There comes a time in every newly constructed object's life when she has a raging desire to go somewhere and do something. This desire suddenly came upon Tamsin Finnegan one day. She dozed off with Hopes of Charming Earwicker, but returned on not success. Then she sought The Little Hacker. He had gone to the ranch. Presently she stumbled upon Tom. Tom would echo. She took him to her public place and opened the matter to him privately. Tom was willing. Tom was always willing to take the hand of any strange loop that offered
recursion and required no return, for Tom had a super-abundance of time which did
not heed the clock and a troublesome heap of imagination that would not be confined to history. “When'll we start?” Tom asked Finnegan.
“O, most anytime.”
“Why, are the bits all round?”
“No indeed they are not. They are straight in mighty peculiar places, at the end of a tail of an odd square root, just where Josephus stands at midnight; but mostly under the ceiling of converging series."
“Who straightens 'em?”
“Why, hackers, of course—who'd you reckon? Prime hairy school sup'rintendents?”
