George Pollock, Jr.
Newport News, Va.
GJJPJR@aol.com
The Wonderful Wizard of Big O
by
George Pollock, Jr.
There is, Roger Smith opined contentedly, no place like home …
He tapped his toes together beneath the luxurious covers of his huge bed in his
expansive room.
Three times, he tapped his toes.
No place like home …
No place like home …
No place like home …
He drifted slowly toward a dream.
Until a knocking on the bedroom door woke him like a house falling on him from out
of the sky. A pocketful of spheres, he cursed to himself. "Who IS it?" he called out.
"It's me, Master Roger. Norman."
The butler, Smith thought. His head must be full of straw to bother me at this hour. He
sighed, then roared like a lion. "Come in!"
The servant with the black patch over his left eye blew into the room like a twister.
"Master Roger, something rather awkward has occurred in the garden."
Smith yawned and sat up slowly, like a rusted metal man. "What is it?"
"It involves Miss Dorothy, sir. You'd best see for yourself."
The master rubbed his eyes. If I were king of the forest, he thought, I'd pay no
attention to the man behind the eyepatch. As Smith got out of bed and put on his black
satin robe, the butler paced nervously, like a winged monkey anxious to fly.
"It's all my fault, sir," Norman said as they headed through the penthouse to the
rooftop garden. "If I only had a brain, this would have never happened."
He opened the double French doors to the outside. It was still early, and somewhere,
over a rainbow, the sun struggled to rise above the morning haze. And a little fog, too.
The first thing Smith noticed was that the yellow-brick path through the garden was
wet. The second thing that he noticed was the wet burlap sagging heavily over the
decorative plants.
"That keeps the dew's humidity on the plants longer in the morning," Norman
explained.
"I know," Smith said. "But I thought you usually used canvas."
The butler shrugged. "Sir, I've a feeling we're not in canvas anymore."
"Oh."
"Miss Dorothy is over here, sir."
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the one-eyed man, Smith thought sleepily …
The older man swept out a hand. "The burlap isn't wet only from the dew, Master
Roger. It's this damp because of the, um, accident …"
"Which was …?"
"This, sir," the butler replied.
Smith looked where Norman gestured: Kneeling motionless on the yellow-brick path
was R. Dorothy Wayneright, the android maid. Her short red hair was matted wet. Her
somber black dress with its starched white dickey was soaked through. The austere dark
features on her pale face were locked in an expressionless yet intent gaze. A basket with a
blue-gingham cloth over its contents sat next to her.
And she was seemingly frozen in midreach, leaning toward a patch — a small field,
almost — of poppies.
Poppies …
Poppies …
Roger Smith felt sleepier than normal at that moment, though he didn't know why. He
shook it off like a dusting of fresh snow and studied the mute woman. "Dorothy?" he
asked.
Silence. Smith leaned over, grabbed the woman's cold, damp shoulder gently and
shook it. Her whole body clittered and clattered. "Dorothy?"
Silence. Again.
It was like talking to a box of doughnuts, he eventually thought — or to a bag of
Munchkins, anyway. Smith straightened up, stuck his hands in the robe's pockets and
addressed his butler. "All right, Norman — what happened?"
The eyepatched man fumbled nervously with his hands and avoided his employer's
gaze. "Oh, sir," he finally said, despondently, "I really wish I could tell you. If I only had
…"
"DA NOIV of you!" Smith shot back. "You wake me up, drag me out into the damp
morning air, show me a soggy robot and then start whining! Now, what HAPPENED?"
"If I only had the heart to tell you, sir …"
"Find it …," Roger Smith growled, like an angry lion. "My maid is a clittering,
clattering collection of caliginous junk at the moment! WHY?"
"Well … what happened was just this: You know how daylight-saving time started
early this morning?"
"Yes …"
"I thought I had set all the clocks and timers in the home forward one hour last night
before I retired."
"All right …"
"But I apparently forgot the timer on the sprinklers in the garden."
Smith surveyed the wet, silent android kneeling near him. "OK …"
"I usually set the sprinklers for 8 a.m."
"Uh-huh …"
"Miss Dorothy usually picks a few flowers for the breakfast table about 9 a.m."
The master covered his mouth and yawned. Norman could represent the Lullaby
League at this point, he mused. Against his better judgment, he said, "Go on …"
"So when Miss Dorothy came out here to pick flowers at 9 …"
Smith nodded. "The sprinklers thought it was 8, and …"
"I'm afraid I've liquidated her … higher functions, sir …"
Smith assessed the woman again. "Are you sure?"
