The Eleventh Dimension or, a Series of Events that were NOT MY FAULT

4

You aren't interested in the next week of work, so I won't tell you. We use my printer, and various other toys, to build a half dozen of the metal things, which we start calling cabbages. We make some other stuff too; a great big ring of metal with five little LED lights at equal spaces along the edges. A little electronics kit that lets us control the voltage into the metal cabbage things from a computer. We discover, from playing with his physics simulator, that the cabbage's effects are magnified by being in plastic bowls of slightly salty water. I have to go out and buy all sorts of things like great plastic buckets, and goggles and masks and gloves, and masses and masses of wires. Mal starts working hard on the computer while I find myself welding, printing, hammering and other stuff that I've not really done for years. I enjoy myself enormously, and I think he does too. Or at least he's getting more and more stuck into the three computers that he's brought with, that I hardly hear a peep out of him.

We hear nothing from anyone. So much for needing me for security. I'm in the local hardware shop so much that the whole office-fitting yarn convinces everyone; especially a night watchman who intercepts me carrying a drum of wire and goggles on the second night. By the end of the time we were there, he was helping me shift some of the heavier kit, bless his woolly socks. I doubt he ever found out what was really going on.

The last thing we bring in is yet another computer, with another nutty device attached to it. Mal unpacks it and shows it to me with a kind of crazy flourish, like he's a magician and this is his beautiful assistant who has not actually been sawn in half. He's looking really wired again, all the late nights and junk food getting to him.

'This, my friend, is the last masterpiece. This is the provider of the endless wealth and palatial accommodation we have been enjoying! The giver!'

And he bows and waves his arms at what's on the table.

It doesn't look like much, to be honest. Just a metal plate with some wires coming from it, and a pile of what looks like charcoal on it. And a bunch of heat lamps, all pointing towards the sad dirty little heap.

'Mmm,' I say, unable to even pretend to be impressed. 'Lovely. A heated ash tray. I can imagine how popular that is. You'd be fighting birds off with a shitty stick with that kind of status symbol.'

He actually got offended at that. Which is funny, because up until then I'd only seen 'concentrating' and 'laughing at dirty jokes' in his emotional repertoire.

'You moron! Does everything need to be a stupid joke to you?'

'Oh, give it a rest. Fuck sake. But it's not that much to look at, is it? Hardly the fuckin' Eiffel Tower. What do you want me to say?'

'I want you to keep your ignorant mouth closed until you see what I can do with it. Now, silence.'

And he goes into robot-dancing mode, all jerky and frenzied, booting up the computer it's attached to, plugging the lamps in, pouring something pink and gunky onto the ash.

'Aw, Jesus, that stinks. What is it?'

'Pig fat. You were supposed to be silent.'

And then the smell of bacon, as the heat lamps start to do their thing. The computer has something running full screen, just fizzy darkness but with a little green bar on the bottom that flickers bigger and bigger as the lamps get warmer.

Mal is getting involved with the machines and is clearly forgetting our little tiff, staring at the monitor, with an eager, open mouthed smile.

'There. There. And... there. Look at them. This place was just right. My goodness. I've never seen so many. What, ten? Twelve?'