The two of us
Are half of a whole
With many fifths
Or so I’ve been told
With many ones
An eight and a nine
But by sixteen
Two ones were mine
Who am I?
–not Dan Kilian, it’s someone else!
Brother John Kilian is running for State Representative in Connecticut’s 20th Assembly District. This time he’s with the Connecticut for Lieberman party, as it was not in use. Turning a device of political expediency into a movement!
You can follow John’s other thoughts right here.
While researching for his job recently Steve Kilian came across a tech website describing standards for data center rack layout. “Nobody on Earth should read this stuff,” says Steve. In it, he discovered a cool term that could be used as the title of a high-tech mystery/thriller. The term refers to optical cable that is unused: dark fiber.
“The funny thing is, I’m getting low-level readings from the dark fibers. There’s even some old un-energized copper back here – but it’s also giving me some funny readings.”
“Copper? I’m surprised the scrappers didn’t tear it out long ago.”
“They would have if they’d known about it. This whole section of the datacenter isn’t logged. This goes back to Unix days – they must never have incorporated it into the field manual. Anyway, the whole thing is sparking along at a tenth of a percent of capacity.”
“That’s what I thought – maybe some shielding went and it was spitting back environmental interference. But no, it’s coherent.”
“So what’s being sent?”
“That’s the funny thing. It’s not getting recognized. But there’s repeated chunks of code, and syntax. It’s meaningful, just not to me.”
Doctor Voorslanger cleared his throat and asked, “Can I see that data?”
“Sure. But we’ve run it through every diagnostic and translator that’s out there.”
“Hmm. You’re not going to get any hits. This is a bit older than what you’re used to.”
“But it’s active data – this isn’t archival. This is being produced right now.”
“That’s what I feared. You need to get your team out of here.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What we need to do is clear out these cages for the new install. This is an important contract –”
“Never mind your contract, you fool! You have no conception of what you’re dealing with. This is the work of one of the most gifted systems engineers I’ve ever come across. It has Chesterton written all over it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not ‘what.’ ‘Who.’ Laurence Chesterton, born La Jolla, California, in 1946. Hired by IBM in 1956, yes, at the age of 10. Pivotal in the development of early programming languages as well as several hardware patents. A genius. Exercised his stock options and dropped out of sight in 1968.”
“And you know this from some gibberish coming through old wires?”
“”Not gibberish. Code. A variant of Fortran 66, to be precise. Chesterton’s variant, which was never published.”
Nearby, the sound of metal scraping on metal rang out through the warehouse. Doctor Voorslanger sighed. “Maybe you were right. Maybe it’s not ‘who.’ Maybe it is ‘what.'” The metallic sound resolved into a rhythmic pounding. Soon they recognized the pattern of footsteps. They were approaching at an alarming rate.
Saturday, September 25 is the new Moneyday. The goal of Moneyday is to create a special one-off gift giving holiday designed to coincide with the waning stimulus package out of Washington. We feel it is our patriotic duty and in our own self interest to try to stimulate on a grass-roots level on the demand side. We urge you to go out and buy something now, something special you would not ordinarily buy, perhaps a band’s CD or a T-shirt or something. Give a loved one some money to spend, or take some money from a loved one, and spend it. There will be a delay in finding out if this did in fact help our economy. It’s also somehow supposed to help market a lovely band: The Ks. Moneyday had another name, but we’re tamping down on that because while it was an innocent joke, you never know what some nutjob will seize upon as a message from the internet, and we want to help, not hurt. Once things pick up, we will become Piggy Bank Day, a day to focus on savings. Until then, let the boom resume. Consume!
You should friend it on Facebook here.
A spectacularly eerie exhibition of pickled animals opened to the public at Berlin’s Natural History Museum on Tuesday. The collection contains fish, mammals, spiders and reptiles preserved in alcohol, some of them over 200 years old. Thousands of jars containing fish, mammals, worms, crabs, spiders and reptiles preserved in alcohol have gone on show in Berlin in a spectacular new exhibition at the city’s Natural History Museum….”For me the biggest gift is that only six jars broke during the move,” Peter Bartsch, the curator of the collection, told Bild newspaper.
“Only” six jars broke? Six horrors from the past unleashed on a naïve society, with no practitioners of the arts that are necessary to defeat these protean monstrosities? Well, no practitioner save one . . . Doctor Voorslanger: Natural Philosopher, Mesmerist, and Monster-Hunter! That he has been missing for fifty years is an obstacle, yes, but the fate of unified Berlin hinges on our finding him! Quickly, fuel the airship. We’re off to Tibet.
Yes, Spacklowe, Tibet. Don’t you see the mandala under all of this dust?
I thought those were just footprints.
That is why you fuel the airship and I set the course, Spacklowe. One more thing . . .
Pack my dueling pistols. There may be trouble on the other end of this trip.
Yes. Voorslanger and I didn’t part on the best of terms, you see. A bit of a dust-up at Northchester Academy over a young lady.
You went to school together? They allowed Germans into proper British preparatories?
Before he was expelled from the country for stealing forbidden texts from poor Professor MacAllister’s private library, yes . . . too bad the old fellow went mad.
But all of this was decades ago. Surely he’s moved on from some adolescent intrigue.
Ah, Spacklowe. When you’re talking about Victoria Stenwyck there is no “moving on.”
You mean Lady Stenwyck, who disappeared last week?
The same. Come then, I want to be making revolutions for the Orient by seven o’clock this evening. But first. . . .