The servant became authoritative. "As butler, sir, I must aver: I've thoroughly
examined her — and she's not only merely fried, she's really most sincerely fried."
The younger man was silent for a moment, then shook his head in resignation. "Oh,
what a world," he muttered, "what a world …"
"When I heard Miss Dorothy cry out in surprise," Norman recalled, "I ran out here. I
didn't see her at first because she was kneeling, so I called out to her. I said, 'Come out,
come out, wherever you are, and meet me, young lady, who …' "
Smith cut him off. "OK, OK. Then you found her like this?"
"Yes, sir. I think she was trying to say something, but I'm not exactly sure what it
was."
"What do you think it was?"
"Something about … 'melting, melting' …"
"Must have been talking about her soldered circuits."
"No doubt, Master Roger."
Smith sighed. "Well, can you fix her, Norman?"
"Actually, she's a more sophisticated mechanism than even the Big O, sir. More
intricate and miniaturized and detailed. More advanced and refined, even. I could while
away the hours — conversing with higher powers — trying to fix her. But, frankly, sir, I
think it would be as useful as chasing a witch for her broomstick. I mean, I could inspect
her nano-switching array and not know: Is she a good switch or a bad switch?"
Smith thought. "What about her cyborg friend? Could she help you?"
"Alita, sir?"
"Is she the female cyborg with the black hair; red-brown eyes; beestung lips; black-
leather jumpsuit, boots and gloves; and yellow duster coat?"
The butler frowned. "Hmm … I can't quite place her, sir …"
"And metal strips on both cheeks?"
"Oh, THAT one! For a moment, sir, I wasn't sure which female cyborg with black
hair; red-brown eyes; beestung lips; black-leather jumpsuit, boots and gloves; and yellow
duster coat you were referring to. Yes, that's Alita."
"Think she has the know-how to help you fix Dorothy?"
"Well … she's very powerful — but very mysterious. We'd have to try the bar where
Miss Dorothy met her. Alita sings there sometimes, Miss Dorothy said." He considered
something. "It's a very peculiar bar, she said: They serve all the drinks in emerald-green
glassware."
Smith ignored the trivia. "What's the bar called?"
" 'Kansas,' she says, is the name of the bar."
The younger man sighed deeply. His breath steamed out in a long, narrow cloud, and
he shrugged. "Well, then," he said at last, "we're off to see the cyborg …"
The butler held up a finger. "Ah. That might prove problematic, I'm afraid, sir."
"Why?"
"Miss Dorothy told me that Alita had applied to compete in the motorball league. She
had even won all the qualifying matches and was likely to turn pro very soon."
"Which means …?"
"I've a feeling she's not in Kansas anymore."
Roger Smith felt déjà vu like he had felt only once before — but he wasn't sure.
"Roil kahn …"
Smith blinked. "What did you say, Norman?"
"I said nothing, sir," the butler replied.
"Roil kahn …"
Slowly, they turned. Inch by inch, yard by yard. Finally, both men were staring at the
female android. Without her mouth moving, the sound came from Dorothy:
"ROIL KAHN …"
The men looked back at each other. "What's she saying?" Smith asked.
Norman was helpful. "She's saying, 'Roil kahn,' sir."
The younger man rolled his eyes. "I know that. I didn't fall out of the sky yesterday.
What does it mean?"
"It could mean 'loyal fan,' sir."
"Roil kahn!" the robot repeated.
"Or 'boil plan.' "
"Roil kahn!!"
"Or 'soil pan.' "
"ROY—IL KAH—NNNN!!"
"But I'm almost certain she's referring to the oil can in the basket beside her, Master
Roger."
Smith bent down and picked up the blue-gingham cloth in the basket. Beneath it was a
small mechanic's oil can. He held it up. "How long has she had this?"
"Always, sir," the one-eyed man answered. "She's never far from it, really."
Smith studied the can, then shook his head and chuckled. "If I ever want to go looking
for weirdness again, I won't look any farther than my own back yard …"
"Quite so, sir."
"Roil kahn …," the android repeated. Smith swore she had whimpered.
The master faced Dorothy again. "Where should I start?"
Again, not a movement from the woman. But past pursed lips, she replied, "Mii
mowff …"
"That could mean, 'Fly south,' sir …," Norman observed.
Smith felt the déjà vu all over again. "DON'T start that again …," he warned coolly.
"As you say, sir. I think she wants you to oil her mouth first."
Slowly, Smith stuck the pointy tip of the can's spout into the corners of Dorothy's
mouth. The can bunka-bunka-ed as he worked the lever.
