Those Busy Busy Boys

 I Refer, Of Course -

 Obviously! - to Steve and Oscar, my memory and subconscious respectively, whom threw up a real baffler this morning.

     Imagine, if you will, dreaming about cryptic crossword clues.  This has never happened before in all my long years of solving them.  "Girl from Provence losing part of her address" being the clue and "Laurie" being the solution.  I didn't say it had to make sense, did I?  Art!

A strange machine

     That makes as much sense as the dream.  

     O, excuse me, I was looking up recipes for rye bread sandwiches as a remaindered rye loaf has found it's way into my bread-bin, and 'Pastrami on rye' is too much a cliche for me to ever stoop to it.  Now I need red onion, beetroot and radishes.  I foresee a trip to the Co-Op in my near future.

     ANYWAY back to dreams.  Let me detail that rather worrying one about nanotechnology, with the proviso that dream scientific researchers and dream police and dream armies are witless and worthless.

     SO.  A nameless scientific research establishment has created functional nanotechnology, a replicating unit that, for reasons unknown, they leave on a pavement.  It's the size of a keyboard button.  Art!

Or a single one of these

     AT FIRST. Conrad encounters a pair of the meddling fools who trespassed where Man was not supposed to go researchers and exclaims, in horrified tones, that they've created a self-replicating microbot that they CANNOT STOP OR TURN OFF.  Their cheery grins turn to looks of alarm.  Meanwhile the keyboard button is now the size of a mobile phone, a sleek, glossy black artefact that nobody seems bothered with.  Clearly dream pedestrians are shockingly honest, since on the streets of Gomorrah-on-the-Irwell such an item would be gone in thirty seconds.  The unpleasantly surprised research staff?  Yeah, they do nothing.  I did warn you: witless.

     By now the replicator is the size of a boombox, at which point it achieves sentience.  This is not a good think and eventually The Authorities seem to have woken up to what's going on.  Art!

Sentient technology.  What can possibly go wrong?

     They place guards around it.  Conrad, coming back to sneak a peek at what's going on, discovers that the Replicator has mysteriously killed the guards, which The Authorities ignore, because they're incredibly incompetent.

     Then Replicator becomes mobile, and vanishes from it's previous perch, which was a little further down a side-street from it's original pavement position.  It's gone.  Gone is good, right?

     WRONG.  Replicator has been infecting humans with it's nanotechnology after it's disappearance, creating what look like cyborgs, which in turn abduct other humans in order to infect them.  It's all gone a bit pear-shaped, hasn't it?  These drones attack the science research lab responsible for the whole mess, where Conrad seems to be gainfully employed - hey even Dangerous Scientific Research Inc. needs an HR function - and he ends up dodging drone drudgery and trying to hide.  Ooops.

     

     There are already people hiding there, a policeman and an Army officer.  Where were you bafunes when things could have been stopped earlier on?  The subtext being that, after days of logarithmic increase in the number of Replicator drones, civilisation is on the point of collapses.  Eventually Conrad seems to be the only Hom. Sap. left alive, everyone else being slaves of Replicator.  

     However!  Replicator and it's drones leave him alone, as they want a single 'baseline human' to judge how far they've evolved.  Great.  Conrad keeps company with nine billion nanotech-infected drones.

     I dunno.  Perhaps I shouldn't eat cheese last thing at night.

Let's Have A More Cheerful Item

Not that such would be difficult after an Intro like that.  Let's have another of the BBC's Weather Watcher photographs.  Art!

Courtesy BG

     This is from the top of Mount Errigal, in County Donegal, and we've covered this phenomenon before, probably in connection with another BBC photography summation.  What you're seeing is the photographer's shadow projected forward, as the sun is behind them, with a halation around their shadow.  Thanks to wind moving the water particles around, the 'giant' will seem to move, which is doubtless very disconcerting if you're unaware of what a 'Brocken Spectre' is.

Giving It The NOD

No!  Not the 'Night Optical Device' that allowed the Chieftain MBT to operate successfully at night during the Cold War, when it would have potted T72's like nobody's business, am I right, Tsar Poutine?

     ANYWAY what I refer to is yet another South Canadian astronomical observatory based in New Mexico.  Say hello to the NASA Orbital Debris Observatory.  Art!

     This particular observatory did exactly what it says on the tin; it tracked debris in orbit, which is an important function because near space is full of discarded junk going back sixty years.  You don't want a multi-million pound satellite destroyed by a bolt that cost £00.50.

     The cool thing about NODO when it was running is the special telescope it used, namely a liquid-mirror one.  Art!

     That reflective surface is liquid mercury, thirty-two pints of it, spun to keep it stable and probably to ensure any airborne particulates falling on it get swept to the edge thanks to centripetal force.  Considering what it is, Conrad is surprised yonder puny scale-explaining human isn't wearing a hazmat suit.

Meanwhile, Back In "Tormentor"-Land

We left Luma tracking down exactly what "JREF" was, incidentally discovering that they were offering ONE MILLION DOLLARS for a closely-scrutinised test of psychic ability.

Well well well.  After reading he began to comprehend the scale of the psychic industry – worth billions.  And if he were to “go public” then their whole façade would come crashing down – at which he rubbed his hands in malicious glee.  Well, perhaps he would delay their destruction until after tea.

               Only after watching television and a series of programmes on ghosts and hauntings that had him hooting with mocking laughter did he remember to check the answerphone.

               “This is Mister Goldfeldt, from the jewellers, calling for Mister McMahon about your proposed commission.  The individual cost would be quite high, but decreasing with a larger order.  Can you call me back, since I don’t really want to leave details on your phone service before speaking to you in person.’

               ‘Damn.  Doubtless fifty quid a throw,’ he grumbled.  

The intermediate review with Rowell began on Friday morning, with Louis arriving at nine and going over the paperwork he’d already completed, making sure it had been correctly compiled.  At nine thirty a visibly nervous Laura knocked and entered.  Rowell tried to calm her.

               ‘Just take a seat, please.  There’s a pot of tea, or coffee if you prefer, over there, and Louis for once has left you a few biscuits.’

               Louis gave her a mock sneer and a wink.

               ‘You’re not ganging up on me already?’ she asked.  Rowell leaned back in his seat, steepled his fingers and smiled most jovially.

Finally -

Conrad has bothered to beautify himself, as much as that unachievable aim can be achieved - okay, okay, I had a shave and shower and put on fresh clothing.  So, I had better make use of this appearance and head down into Royton before the bristles creep back.  One reason is to get hold of mince because that meatloaf I made last week was surprisingly tasty.  The green jalapenos helped rather, as did a liberal dash of Worcestershire sauce.  And while we're on domestic details, Edna's going to get a trot, too.