Welcome to Percotran -Part XXXVIII

By Richard Davidson

“With all of the beautiful workmanship throughout the company, you’d think they could’ve done better than this,” mused Commander Richter, hanging from iron handcuffs, against a stone wall, as rats scurried through the mud and filth and bits of straw on the floor.

“They’re messin’ with TIME again,” came the muffled shout of a strange, hairy man tied firmly to a big wooden post, “somebody make ‘em STOP IT!”

“And who would that be, dear boy?” asked Richter.

The strange, hairy man who was tied firmly to a big wooden post just kept raving, and mumbling, making no sense at all.

“I’ve been trying to talk to him for days,” volunteered Richter.

“We know, we know,” answered an exasperated Ted, hanging on the wall next to him, “and we keep telling you that prisoner has gone insane.”

“Do you understand what insanity is?” asked Richter, who had been there and back, several times.

“It’s when people go nuts.”

“Go nuts?” Richter laughed. “I hope you’re not trying to impress me with your analytical skills. No no, dear fellow; the reason people believe that is because they’re so busy trying to perform the necessary tasks to stay ‘sane,’ that they destroy 82.745% of their brain in doing so.”

“82.745%?” asked Ted contemptuously, “and where did you arrive at THAT figure?”

“Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Worker 2567A. Psychological Philosophy was my major in TechLearn, and I’ve perfected it beyond science.”

“Beyond science?” asked Ted, “what’s beyond science?”

“Obviously, you haven’t been listening. Psychological Philosophy is beyond science now, thanks to me.”

Ted turned to 17, who may or may not have been napping.

“What’s beyond science?” asked Ted.

“I don’t know; God?” answered 17.

There was a loud clanking on what was most likely a stairway, and then the door to the putrid room creaked open.

“Records Handler 17D,” shouted a burly, shapeless man in the darkness.

“Ah, yes?” croaked 17, his mouth drier than Weltovian sandpaper.

“You will now answer to Federal Prisoner 35,” came the sullen voice.

“You came down here to tell me that?” 17 was incredulous.

“Federal Prisoner 35?” asked Ted, in amazement, “you’re only up to 35?”

“With you two, we’re up to 37,” said the shapeless man, walking closer.

“Which am I, 36, or 37?” asked Ted.

“Who cares?” asked the man, even more sullenly, as he got close enough to where Ted should have been able to make out his features, but couldn’t.

The shapeless man reached up, and unlocked 17’s manacles, allowing him to drop to the floor with a “thud.”

“Thanks,” said 17, as a large rat scampered across his face.

“Who chose this theme?” asked Richter, “I mean, the Medieval thing is all right, but what’s with the rats?”

“Shut up,” said the shapeless man.

“Frank?” said Richter, unable to contain his surprise.

“I said shut up,” said the shapeless man, who may or may not have been named Frank.

“You know him?” asked Ted, amazed.

“Maybe,” answered Richter, as the shapeless man, who may or may not have been named Frank cracked a whip twice, cutting a pretty good slice into each of the two men.

“I think you two will keep quiet now, that’s what I think,” said the shapeless man.

“And you’re coming with me,” he said, grabbing 17 by the back of the neck, and pushing him towards the door.

“Hang in there guys,” said 17, not intending to make a joke.

“Was he trying to be funny?” asked Ted, genuinely perturbed.

17 couldn’t hear Richter’s answer, as the shapeless man pushed him up the stairs, and the iron door slammed behind them.

“Do you have to push me along by my neck like that? I’m not going to resist, with these shackles around my ankles,” 17 complained.

“I get a lot of enjoyment out of this,” answered the man, sounding as if he were smiling.

The stairwell was spiral, all stone, with torches placed not nearly close enough together. They were uneven, as if thousands of years old, and 17 tripped on about every third one. They climbed for about 20 minutes or so, and 17 was gasping for air.

“You still enjoying this?” he asked, feeling more pain than he had in quite some time, perhaps ever.

“I.... love.... my..... work....” panted the shapeless man.

They came to a small doorway, and stopped. The shapeless man dug the key out of his pocket, and opened it. Light came in, and 17 thought he would finally get to see what this man looked like, but to his surprise, even where there were shafts of light, the man appeared to be in the dark. 17 felt a chill up his spine.

“Is your name Frank, or not?” asked 17.

“You’ll never know,” answered the man, as he pushed 17 through the door, and slammed it shut.

17 found himself in a beautiful marble hallway, with gold leaf running the length of it, in two, 1/2 inch accents on each side. Tall, arched windows filled the room with sunlight, and 17 winced in pain as it hit his eyes.

“Records Handler 17D,” said a voice. 17 had no chance of seeing who it was, as they were backlit, and he couldn’t even look that way if he squinted.

“I thought I was supposed to be Federal Prisoner 35,” said 17.

“Whatever you like,” said the voice, which sounded like it could be female.

“Call me 17,” said 17.

“Your eyes will adjust. Follow me.”

“I can’t even SEE you.”

“Then follow my voice,” said the voice, and began reciting math poems.

17 had always hated math poems, but the voice he was following was a very nice voice, and the acoustics of the marble hallway were impressive, and he found himself being almost enchanted by something that usually turned his stomach.

His eyes were adjusting slowly. He could see that the voice did belong to a woman, and there was a chance she was even pretty. She stopped abruptly, and 17 almost bumped into her.

“Come into my office,” she said invitingly.

17 could see pretty well, and she definitely was pretty. Very pretty.

“This is your office?” 17 was confused.

On the huge oak double doors it said in 12 inch raised Kremlon letters, “President and Chief Executive Officer, Percotran International,” embossed over the Great Seal of Percotran.

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