Soon, the men could hear the android's teeth grind behind her closed lips. Her jaw
started sliding from side to side, and at last, with some exertion and a faint squeak, she
opened her mouth.
"My …," she said simply, "my … arm …"
Smith worked the can on her extended arm, then gently pushed it down to her side. In
quick succession, he oiled her from neck to ankles until she was finally standing up.
"All my joints are working nominally again," she reported. "Thank you, Roger."
"What about your systems?" Smith asked. "Are they working in unison, as well?"
"Yes," she replied, "in toto, too." She took the oil can from him and put it back in the
basket. "May I go now?"
Smith nodded. The pale young woman in black turned and walked away — but
stopped in front of the butler.
"You're a louse, Norman," she told him flatly, then headed off into the penthouse.
Smith approached his butler as the mechanical maid departed. He patted the older
man's shoulder kindly. "Don't worry about it, Norman," he said comfortingly, "Just to
register emotion — jealousy, devotion — and really feel the part — is a challenge for
Dorothy."
"Yes, Master Roger," the servant said.
Smith nodded. "What I'm really afraid of now, though, is that she'll take out her
frustrations by banging on the piano again like the Wicked Witch of the West Dome No.
5."
As if on cue, the forced strains of piano blues wafted from the penthouse into the
garden. Smith sighed. "There she goes again: fine technique — but no heart …"
"A fair assessment, sir," the butler agreed.
"I've been thinking of taking her down to the Amadeus piano bar to get some lessons
from R. Instro."
"The android piano virtuoso, Master Roger?"
"That's him. Maybe he can grant this wish …" A deeper sigh, and the master looked
off into the morning. "You know, I've tried to help Dorothy build a character, a
personality. But I don't know … I guess there's no denyin' … I'm just … a dandy."
"Lyin' pup!" the older man said suddenly, sharply. "Sir, I know for a fact that Miss
Dorothy respects you and appreciates all that you do for her! Dare I say it, but I think she
even loves you, after a fashion."
Smith's expression brightened a bit. "Really … Well …" He chuckled and faced his
servant directly. "So … what do you think of this plan, then, Norman?"
A twinkle sparkled in the butler's right eye — the only eye he had — and he smiled.
"It's wizard, sir," he concluded, "absolutely wizard …"
"The Big O," its characters and situations are copyrighted by their various owners. Story copyright 2003 by George Pollock, Jr.
Newport News, Va.
GJJPJR@aol.com
The Wonderful Wizard of Big O
by
George Pollock, Jr.
There is, Roger Smith opined contentedly, no place like home …
He tapped his toes together beneath the luxurious covers of his huge bed in his
expansive room.
Three times, he tapped his toes.
No place like home …
No place like home …
No place like home …
He drifted slowly toward a dream.
Until a knocking on the bedroom door woke him like a house falling on him from out
of the sky. A pocketful of spheres, he cursed to himself. "Who IS it?" he called out.
"It's me, Master Roger. Norman."
The butler, Smith thought. His head must be full of straw to bother me at this hour. He
sighed, then roared like a lion. "Come in!"
The servant with the black patch over his left eye blew into the room like a twister.
"Master Roger, something rather awkward has occurred in the garden."
Smith yawned and sat up slowly, like a rusted metal man. "What is it?"
"It involves Miss Dorothy, sir. You'd best see for yourself."
The master rubbed his eyes. If I were king of the forest, he thought, I'd pay no
attention to the man behind the eyepatch. As Smith got out of bed and put on his black
satin robe, the butler paced nervously, like a winged monkey anxious to fly.
"It's all my fault, sir," Norman said as they headed through the penthouse to the
rooftop garden. "If I only had a brain, this would have never happened."
He opened the double French doors to the outside. It was still early, and somewhere,
over a rainbow, the sun struggled to rise above the morning haze. And a little fog, too.
The first thing Smith noticed was that the yellow-brick path through the garden was
wet. The second thing that he noticed was the wet burlap sagging heavily over the
decorative plants.
"That keeps the dew's humidity on the plants longer in the morning," Norman
explained.
"I know," Smith said. "But I thought you usually used canvas."
The butler shrugged. "Sir, I've a feeling we're not in canvas anymore."
"Oh."
"Miss Dorothy is over here, sir."
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the one-eyed man, Smith thought sleepily …
The older man swept out a hand. "The burlap isn't wet only from the dew, Master
Roger. It's this damp because of the, um, accident …"
"Which was …?"
"This, sir," the butler replied.
