Ian pushed the door open to the computer room and crumpled to the floor, his left hand still holding the doorknob.
"Get up and out of the entryway mister Stein! Must I tell you every time?"
Gasping for breath, Ian pulled his knees under his chest and hoisted himself back up by the doorknob complaining, "I... just..." two more heavy breaths and he was back on his feet, "don't get... why there are so many bloody stairs!"
"Language, mister Stein!" said Mr. Trendall, taking his fingers from the keyboard and lowering his voice. "The insects can sense animosity you know."
The crickets had suddenly gone quiet.
"Well," said Ian, catching his breath, "you must admit I'm making a faster recovery."
Slowly, the crickets began their song again, and Mr. Trendall returned to typing. "Yes, yes," he said, then huffed in angst and threw his long white beard over his shoulder to quit from getting caught in the keys. He struck the backspace, annoyed, then continued. "Now, close that door and load that stack of scantrons onto the feeder."
Ian's body passed behind the professor while his eyes trained on the concave glass of the screen. The reflection would have betrayed his intrusion had his feet not done it first by getting caught in the thick cable on the floor.
"By Jove, Ian! Watch what you're doing. You'll have plenty of time to play with the computer today as I have an appointment with the Chancellor. He has ordered twenty copies of testing sheets."
"I wasn't trying to see the answers, Sir," said Ian, finding the box of paper.
"Irrelevant, lad. These are test sheets for the professors."
Ian tried shoving his fingers between the cardboard and ream of paper with the self-feeding margins, but to no avail. "Professors should be tested, too," said Ian, still struggling to get his hands in the box.
"Teachers, unlike students, are tested every day, Ian. But I get your meaning. And it just so happens that these tests will be a bit more academically telling."
There was a tearing sound, and Ian held up a long ribbon of cardboard he had shorn away from the top portion of the box as if he were peeling an apple.
The professor sighed. "Just toss it into the flux chamber. The rodents will have it processed in no time. They seem to like chewing on stuff like that."
Ian reached out and let the cardboard drop into a large dry aquarium where hamsters and mice were doing their daily exercise routines on wheels attached to wire brushes and copper squares. The strip of cardboard fell into a pile of recently minced fluff. Above the aquarium was a readout for Magnetic charge, and the meter was currently fluttering at the halfway mark.
"Well, I got to the paper," said Ian. He licked his thumb and was carefully folding out the twenty needed sheets the professor had requested.
"Good," said Mr. Trendall, adjusting his glasses and then plucking away again when he was sure Ian was headed over to load the feed.
At the tray, Ian said, "Testing the teachers will help to keep them proficient."
"Well," said Trendall, "you know, with all these new arts going into the curriculum, the principal wants to ensure that we have competent heads of class."
Ian tried to stifle a laugh.
"I heard that," said Trendall.
"Sorry, Sir." Ian fed the first page into the Dot Matrix until the wheel grabbed the perforated margins. He loved this part. Behind the glass of the Matrix was a little city. Well, it looked a lot like a city to him. There were tiny clear tunnels that bugs could navigate their way through and squares where bunches of the same kind of bug congregated to get at certain sugars and pheromones injected via other tiny vacuum channels connected to the keys on the professor's keyboard. Right now, Ian was particularly interested in the earwigs lined up under a rubber roller device. At least a hundred were piled atop one another, reaching up with their clawed backsides for some treat being directed by the professor's inputs.
The professor struck a final key in triumph and the paper continued to feed.
"You know, Professor," said Ian, standing up and joining him to watch the Dot Matrix work its non-magic. "I understand the principle," then he reconsidered and said, "the science, I mean. But wouldn't producing a test sheet with magic be easier?"
"Ah!" said Trendall, "but what would keep them from cheating? These are old dogs, Ian. Young bucks like you might think using a little disappearing, re-appearing ink is a new tactic in ducking the omnibus, but to a body of Druids, Alchemists, and Witches, that's child's play!"
The ants were running along the range of tubes inside the InternalBugManager, delivering nodes of sugar to a clear wet straw leading down to a y-joint that connected the IBM to the Dot Matrix, where two horned beetles were plowing their way to where a drop of the liquid was forming near where the earwigs had their upturned pincers. A rubber roller was braced between the two beetles and was going to be putting pressure on the earwigs quite soon.
"It's the smell," said Trendall, pointing to the paper feeding beneath where the earwigs were spewing an inky mess into the press. "Can't magically fool the olfactory senses."
