And Now, The Amazing Electronic Brain
A.N. Of all of Rumple's persona, Weaver seemed to fit my IT guy character in this story (he's not the natty dresser that is Mr. Gold, he's got more self-confidence than the humble spinner, and he's not as devious and manipulative as our delicious Dark One).
This is a movie remix of Desk Set, an old Hepburn/Tracey vehicle with Gig Young as the third part of the romantic triangle. (Guess who gets the girl). This is a sweet story of True Love triumphing over all.
Chapter One
Someone New in the Building
Most international media companies had long since moved to New York . . . or Los Angeles . . . or even Atlanta, but ATNN news had maintained its integrity and remained in its city of origin - Asheville, North Carolina. They, of course, had branch offices in the big cities, but George Spencer, President and CEO, liked life in the clear mountain air and he had refused to move.
And, after all, it was 1964. People didn't have to meet face-to-face to do business. They could communicate perfectly well with telephones, and faxes, and even via the airwaves of television. George could continue to sit atop the Mills-Spencer Building overseeing his empire, television, radio, newspapers, and magazines.
He had embraced many changes, recognizing that if his company was to survive into the next century, they would have to change. He also knew that the people who worked for him weren't quite as keen on change as he was. They viewed change suspiciously, always ready to ask that all important question, "How does this affect me?"
Of course, this morning it didn't matter, none of this mattered. This morning, George Spencer wasn't in his office. This morning was his tee time.
But, change had arrived and was running amok, unsupervised, through his empire.
An Agent of Change
He was dressed in jeans, a clean white shirt, and a heavy black cloth jacket. He looked out of place amidst all the suits and the polished shoes of the people around him, but exuding confidence, he was able to pass through the throng of people in the lobby, making his way to the gleaming steel elevators. No one challenged him, and he rode in the whooshing silence of the brightly-lit carpeted enclosure, rising up, up to the top floor.
He stepped into the posh penthouse office, windows all around providing a sumptuous view of the mountains and the city. A bright neon green carpet covered the floor. The furniture was clear plexiglass with brass fixtures. The sofas and chairs were constructed of foam blocks and had been upholstered in eye-scalding orange and pink swirling paisleys. There was a plethora of potted plants hanging in macraméd glory scattered throughout and an untitled, demure Jackson Pollock abstract hanging on the wall. The place had been decorated to provide a retro-modern flavor, but instead rendered a cluttered, confusing atmosphere.
A pretty secretary, with lush red hair, pale skin, a casually unbuttoned blouse and a butt-caressing skirt, sat behind her clear acrylic desk and greeted him.
"Hello," she'd said pleasantly. There were three aquariums in the office and little goldfish swimming in a bowl on the woman's desk. He observed all this and shook his head.
"I'm here to see George Spencer," he told her. "I'm R. Weaver. We have an appointment."
"Oh, of course," the young woman said. "Yes, Mr. Weaver. Right. He's expecting you."
The young woman seemed a little flakey and Weaver had to wonder if she'd been hired for skills other than her secretarial abilities.
"Would you tell him that I'm here?" he asked.
She smiled at him – yes, she was quite a little beauty – but, while he could appreciate this, he had no interest in her. He'd already spent far too much time with one high-maintenance red-head – he didn't need another cluttering up his life. For that matter, he didn't need to have any woman, blonde, brunette or red-head, in his life right now.
"Well, Mr. Weaver. There's a teensy little problem," she began deferentially.
"Which is . . .?"
"Well, Mr. Spencer is very anxious to see you. He's cleared the entire morning for you, but . . . ."
"I don't understand. What's the problem?
"Well, your appointment isn't until tomorrow. You're a day early," she explained uncomfortably.
"Oh," he said surprised. "Isn't this Monday?"
"No, sir. This is Tuesday. And your appointment is for Wednesday."
Well shit. "Well, why don't you just go ahead and ring him anyway and let him know that I'm here."
The secretary seemed embarrassed. "Well, Mr. Weaver, Mr. Spencer isn't in yet." She went on to explain, "He plays golf every Tuesday morning."
He shrugged it off. Spencer's part in all this was actually rather inconsequential.
"Well, never mind. Just tell me where your . . . uh . . . research department is," he suggested. "Since I'm here, I might as well go and have a look at that."
The young woman wasn't sure. "Uhhh . . . Research? Like in Research and Reference! Oh, that would be on the third floor."
"And who's in charge there? Who do I ask for?" he asked.
"Well, that would be Ms. French." The young woman regarded him closely as he idly watched some of the fish. "Would you like me to write that down for you, sir?"
He shook his head pulling out of his momentary reverie. Instead, he reached in his jacket pocket and produced a small wire-bound notebook. He wrote in it. "No, no thank you."
