we’re cookin’ with gas.” He held up to the light three of the wound tapes. He chose the smudgiest and inserted that into the machine, nudging on the power and the read switch. Immediately the strip of paper tape shot through the slit in the machine and appeared at the other side. Fred waltzed back to the chair in time to receive the message PANDEMANIC WORD PROCESSING SYSTEM FILE MANAGER AND EDITOR PROGRAM v. 1.0. Without pause words INPUT TIME AND DATE (24 HR CLOCK) AS FOLLOWS: MM,‘DD,‘YY,’.HH,‘MM.

Fred crowed his triumph, then settled down to interrogate the system. After a few minutes, he turned to find Long sprawled on the floor, asleep.

“I wish I didn’t have to wake you, friend,” he muttered. “You’ve had just as hard a time as a man can take. I think your line of work must be all nails and no shoe leather. But then, that’s the way it is for most people, I guess. Too much silly work, dull or dangerous, and not enough dough. I’m damn lucky for a punk kid.”

Fred swiveled back to the screen. “Maybe I don’t have to wake you up, yet. Le’me see if I can find the library, here…” He typed a few questions and the answers pleased him.

“I run, you know,” whispered Fred to the sleeper. “More to clear my head after work than for macho. I go from the park by Menio City Hall down along the tracks to Stanford. Down by the railroad bridge there’s a tree that Palo Alto was named for: ‘the big stick.’ Everybody around here knows about that tree, but no one stops to see it—at least I never see anybody there but me. I’m not a very type-A guy, you know? Not driven. I stop and touch the tree every time I go by, and if I’m winded I give it a big sweaty hug and lean against it a while. It’s the oldest live thing around here. Must be five hundred years.”

Another flurry of key-strikes and the screen filled with print. Fred scrolled it slowly.

“I don’t have a philosophy about it, or anything like that, but I think there’s a peace around old things. You can feel it. If you get close, you can share it.”

“To be old is not always a guarantee of peace,” answered a dry, snakeskin voice behind him. Startled, Fred spun around.

“I’m sorry. I was mostly talking to myself,” he said. Mr. Long was attempting to sit up. His face was pale and brilliant. Fred leaned over to forestall him.

“Not yet. Give me a few more minutes. But we’re in the groove, here, so you just rest. I’ll wake you if I need you.”

He returned to his work. Almost immediately he found what he had been looking for. He cuffed the console affectionately.

“Besides, I meant really old things—not old as a man can get old, but old like a tree. Hundreds of years.”

“I am a very old worm,” sighed Mayland Long, his fevered eyes gazing at the ceiling. “I have been searching for an illusive nothing called truth. Now I think I would settle for sleep, if I had the choice.”

Fred had been following with half an ear. He worried he would have to carry Long back to the car. “For a worm, I’m sure you’d be positively geriatric. But forty-five, fifty, whatever—isn’t what I’d call old. And you’re perfectly welcome to catch some zees now, Mr. Long. We’re safe, and the machine is eating out of my hand.”

He hit carriage return, and the discreet hiss of an ink jet printer sounded in the comer of the office. He rose, stretched, and cracked his knuckles.

Next to the printer stood a coffee vending machine. Fred dug into his pocket for money. He returned to Mr. Long with a steaming plastic cup in his hand.

“Here you go. Empty calories.” He proffered the cup. “Say. I don’t know what to call you. I mean, I can call you Mister Long all the livelong night, but it feels awkward, not knowing the rest. Is Long your Chinese name?”

Mr. Long sat up and reached for the cup. His hand shook as he took it. After the first sip he blinked in surprise. “What is this?”

“Cocoa.”

“Ah.” Long held it in both hands. “My—Chinese name is simply Oolong. I use a first name, which is a Latin translation on the original. Or it was; it’s been corrupted through the years.” He coughed, and chocolate splashed on the rug. Fred steadied the cup with one hand.

“Translation. That’s interesting. What does the name mean, then?”

Mayland Long smiled at Fred. “I hesitate to tell you, after our conversation in the car. Oolong has two meanings. It means a kind of tea, and it means black dragon. But I assure you, Fred; I did not name myself.”

Fred hit his forehead once again. “I gotta big mouth. Forget what I said in the car. I don’t know beans about China. Drink.”

Fred tore off the listing and began to read. His interest grew. Long stood, using the wall for support. “What is that?”

“The letter.”

The dark man walked slowly over, his brow furrowed… “I don’t remember dictating it. Have I been so ill…”