Smith looked where Norman gestured: Kneeling motionless on the yellow-brick path
was R. Dorothy Wayneright, the android maid. Her short red hair was matted wet. Her
somber black dress with its starched white dickey was soaked through. The austere dark
features on her pale face were locked in an expressionless yet intent gaze. A basket with a
blue-gingham cloth over its contents sat next to her.
And she was seemingly frozen in midreach, leaning toward a patch — a small field,
almost — of poppies.
Poppies …
Poppies …
Roger Smith felt sleepier than normal at that moment, though he didn't know why. He
shook it off like a dusting of fresh snow and studied the mute woman. "Dorothy?" he
asked.
Silence. Smith leaned over, grabbed the woman's cold, damp shoulder gently and
shook it. Her whole body clittered and clattered. "Dorothy?"
Silence. Again.
It was like talking to a box of doughnuts, he eventually thought — or to a bag of
Munchkins, anyway. Smith straightened up, stuck his hands in the robe's pockets and
addressed his butler. "All right, Norman — what happened?"
The eyepatched man fumbled nervously with his hands and avoided his employer's
gaze. "Oh, sir," he finally said, despondently, "I really wish I could tell you. If I only had
…"
"DA NOIV of you!" Smith shot back. "You wake me up, drag me out into the damp
morning air, show me a soggy robot and then start whining! Now, what HAPPENED?"
"If I only had the heart to tell you, sir …"
"Find it …," Roger Smith growled, like an angry lion. "My maid is a clittering,
clattering collection of caliginous junk at the moment! WHY?"
"Well … what happened was just this: You know how daylight-saving time started
early this morning?"
"Yes …"
"I thought I had set all the clocks and timers in the home forward one hour last night
before I retired."
"All right …"
"But I apparently forgot the timer on the sprinklers in the garden."
Smith surveyed the wet, silent android kneeling near him. "OK …"
"I usually set the sprinklers for 8 a.m."
"Uh-huh …"
"Miss Dorothy usually picks a few flowers for the breakfast table about 9 a.m."
The master covered his mouth and yawned. Norman could represent the Lullaby
League at this point, he mused. Against his better judgment, he said, "Go on …"
"So when Miss Dorothy came out here to pick flowers at 9 …"
Smith nodded. "The sprinklers thought it was 8, and …"
"I'm afraid I've liquidated her … higher functions, sir …"
Smith assessed the woman again. "Are you sure?"
The servant became authoritative. "As butler, sir, I must aver: I've thoroughly
examined her — and she's not only merely fried, she's really most sincerely fried."
The younger man was silent for a moment, then shook his head in resignation. "Oh,
what a world," he muttered, "what a world …"
"When I heard Miss Dorothy cry out in surprise," Norman recalled, "I ran out here. I
didn't see her at first because she was kneeling, so I called out to her. I said, 'Come out,
come out, wherever you are, and meet me, young lady, who …' "
Smith cut him off. "OK, OK. Then you found her like this?"
"Yes, sir. I think she was trying to say something, but I'm not exactly sure what it
was."
"What do you think it was?"
"Something about … 'melting, melting' …"
"Must have been talking about her soldered circuits."
"No doubt, Master Roger."
Smith sighed. "Well, can you fix her, Norman?"
"Actually, she's a more sophisticated mechanism than even the Big O, sir. More
intricate and miniaturized and detailed. More advanced and refined, even. I could while
away the hours — conversing with higher powers — trying to fix her. But, frankly, sir, I
think it would be as useful as chasing a witch for her broomstick. I mean, I could inspect
her nano-switching array and not know: Is she a good switch or a bad switch?"
Smith thought. "What about her cyborg friend? Could she help you?"
"Alita, sir?"
"Is she the female cyborg with the black hair; red-brown eyes; beestung lips; black-
leather jumpsuit, boots and gloves; and yellow duster coat?"
The butler frowned. "Hmm … I can't quite place her, sir …"
"And metal strips on both cheeks?"
"Oh, THAT one! For a moment, sir, I wasn't sure which female cyborg with black
hair; red-brown eyes; beestung lips; black-leather jumpsuit, boots and gloves; and yellow
duster coat you were referring to. Yes, that's Alita."
"Think she has the know-how to help you fix Dorothy?"
"Well … she's very powerful — but very mysterious. We'd have to try the bar where
Miss Dorothy met her. Alita sings there sometimes, Miss Dorothy said." He considered
something. "It's a very peculiar bar, she said: They serve all the drinks in emerald-green
glassware."
Smith ignored the trivia. "What's the bar called?"
" 'Kansas,' she says, is the name of the bar."
The younger man sighed deeply. His breath steamed out in a long, narrow cloud, and
he shrugged. "Well, then," he said at last, "we're off to see the cyborg …"
The butler held up a finger. "Ah. That might prove problematic, I'm afraid, sir."