He left the penthouse office. Ariel, Spencer's brighter than the average secretary reached for the phone, but before she could answer it, it rang and she took the call.
The Reference Department
At that moment, Belle French was not in her corner office on the third floor of the Mills-Spencer Building, one of the tallest in Asheville, an art deco triumph of architecture.
She was officially the head of research and reference for the company, a position that she had earned through hard work and perseverance. She had three equally brilliant and lovely women working with her, all of whom were currently sitting out in the large common area, all sitting behind stacks of books and magazines, and all sitting beside telephones. Their carpet was old and a worn drab brown. Their furniture was heavy wood, the edges of their desks smoothed by wear and age. Their chairs were mismatched. Beyond their desks were several rows of metal bookcases, crammed with books and boxes filled with periodicals. There was a hulking copier in one corner and a microfiche machine in another. The viewer was placed next to another metal bookcase which was filled floor to ceiling with neatly labeled boxes all filled with flat strips of film. There were no windows, the entire room was lit by humming fluorescent lights which cast a pale green pallor over everything. The room smelled like an exotic floral mold - a mix of the women's perfume and the layers of dust and aged paper.
Miss French was not there to hear the door to the Reference Department open. Her staff all looked up when the door opened.
The man entered, walked over to Miss French's office and peeked in. "Left-handed?" He considered. "Or ambidextrous. Humm. Probably not, so this office is all wrong for her. The light comes from the wrong direction." He looked up. "And there should be more light and this desk should be reversed," he muttered and pulled out his notebook to write something in it.
He heard the phone in the open work area outside of the office ring.
"Reference Department, Ms. Lucas." One of Belle's staff, a tall leggy brunette, answered it.
It was Ariel. "Rubes, there's a fine-looking older guy in jeans, a white shirt, black cloth jacket, coming your way, name of R. Weaver. Not sure exactly who he is, but he has an all-morning appointment with Spencer on Wednesday."
"So," Ruby glanced over at the man, easily recognizing him from Ariel's description. "tell me more."
"Oh, he's there, already, huh?"
"That's right. What else can you tell me?" Ruby asked, aware that the man was easily able to overhear her end of the phone call.
"Not entirely sure. He's some sort of big-shot consultant."
Ruby watched the man as he took out a measuring tape. He began to take measurements and write them down in his little notebook.
Another phone in the reference department rang. Ruby interrupted Ariel. "I'll have to get back with you on that. It's my other phone."
"Sure, Rubes. I'll keep you in the loop as I find out stuff."
"Same here," and Ruby deftly hung up one phone and answered the other, "Reference Department, Ruby Lucas."
She abruptly focused on the new call. "I do appreciate you calling me back. This is the Society for the Preservation of Inuit Culture?"
There was a pause and she continued, "That's right. I'm with ATNN and I'm trying to find out the truth about the reported custom of rubbing noses." She began taking notes.
Another phone rang and this time, a gorgeous blonde answered, "Reference Department, Ms. Swan."
The man was now at Emma Swan's desk, looking over the stacks of papers and books on her desk. She watched him closely as he began to measure the height of her desk.
She listened for a moment. "Yes, I did find that information for you. There are a number of poisons which leave no trace, but I have to remind you of ATNN's policy of not mentioning these on air. . . yes . . . uh huh."
Another phone rang. A sultry brunette answered it. "Reference Department. Miss Mills . . . right, I had called earlier about that black velvet strapless you had in your window."
The man was now over at Regina Mills's desk and was measuring the height of the books that were on her desk.
Ruby was continuing with her call even while she watched the man. "Well, do they rub noses or not? And, if they do, does it have any specific meaning?"
Emma also continued on her call. And she was also watching the man. "Exactly, you don't want to end up in court because someone got the idea to use the poison you used in your show to off their spouse."
"Well, that's not much of a reduction," Regina was protesting.
"Ok, I'm still not understanding. Do they or do they not rub noses?"
"Exactly. Now I'm not telling you how to write your show, but you may want to use creative license and just make up a poison, perhaps from some plant that only grows in South America."
"But I saw one that might have been identical for ten dollars less in another store downtown."
The man was now measuring the height and width of the door.
"No, I'm not a writer . . . or an attorney . . . "
"So, you're suggesting I may want to call the Explorer's Club and they might have some specific information of what cultures might do this?"
"So, you'll call me back if the price goes down any. Thanks."
"I'm glad you understand. It's the network's policy. If you have any questions, you may want to talk with Legal. Thanks."
"I appreciate your suggestions. Thanks."
The three women hung up their phones simultaneously.
Immediately Miss Lucas's phone rang again. "Reference Department. Ruby Lucas."
"Ariel here."
Still watching the man who now measuring the bookcases, Ruby answered, "Yes, how may I help you?"
