Upon learning that the specs required to set up the looms to weave the show fabrics had never made it up to Mama, Marla headed over to the loom room to check the bottom of the string bin. Just as she suspected, she found them there wrinkled, torn, and dirty. Incredibly, all seven were there. She rushed them over to Mama who merely looked at Marla above the spectacle magnifiers perched on her nose. Without Mama even saying a word aloud, Marla knew she was thinking something to herself about some people not reading yesterday's memo about not using slang when working with AIs and that's why the spec sheets were not delivered to the proper receptacle on Mama's desk. Mama cocked her head to indicate the patterns should go next to the in-basket on the desk adjacent to her workstation.
Marla placed them delicately on the mess of string orders, tube schedules, and maintenance forms scattered there. She flattened the pages as best she could, aligning each page so the little fabric squares lined up neatly and could be easily referred to in the future. On Mama's monitor, the day's orders piped in from Agnes revealed enough information for Mama to get her weavers started on the fabrics. At least Mama was in logic mode and had thought to call up for the info once the patterns turned up missing. But then, that was why Mama was head weaver and got paid about three times more than Marla.
Over in the bin, the golden yellow spindle waited. Marla walked over, trying to remember weft and warp ratios for setting up the machine. Gingerly, she unwrapped the sticky tape holding the end weft on the spool. She carried the thread over to a far loom. It seemed to be waiting patiently for an occupant. If the weavers were watching, they gave no indication. Their heads remained dutifully bowed over their looms, their bodies obediently doing more work than they should have to do. The various pastels, cottons, linens, and taffetas spit out into the catch basins at alarming speed. The machines clacked and hummed as the weavers watched readouts, punching in density changes as required.
As Marla loaded her warp onto the bed, the room doors flew open and a herd of four men entered the room. Not a single one of the herd was under the age of fifty or had a complete head of hair. Although she'd only seen him once, Marla knew it was the president descending on her for a publicity inspection. Nice timing.
Two of the president's lackeys looked familiar. After a moment, she realized one was her boss's boss, Lamont. She assumed the other had to be his pal/nemesis/fellow bootlicker, Kronk. The two were always together, like Frick and Frack, or Tweedledee and Tweedledum, or Dumb and Dumber, maybe. Apparently, they couldn't function without each other. Together they equaled one man. Yet it was rumored they couldn't stand each other.
She left the spindle hanging languidly on the loom and walked over to where the men stood surveying the scene. Conversation was impossible so she gestured with open hands and nodding head, "Can I help you?" or maybe, "What do you want?" depending on how they interpreted her motions.
Behind the president and his dynamic duo, a short somebody periodically peeked around the room, tapping notes into an electropad he carried around his neck on a chain. He observed and wrote, observed and wrote, all without any facial reaction to whatever it was that he was observing. He followed the action on the floor without editorializing at all. Of the four intruders, Marla liked this recorder person the least.
Lackey #1—Lamont—extended his hand in greeting, smiling. Flushed with excitement he shouted his name to her and some enlightenment as to why they were here.
She took the hand, shook it begrudgingly, and beckoned everyone to step out to the hallway, pointing to her ears and shaking her head in explanation.
They nodded and followed her through the double doors, the guy with the pad still peeking around the president every chance he got.
The noise of the looms died down as the floor doors closed behind the little party.
"Marla Gershe here," she began, speaking directly to the president. "We're trying to put tonight's show together. Apparently Grant Parker has half our weavers for his show in honor of your visit." She got her bit in before they could get started in on the political line that was no doubt coming. "I was setting up a loom for myself. As coordinator, I'm not supposed to do union work, but for some reason we're not getting a break on our Do."
Lackey #2 spoke up. "Ms. Gorshy, I'm Raif Kronk and this is Carleton Lamont. President Shurm is just out on inspection of his set-ups. Yes, Grant Parker's show has been chosen for exhibition, but yours is just as important to us. We want you to know that."
"It's Gershe, and I'm not too worried about Parker's show; I'm worried about mine," she answered.
The president spoke for himself. "Yes, well that's very creative, pitching in on the weaving like that."
"Yes, as long as the union doesn't grieve me."
Everyone chuckled uncomfortably and waited for someone else to come up with something.
Finally Marla spoke, "Well, I'm going to get to it, do you need anything?"
"No, no, we're here just to take notes," Lamont chimed in, making sure he added something to the interchange. "If we need anything specific, we'll speak to your head weaver. What's her name again?"
"Hinton, Doloros Hinton. Mama. But I'd rather she stuck to the loom. If you need anything, it'd be better if you spoke to me. I really need her working without interruption."
"Of course, of course."
The group of four followed her back to the floor, pointing to, and looking at, various objects in the room‹mostly stuff that had nothing to do with weaving. Marla returned to the machine with the yellow spindle. She began the installation procedure, keeping the herd in focus out of the corner of her eye. Just as she suspected, they made a big show of saying "hi" to Mama, trying to joke with her to show they'd never pull rank with someone in her position. They were all equals. As far as they were concerned, Mama was the most important person in the world, and whatever she thought about, they wanted to know. Mama dutifully smiled unable to hear whatever it was they shouted in her ear. They'd gone to all that trouble to find out what Mama's name was and she never even heard them say it.
They were gone by the time Marla's warp was poised and the weft feed aligned. Just as she was checking the pattern page one last time before slamming the go button, she felt the squawker she'd earlier borrowed from the tech fixing Saddle's machine, vibrating inside her shirt pocket where she'd stashed it. The weavers watched her leave the room to answer. They'd been eyeing her to see just how far she was going to go with the loom ‹ although she didn't know it at the time.
Return to Episode 1 somewhere near where you left off.