"Why?"
"Miss Dorothy told me that Alita had applied to compete in the motorball league. She
had even won all the qualifying matches and was likely to turn pro very soon."
"Which means …?"
"I've a feeling she's not in Kansas anymore."
Roger Smith felt déjà vu like he had felt only once before — but he wasn't sure.
"Roil kahn …"
Smith blinked. "What did you say, Norman?"
"I said nothing, sir," the butler replied.
"Roil kahn …"
Slowly, they turned. Inch by inch, yard by yard. Finally, both men were staring at the
female android. Without her mouth moving, the sound came from Dorothy:
"ROIL KAHN …"
The men looked back at each other. "What's she saying?" Smith asked.
Norman was helpful. "She's saying, 'Roil kahn,' sir."
The younger man rolled his eyes. "I know that. I didn't fall out of the sky yesterday.
What does it mean?"
"It could mean 'loyal fan,' sir."
"Roil kahn!" the robot repeated.
"Or 'boil plan.' "
"Roil kahn!!"
"Or 'soil pan.' "
"ROY—IL KAH—NNNN!!"
"But I'm almost certain she's referring to the oil can in the basket beside her, Master
Roger."
Smith bent down and picked up the blue-gingham cloth in the basket. Beneath it was a
small mechanic's oil can. He held it up. "How long has she had this?"
"Always, sir," the one-eyed man answered. "She's never far from it, really."
Smith studied the can, then shook his head and chuckled. "If I ever want to go looking
for weirdness again, I won't look any farther than my own back yard …"
"Quite so, sir."
"Roil kahn …," the android repeated. Smith swore she had whimpered.
The master faced Dorothy again. "Where should I start?"
Again, not a movement from the woman. But past pursed lips, she replied, "Mii
mowff …"
"That could mean, 'Fly south,' sir …," Norman observed.
Smith felt the déjà vu all over again. "DON'T start that again …," he warned coolly.
"As you say, sir. I think she wants you to oil her mouth first."
Slowly, Smith stuck the pointy tip of the can's spout into the corners of Dorothy's
mouth. The can bunka-bunka-ed as he worked the lever.
Soon, the men could hear the android's teeth grind behind her closed lips. Her jaw
started sliding from side to side, and at last, with some exertion and a faint squeak, she
opened her mouth.
"My …," she said simply, "my … arm …"
Smith worked the can on her extended arm, then gently pushed it down to her side. In
quick succession, he oiled her from neck to ankles until she was finally standing up.
"All my joints are working nominally again," she reported. "Thank you, Roger."
"What about your systems?" Smith asked. "Are they working in unison, as well?"
"Yes," she replied, "in toto, too." She took the oil can from him and put it back in the
basket. "May I go now?"
Smith nodded. The pale young woman in black turned and walked away — but
stopped in front of the butler.
"You're a louse, Norman," she told him flatly, then headed off into the penthouse.
Smith approached his butler as the mechanical maid departed. He patted the older
man's shoulder kindly. "Don't worry about it, Norman," he said comfortingly, "Just to
register emotion — jealousy, devotion — and really feel the part — is a challenge for
Dorothy."
"Yes, Master Roger," the servant said.
Smith nodded. "What I'm really afraid of now, though, is that she'll take out her
frustrations by banging on the piano again like the Wicked Witch of the West Dome No.
5."
As if on cue, the forced strains of piano blues wafted from the penthouse into the
garden. Smith sighed. "There she goes again: fine technique — but no heart …"
"A fair assessment, sir," the butler agreed.
"I've been thinking of taking her down to the Amadeus piano bar to get some lessons
from R. Instro."
"The android piano virtuoso, Master Roger?"
"That's him. Maybe he can grant this wish …" A deeper sigh, and the master looked
off into the morning. "You know, I've tried to help Dorothy build a character, a
personality. But I don't know … I guess there's no denyin' … I'm just … a dandy."
"Lyin' pup!" the older man said suddenly, sharply. "Sir, I know for a fact that Miss
Dorothy respects you and appreciates all that you do for her! Dare I say it, but I think she
even loves you, after a fashion."
Smith's expression brightened a bit. "Really … Well …" He chuckled and faced his
servant directly. "So … what do you think of this plan, then, Norman?"
A twinkle sparkled in the butler's right eye — the only eye he had — and he smiled.
"It's wizard, sir," he concluded, "absolutely wizard …"
"The Big O," its characters and situations are copyrighted by their various owners. Story copyright 2003 by George Pollock, Jr.