Ian's face curled up as he watched the paper make its way through the imprinter and onto the output tray. The horned beetles began their march back up the slope, and the earwigs began to skitter over and under one another until they'd determined the correct direction was whichever direction food might be found. Up another channel they went along the chip.
"Yeah," said Trendall, holding up the line of freshly printed scantrons by the first page, "if it don't stink, it ain't ink, I'll say!"
Ian dared a whiff, but Trendall stiff-armed him. "Ah, no lad! Not while it's this fresh. You'll lose your lunch!"
"Well, I haven't had lunch yet, Sir," said Ian, watching the mice who had taken their own break and were now munching pertly at the cardboard strip. The level on the magnometer was quivering at low.
"Well, do as you please," said Trendall. "There's some cheese in the fridge. Was meant for the rodents, but they seem most content at the moment. Growing boy's gotta eat." Then he fastened a clothespin to his nose, gathered up the stack of scantrons—properly this time—and turned for the door.
Ian stood in the relative silence of the laboratory. Other than the gerbils munching away, there was only the low buzz of bees coming from the IBM, telling him it was currently on and idling. If the off switch were thrown, smoke would fill the chamber, and the hive mind would fall silent. With no honey production, there was no sugar to drive the carnal desires of the other organisms driving the machine.
He watched the magnometer quiver and then took out the giant tome titled Unseen Forces. He opened it halfway, instinctively landing on the page he'd left off at on multiple occasions and ran his finger down the columns of text until he found it.
Like attracts like... The two major unseen forces in Rootworld were magic and magnetism. Ian was still determined to know which was opposing the downward force, which was also an obvious unseen candidate, but that could wait for another class. The main thing he had been brainstorming was this like attracts like rule. The same sides of magnets attracted one another, as did like magic. It was why magic was most powerful when conjured by groups of all-male wizards or conversely nullified by large groups of female witches. Fire was best fought with fire, water with water, etc. Basic conjuring: he had at least known that much.
Hmm. Perhaps there was something in common between him and Peggy? He looked up at the magnometer which had now gone dark and then shook his head. He realized that he'd been absently folding the page into one of Tess's triangles. Feet on the ground, Ian, he reminded himself. Then he got up and went over to where the mice were preening themselves after a much-needed repose. Beyond the wheels, the wire brushes, and the copper contacts, was the inner wall of the IBM's enclosure. Two tubes led up to the magnometer, concealing their inner workings.
Ian went to the fridge and got the wedge of cheese from within while the mice finished up with their baths. Then he walked back over and nibbled at it while they climbed back on the wheels and started up again. One stopped briefly and looked up at him menacingly. When the magnometer began emitting a faint orange glow, Ian stopped mid-bite and leaned in for a closer look at the brushes and contacts. Nothing really telling about the process, but then he remembered the folded page in his book and glanced over at the triangle. Perhaps, he thought. Yes. Now the magnometer was flashing nicely again.
Outside, thunder clapped and the sconces in the room all guttered. Ha, he thought. Maybe the Poindexters would be caught out in the rain during practice. Ian picked up the book with the folded page and turned it back and forth. He scratched his chin then put it back down, going over to the fireplace, which lay dormant but was well equipped with all the normal hardware.
He looked down at his wool britches. A patchwork of other old garments, but mostly new wool from this season. He thought of the rats running on that wheel and the copper brushes... Below his feet was the customary bearskin rug. He began to scratch. Those mice run so vigorously. He scratched faster and started dancing his feet in the fur. The mice were still spinning away, and so did he. He saw the magnometer finally glowing a constant orange, which meant it was fully charged, and he stopped. Then he reached his finger out nervously for the iron poker.
"POP!"
The thick bright blue arc touched his finger painfully in accordance with another loud crack of thunder, and all the sconces dropped dead. For a moment, Ian thought the fires wouldn't start again. He was standing there looking at his finger but could see no mark. He sucked on it. Then realized he could still see. It was the orange glow of the magnometer that kept the room alight, as there were no windows in this lab. He was well aware that a lightning strike could interfere with stationary magic but was intrigued that whatever magic the mice were generating had been immune.
Slowly, the sconces began to light back up, one at a time.
Ian started scratching his wool trousers again until his hair started standing on end. He touched the iron poker, bracing himself for the magic outage, but it didn't happen. Yes, he got the blue arc and the POP, but the sconces continued to burn.
He scratched his head in thought, then carefully moved off the bearskin rug, not wanting to endure another jolt of energy.
Energy, he thought.