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Dorothy’s office, bright and efficiently functional, had a glass wall overlooking Central Park. A comfy rolling chair sat in front of a metal, utilitarian desk. Dual wide-screen monitors sat on the desk. Bookcases with math journals and textbooks lined the walls. The orderly bookcases had room to spare, which gave the correct impression that the occupant had just moved from a cramped office into this roomy one. A coat closet with slatted doors near the office door, a table with four chairs near the window, and three filing cabinets in a gap between bookcases completed the decor.
Dorothy sat on the floor of the coat closet with the doors closed, humming and smiling. She typed on the laptop on her lap, “You’re going to need a bunch of MAGEs to project a field and image that big.”
A response came back from Tibet, “For the image yes. But we don’t need a hard field except to protect the MAGEs, and to hold them in position throughout the body. And around the mouth and stomach of course.”
A soft knock sounded on the closet door. Dorothy recognized the Colonel’s knock and said, “Come in.”
He poked his head into the closet. “I’m going to the cafeteria. Can I get you anything for lunch?”
Dorothy thought a moment. “A chicken salad sandwich would be nice. And iced tea. Thanks very much.”
“Will do.” He gently closed the door.
Dorothy hummed and typed, “That makes sense. Please take lots of video. You’re inspired, and inspiring.”
“We will. And thank you, honored teacher.”
It is not a coincidence that, when it comes to discipline, attention span, and ingenuity, computer programmers have a lot in common with Tibetan monks. Tibetan monks are among the best programmers in the world. Because Boingy knew this, he hired as many of them as he could find for software development and hardware production.
Boingy also knew that the monks, for all their Buddhist gentleness, held a Godzilla-scale grudge against China for occupying and annexing Tibet. If being first to deploy the most advanced gravity technology motivated the monks to work harder than anyone else in the world ... well ... Boingy wasn’t going to complain.
In the cafeteria, Boingy approached the Colonel. “Colonel, I don’t mean to pry ... well ... yes, I do mean to pry. Is Dorothy all right? I hear conflicting reports.”
The Colonel said, “I’ve never seen her happier. Her fear is gone. She’s just a little ... eccentric. Her therapist says that, for now, she’s a militant introvert. That’s a lot better than paranoia.”
Boingy looked at the creases at the corners of the Colonel’s eyes. “This must be rough on you.”
The Colonel shrugged. “She’s not ready for a relationship yet. Maybe someday. For now, she’s okay with quiet company. That works for me.”
Boingy said, “I’ll have a pillow made for her to use in the closet. I know a guy who can do great things with memory foam. It’ll do until I can get someone to program a gravity chair that will conform to her ... eccentricity. And maybe some homey drapes for her office windows, so she feels more comfortable outside the closet.”
Boingy thought. Four people so damaged they could only communicate with each other via the internet. Yet they changed the world. They handed me the adventure of ten lifetimes. Have I done everything I can for them? For three of them, I think so. But I don’t know what to do for Dorothy. She started it all. She’s earned more than a pillow.
The Colonel nodded. “Good ideas. Speaking of prying, I’ve been wondering for a while: how did you get your nickname?”
Boingy grinned, “Ah, that was given to me by my mother. In elementary school I was a bit hyperactive. One day after school I was in the den watching a cartoon show called Animaniacs. I was laughing and bouncing on the couch and shouting, ‘Boingy, boingy, boingy’, imitating one of the characters. Mom called me from the kitchen, ’Do you want a sandwich, Boingy?’ And the name stuck.”