"Oh, he must still be there."
"That's correct," Ruby said brightly.
"Okay, I don't know exactly who he is. Maybe he's some kind of a nut. Or he's somebody really important. Or both."
"That sounds right," Ruby said cautiously.
"All right then. Do me a favor. If he leaves your office, can you try to find out where he's going? And let me know. I called the country club and now Spencer's coming in special and he'll want to see him tout de suite."
"I'll do my best on that one," Ruby promised.
The phone rang again, "Reference. Miss Mills." After a moment, "Yes, I'll need to switch you to our college football expert." She looked over, "Emma, line two."
Emma picked up the phone. "Which NCAA football team has the longest winning streak? That would be the University of Oklahoma Sooners. They won 47 consecutive games between 1953 and 1957 . . . you bet. . . You're quite welcome," and she hung up.
The man was standing in the middle of the room looking up at the ceiling. Ruby couldn't stand it any longer. She spoke up, "Good morning."
"Oh, yeah, morning," he answered vaguely glancing at the pretty brunette. He remained looking up at the ceiling, holding out the tape measure as if trying to figure out how he could measure the height of the room.
"I'm thirty-six, twenty-three, thirty-five," Ruby told him
"What?" the man's attention had been pulled away from the ceiling.
"My measurements," Ruby told him. "You seem to be using that tape measure with reckless abandon. I thought I'd help you out."
"Oh, yes. Amusing," the man said.
"Can I help you?" Ruby asked him.
"Oh no, no. Thanks," he said continuing to look up at the ceiling. "This is an interesting place. Do you mind if I look around?"
"Not at all," Ruby told him. "Make yourself right at home."
"Thanks," and he walked back, disappearing in their jungle of metal bookcases, stuffed with books and magazines.
Regina looked after him, "What's he doing?" she whispered her question.
Emma, also whispering, asked, "Who is he?"
"Ah, he's R. Weaver. King George is going to meet with him. If he leaves here, we're supposed to tail him," Ruby shared in a hushed voice.
"Where did you get that?" Regina asked
"Ariel," Ruby answered.
The phone rang, and Ruby answered. "Hello Reference Department, Miss Lucas." Phone in hand, she swung around to the bookcases.
"Mr. Weaver," she called out to him and held up the phone, "it's for you."
He looked a bit bewildered as he came out to get the phone. "How'd you know my name?" he asked reaching for the phone.
"Didn't you mention it?" Ruby asked guilelessly.
"No," the man told her as he took the phone.
"Oh," Ruby replied and returned her attention back to her desk.
"Mr. Weaver, this is Ariel. Mr. Spencer is coming in and we've juggled his appointments for the afternoon. He will be able to see you in just a little while."
"Well, thank you, Miss . . . uh . . . Miss Ariel. I guess you should just call me when he's ready. I'll be right here in the . . . um . . . Reference Department."
"Yes, sir. I'll be back with you as soon as Mr. Spencer is available."
Mr. Weaver handed the phone back to Ruby. He then handed her one end of the tape measure. "Would you hold this end for me, please?" he asked her. Ruby stood at her desk. "I mean, hold it up against the wall, Miss . . . uh . . ."
"Miss Lucas," she introduced herself. She pointed to the other two young women in the office. "And this is Miss Swan and Miss Mills."
Mr. Weaver gave them a preoccupied nod, "How do you do?" He then turned his attention back to Ruby. "Up against that wall, please."
Ruby dutifully walked to the wall he'd indicated and stood.
He waved her to the right, "All the way over, up against the corner there."
Ruby followed his directions and stood, putting the end of the tape up to the wall. "How's this?"
"That's it," he told her looking at the number on his end of the measure and writing it down in his little notebook.
"Whatcha measuring for?" Ruby asked him. "There's not room for another desk in here."
He ignored her. "I'd wanted to see Miss French. Is she around somewhere?"
"Miss French?"
"Miss French," he pulled out his little notebook, flipped through it and found what he was looking for. "She is the head of this department, isn't she?"
Ruby nodded. "She is. She just stepped out.
"Will she be long?" the man asked.
"She's probably on the sixth floor," Ruby told him. "Conferencing with her boss. What did you want to see her about? Maybe I could help you?"
"Oh, I don't think so," the man told her.
"Well, then why don't you step in her office," Miss Lucas opened the door to the corner office. "You might be more comfortable in there – lotsa things to measure."
The man considered this option and nodded, going into the tiny cubicle. The bottom of the walls was a solid gray but above this, there were glass windows going up to the ceiling. He began measuring things in this office.
"What do you suppose he's doing all that measuring for?" Emma asked.
"Do you think we're being redecorated?" Regina asked.
