Compasssmith v. Con Artist

The Compasssmith walks across the field and watches the workmen. They seem to disappear within their work as the Compasssmith approaches, either behind quickly erected walls or within rust-spotted toolboxes. In this way, by happenstance, their faces are continuously kept from view.

Pepple sits in his adorondack chair, smoking and reading. Though the Compasssmith's presence is obvious, neither he nor the workmen acknowledge it. They continue working, and reading. Finally, after several minutes of silence, the Compasssmith asks the title of Pepple's book.

Pepple's silent for a moment as he finishes the paragraph, then gently inserts a slender yarrow stick between the pages, closes the book, and turns to the Compasssmith. The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim, he says plainly.

Overview of The Approach to Al-Mu'tasim and its creation, by Allen B. Ruch:

Written by a lawyer from Bombay, this is an unusual novel that combines Islamic mysticism and allegory with a strange sort of detective story. Originally a cheaply published book in Bombay, the popularity of the work brought almost immediate fame to its author. In essence, it is the story of a law student in Bombay who surprisingly commits a murder, and is subsequently drawn into the lower strata of Indian society. There he becomes obsessed with finding a "perfect man," Al-Mu'tasim, by analyzing the imprint he leaves in others. This book -- the original version -- is extremely rare, and has never been reprinted beyond the original 4,000 copies.

So a who-dunnit, then, nods the Compasssmith.

Pepple gives a perfunctory smile. He returns to the book.

The Compasssmith rocks on the soles of his feet, hands in his pockets. He watches the workers work. He feels the cool breeze against his back. Then, though feeling awful over the deaths he's caused and wanting nothing more than to talk - not of the deaths, but of anything but the deaths, to take his mind from the guilt - he makes to leave. I'm taking off to wait by the oak, he tells everyone. No one responds. He returns to the oak.

That's the point, buddy, says the Con Artist later, at the oak. - that's the point. If you want something in life, you've got to either take it or make it. Now this thing here - this beautiful piece of machinery - I think the others were leading you wrong. This has gotta be original. Did you ever read about anything like this?

The Compasssmith admits he hasn't.

Neither have I, says the Con Artist. And my friend let me tell you right upfront: I'm a very well-read man. If I haven't read it, chances are it's new.

The Con Artists looks again at the South Pointing Marmot.

Pfft, he laughs. Just look at it. Brilliant!

The Compasssmith isn't quiet convinced, but he's certainly flattered.

You know the only way to know for sure? asks the Con Artist. You've got to ask that weird caretaker. You said he's a big reader, too, right? Maybe he has an encyclopedia in that shack, who knows?

The Compasssmith regards the idea. He thinks its pretty good one. So the Con Artist tells him to march over to the cabin and ask Pepple.

I think I will, says the Compasssmith.

Great! says the Con Artist.

When the Compasssmith is gone, the Con Artist puts six blank shell casings in one pistol. The Compasssmith returns. He seems resigned.

He said that the idea's been around since the Yellow Emperor Huang Di.

And he showed you that in writing, asks the Con Artist.

Encyclopedia Brittanica Eleventh Edition.

Well, says the Con Artist, handing him the pistol loaded with blanks, I hope you have better luck in the duel.

They raise their guns, one gun goes off.

Compasssmith v. Computer Programmer

The Compasssmith wakes to hammering. He looks north. Across the field he sees two men at work on the caretakers' hideous shack. The two men are dressed in overalls. They wear tool belts. Pepple sits in a low adirondack chair nearby, reading. The morning is crisp and clear and bright.

Their work is the plank-by-plank creation of a new shack using all the materials of the previous shack.

Whereas the old shack was of a redundant, asymetrical, hideous nature, the new shack already has signs of being less a shack than a hut or cabin thanks to precise lays, a raised foundation, and the economic use of supplies; it seems smaller, better.

The field around them is light green with rows of budding corn. In the far distance the Farmer drives his tractor, tilling the corn against weeds.

Altogether, it's a fine bucolic scene.

The Computer Programmer is shy even by the standards of computer programmers. She's dressed in drab clothes, in a plain sweatshirt, and an unflattering ankle-length flower print skirt that makes her already narrow hips seem infinitely narrow, nearly one-dimensional. It seems less a skirt, in other words, than a tube of fabric pinched atop between invisible thumb and forefinger, and from out of the bottom the nervous shuffle of sneakers. She wears her hair over her face.

Each question the Compasssmith poses is met with the same answer.

CS: Did it take you long to get here?
CP: I don't know.
CS: Is the city still shut down, and the towns?
CP: I - I don't know.
CS: Were there more deaths? More riots?
CP: I just don't know.

So they stand. They wait. Finally, that evening, when the workers leave, and

They raise their guns, their guns go off.

Compasssmith v. Composer

The body of the College President is stripped of jewelry, of which there is a good amount. The Compasssmith watches. He asks whether her possessions will be returned to her family. Pepple takes a long drag from the cigarette dangling from his mouth and blows smoke through his nose.

By contract, he says, it's mine.

This causes consternation on the part of the Compasssmith. He feels he should have left his South Pointing Marmot back at his workshop.

Why does every compasssmith have the exact same fear? asks Pepple, fingering through the College President's purse. Always fear that the world will suddenly demagnetize, putting them out of work.

It seemed like a reasonable fear at the time, admits the Compasssmith.

Pepple takes out a folded set of bills from her purse. He pockets the money.

If it's not on you when you fall, he clarifies, it's not subject to my immediate possession.

The Compasssmith nods.

When the composer arrives, he wakes the Compasssmith, who lies sleeping in the shadow of his machine. The Compasssmith starts.

Shh, hisses the Composer. Listen.

The Compasssmith listens. He doesn't hear anything particular.

The crickets. An atonal loop, the Composer whispers.

The two men listen to the crickets - which, admittedly, the Compasssmith hadn't heard previous to the Composer's command - for several minutes. One tone, one pitch - though with flickers of intensity, as some crickets ended their call, and others began.

Gentle Terpsichore - eternal, ubiquitous, the Composer sighs, his eyes shut.

Several yards a way a small finch alights, skewers several crickets, shakes them down its throat, then cocks its head - and flies away.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.