“I’m proud to say that the design process had full investment in the sociocultural impact of modern university construction,” said SMU professor of engineering and urban planning Veronica Chatham. “Earthmother Hall is fully conscious of the implications of its layout in social justice terms, as well–something that less progressive engineers often overlook entirely. For instance, it’s oriented with windows facing south-southeast–toward the poorest section of town–and north-northeast–toward the campus wetlands endangered by new stadium construction.”

“My students and I were less interested in the engineering details of the building’s and construction than their implications for the wider planet,” Chatham continued. “I’m proud to say that all our construction personnel earned a living wage, and that all components were sustainably sourced even though it tripled the cost of certain aspects of fabrication. Earthmother Hall is designed to biodegrade naturally over the course of its useful lifespan and leave ruins that will be useful a a habitat for endangered local animals.”

Earthmother Hall, formerly Wildermann Hall, was constructed by Dr. Chatham and a team of her students with a bequest from the late Gloria Wildermann, widow of engineering professor George Wildermann. The ribbon cutting, attended by many Southern Michigan University luminaries, was held early last year. “We had the land blessed by a representative of the Ojibwone nation, who are the rightful owners of the land, and a geomancer from Chungking who is among the rightful owners of the land on the opposite side of the planet,” said Chatham of the ceremony.

When asked about the various allegations that had been raised about the structure before its collapse last week–student and faculty complains of subsidence, leaks, blinding light at sunrise and sunset, and an internal layout with no bathrooms above the second floor–Dr. Chatham was dismissive. “Unfortunately, reactionary thinkers are always an impediment to progressive design,” she remarked. “After all, we created conditions of fear and uncertainty that most of our privileged white students and instructors have never felt but which afflicts fully two-thirds of the world’s population.”

The islanders, due to their isolation, had developed a pantheon quite distinct from their nearest neighbors and quite unlike anything else in Polynesia. Unfortunately, the last full-blooded islander had died in 1937 and social pressures had prevented the handing down of the traditional tales by any of his kinfolk.

An anthropologist had interviewed the islander, known as Georges, the year before he died and recorded the exchange on acetates. For better or worse, though, Georges was an inveterate prankster and Dr. Hewes was utterly credulous. So, while scholars agree that the resulting cosmology is a mixture of real stories passed down through generations and Georges having fun at the expense of his guest, no one is sure which is which.

Roakoanton, the god of fire embers raked in a counterclockwise direction, is probably made up. Likewise Koantuatuana, who Georges claimed was a powerful goddess that only aided women who had lost great-uncles to shark attacks. But what of Rotpota, said to be the essential god of outrigger canoe lashings? Or Koatpotaea, a spirit Georges said carefully controlled the islanders’ shellfish harvest in line with her own inscrutable motives?

No wonder, then, that relatives say that when Georges died–shortly after the first copies of Hewes’ book reached him–he died laughing.

Tellytaxt Gallery, 115 E. Main, 11:47am.

“Tellytaxt? What’s that mean–name of the founder?”

“Oh no, heavens no. The gallery was founded by Emile Delecroix and Pierre Richat in 1948. They came up with the name as a nonce word that was free of overt philological baggage.”

“Doesn’t sound baggage-free to me. What would you say, Smitty? A tax on limey televisions?”

“A text on Telly Savalas.”

“Maybe a jelly used in taxidermy.”

“That’s quite enough, officers. Do you want to see the break-in, or are you content to play your childish games with concepts you don’t fully grasp?”

“What’s so hard to believe about a wax artist’s model taking on a life of its own?” asked the Fáidh.

“You’re not really asking me that, are you?” said Jennie. “This may be one of the more mystical places on the planet, but still have an ATM card and a cell phone in my pocket. I refuse to believe in a world that allows those and magical wax at the same time.”

“You’d do well not to think that way. I once met a being, for example, made entirely out of copper pennies tossed by well-meaning children into wishing wells,” the Fáidh said. “It walked the countryside attempting to make whatever small wishes it could come true and sustaining itself on that positive energy.”

“Let me guess: that was in the 1960s, after a party.”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?” said the Fáidh. “Is the fact that I met an ur-dove that could gather leaves about it to form a body any less wonderful because I saw it after hearing Hendrix at the Isle of Wight Festival?”

“Instruc?”

“Not Instruc. INSTRUC. You need to say it with all capital letters. But yes, they’re watching us. Watching you, watching me, watching everyone.”

“Who is Instruc, and how do you know they’re watching?”

“INSTRUC! It’s INSTRUC! How many times do I have to tell you? They’re smart. They’ve got a copy of every camera feed in the world, spy satellites disguised as weather balloons, and they give everyone subdermal RFID tags disguised as flu shots to shoot passive tracking rays at us!”

“Uh-huh. And why would they do that?”

“They want to make us like them, don’t you see? It’s right there in their title. INSTRUC. They want to watch us so they can INSTRUCt us, make us more and more like their alien overlords until the invasion force is ready to strike.”

“Now don’t take this the wrong way, or think that it’s in any shape or form related to what you’ve just been telling me, but I think we should get you to a psychologist.”

The spaghetti spellbinder, or noodlemancer, is an arcane knack that manifests itself primarily among foodservice workers, short-order cooks, and gourmands. Repeated and extensive contact with noodles and noodle-like substances results in the ability to manipulate, levitate, and eventually command filaments of processed starch.