"Does he look like an interior decorator to you?" Emma asked, shaking her head.
"No," Ruby observed. "He looks like a man who's just suddenly switched to Johnny Walker."
It was that moment when Belle French breezed into the office. "Morning ladies. Wait until you see what I snagged at Prêt Porter. They'll be delivering it later this morning for me."
Ruby quickly held up a finger to her lips, "Shh! Quiet!" Ruby handed her a folder. "Now, take this."
"What? Why? What's going on?" Belle asked confused.
"Take it and look busy!" Ruby urged.
"Why? What is going on here?"
"You've been in conference all morning," Ruby told her.
"I have?"
"Listen," Ruby whispered to her. "There's a strange little imp in your office. He's been waiting for you."
"What have I done?" Belle asked.
"Well, for one thing, you're late. Ariel's called and she let me know that this guy's got a big meeting coming up with King George. She's pretty sure he's important."
Belle sighed, "Really Ruby. You break me up. Thanks for trying to save my job. But I was here until after eleven last night. On the way in I stopped to see the demonstration at the Science Museum on their new electronic brain and, then I just popped into Prêt Porter for a total of five minutes." Belle might have said more, but the man had poked his head out of her office.
"Miss French?" he asked.
Belle stopped breathing for a moment. She didn't know who this character was, but she could so appreciate the snug jeans, the un-ironed, but pristine white shirt, and the black jacket which gave him just a touch of motorcycle chic. His hair was trimmed with a touch of gray and his eyes, oh goodness they looked like melted chocolate with just a hint of butterscotch.
"Miss French." She heard him call her name again.
"That's me," she called back.
He stepped out of her office and stood. "I'm R. Weaver."
"Nice to meet you," she answered. He was blocking her way into her office.
"This is a nice, cheerful office," he observed looking around. "Do you like it here?" He was finding it difficult to put his thoughts into any coherent order. This woman was not who he'd been expecting – he'd figured the head of the Reference Department would be a dumpy fifty-something-year-old with graying hair pulled into a tight bun, and a penchant for tweed – not this pert little sprite.
"Oh yes, I love it. If I didn't work here, I'd pay to get in," she said. "Are you from the Story Department, Mr. Weaver?"
"No, no, I'm not," he replied absently. "I . . . I was wondering if we could have a little talk in your office?"
"Certainly. Go right in," she told him.
He turned and stepped back into her office, "Thank you." She smelled good too.
She trailed in after him, "Sit down," she directed him to one of the two metal chairs that were set in front of the desk. It was a supremely cramped office with overstuffed bookshelves and a rather large philodendron that had taken over much of the wall space. Even though her guest was not a large man, his energy filled the room, taking up a large portion of the available oxygen.
She sat in the other chair, "Now, Mr. Weaver. What can I do for you?"
He looked at her a moment – he had a number of inappropriate ideas, all unbeckoned, come into his head – and he gave her a slight smile. "Well, I didn't want to say anything in front of your staff because every time I mention what I do, people go into panic mode."
"My goodness," Belle replied, her blue eyes widening. "What is it you do?"
He hesitated, "Well, generally I'm what is known as a methods engineer."
Belle didn't respond immediately. "Isn't that a sort of efficiency expert?" she finally spoke.
"Well, that's what they used to call it. That term is a bit obsolete now."
"Oh, forgive me. I'm so sorry. I'm an old-fashioned girl. Now," the librarian turned her bright eyes on the man. "I thought I knew everyone in this building, but I haven't seen you around before."
"Well, I've only been around a few times, just wandering about."
"Oh, so you're more of a migratory engineer," she told him.
He gave her a thin smile. "Perhaps."
"Mr. Weaver," she leaned forward, "whatever would a methods engineer be doing in my little department?"
"Well, you'd be surprised how with just a little scientific application of principles you can improve the work to man-hour relationship."
"Fascinating," she told him, smiling.
Weaver found himself getting lost in those blue eyes. All he could say was, "Uh huh."
"Forgive me," she popped up. "I try to water my baby first thing after I get in," and she picked up a watering pitcher to water her assertive philodendron – there were multiple long vines that had grown across her bookshelves, encircling the little office. He gaped at the enormity of the plant – in another couple of years, it would probably engulf the entire little office.
"Time is money, so they say," Belle continued as she stood on a stool to water the plant giving him a good view of her well-formed back-side and her legs. Her skirt was too short, he thought. If she were his girlfriend, he wouldn't want her to show off so much leg.
She turned again and sat back down. "Green thumb," she explained. "My father taught high school biology and he had a thing about botany. When he retired, he opened a florist's shop." She might have said more, but her phone rang.
NEXT: We meet Gary Gaston, Belle's gentlemen friend.
Belle gets an unexpected lunch invitation.