Most noodlemancers use their knack for creating gravity-defying dishes or fine-tuning the consistency of their pasta for the perfect al dente feel. The “dancing rigatoni” from Shaper’s Row in Naples and the “thousand dragon lo mein” found throughout Taipei are perhaps the best-known examples of this.

There are fewer records of noodlemancy being used for offensive or defensive purposes, but such cases do exist. A 15th-century Tuscan noodlemancer once used his knack to strangle patrons and steal their valuables; oral tradition holds that he was defeated by a rival spaghetti spellbinder in an epic duel involving nearly a ton of fresh lasagna. The Despot of Dalmatia, who had risen to power from humble origins, reportedly used noodlemancy to foil coup attempts by surrounding himself with a whirling shield of linguini.

The legendary Antonio Calvini, long revered as a master of nearly every known magical knack, reportedly used noodlemancy as a tool of assassination, causing wealthy targets to choke on their dinners. At his execution in 1899, noodles were among the 1,770 items carefully removed from a one-mile radius to prevent their use in an escape attempt.

“Well,” Jennie sighed, “they sent us ‘Tigger’ again.”

There was no surer indication of the low esteem with which the administration regarded the women’s field hockey team than their transportation. State law and Title IX demanded that it be a vehicle from the school motor pool, and the team was too large to be accommodated in even the largest van.

So a bus it was, the same bus that had once transported the football team back when the school had played in Division II. The motor, running gear, and just about everything else hadn’t been serviced since the 1970’s, but the real problem was the suspension. It was incredibly loose and wobbly, meaning that the slightest road bumps were magnified into a terrifying roller-coaster ride in the back. The movement was so great that anyone trying to sleep with their head against a window would inevitably get a sharp crack on the skull for their trouble.

And that’s why the girls called it ‘Tigger’–that damn bus loved to bounce.

Getting one-time broadcasting rights was a whole different kettle of fish from getting home viewing rights, especially when the original agreement was inked in the 80’s when digital downloads weren’t even a spark in Steve Jobs’ eye.

“Episode 2×13, ‘Heavy Medals,'” Karrie said, keying the safety copy up on the movieola. “Original airdate, March 15 1987.”

Gary flipped through the cue sheets. “Looks like only two songs for this one. One’s just in the end credits.”

Karrie fast-forwarded. End credits songs were always the easiest to swap out, as they didn’t usually impact the story in any meaningful way. “What do you think? Send it to the house composer for an original piece?”

“Nah, just drop in the instrumental theme he wrote for 1×21,” said Gary. “The fans will bitch, but they’ll still buy the DVD. Next is ‘Through the Window’ by Power of Silicon.”

Karrie keyed through the episode, script in hand. “It’s mentioned in dialogue at 2:27, 8:17, 13:00, 14:58, 20:09, and 22:11.” She squinted. “Each of those is actually 1-2 mentions apiece, very close together.”

“Holy shit,” Gary said.

“They built the whole episode around the song. It’s about Carla coming to terms with her hatred of electronic elements in music and ends with Ferg swapping one of her reels, on-air, so she accidentally plays a bunch of hardcore techno. That piece, thank god, was by the house composer.” Karrie rubbed her forehead. “How much does Power of Silicon want for home viewing rights?”

Gary consulted his sheet. “1.2 million dollars plus residuals. Apparently the former lead singer’s getting a divorce.”

His name was Sidney, but everybody called him Sid Viscous on account of his weight. On those rare occasions when we saw him walking the halls, he roiled and bobbed like the high seas in a storm. It’s anyone’s guess how he made it in and out of the building, since he always seemed to be there before everyone else, few ever saw him leave, and the car in his spot was a compact.

The best description of his place in the department would be “sage.” He never taught, but ran the independent study program like a personal fiefdom and knew the university’s bureaucracy in and out. If you needed to squeeze out one more credit hour, tiptoe around a rule or two, deal with a troublemaker off the books, or something like that, Sid Viscous was your man.

He demanded a price, of course. Sometimes it was as easy as owing him a favor; the vast network of favors owed him probably went a long way toward explaining why his workload was so light. Other times the price was more dear; Sid was a collector of everything from 80’s hair metal on vinyl to anime figures only available as pachinko prizes. More than one ABD supplicant had come to hm only to be sent away looking for a trinket like a first edition copy of a Franco-Belgian comic book in exchange for Sid’s largesse.

“You have to be careful,” Frank said, taking a pull from his filterless government-issue cigarette. “Not just about teaching your ‘assistants’ so much that the bosses fire you in favor of sixteen young turks from Canton.”

“I’m a black box,” Hil assured him. She stirred her tea, shielding it from the dust kicked up by Beijing passersby with one hand. “Money in the form of malt liquor or narcotics goes in one end, and spaghetti code comes out the other.”

“Don’t put too much effort into what you do, either. Dale Johnston did just that when he designed a spambot to override CAPTCHAs. Military-grade code, experimental chess-AI algorithms, natural language simulator to embed spam in realistic-seeming comments, the works.”

“So?”

“Damn thing went rogue, started impersonating a user in newsgroups and gathering personal information from dating sites. By the time Dale pulled the plug, it had marriage offers on three continents.”

Hil could never quite tell when Frank was shitting her outright or just salting the truth with liberal amounts of bullshit for kicks and grins. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Why do you think I asked you here?” Franks said, stonefaced. “That’s why we need to talk about your e-boyfriend from ‘Portland.'”