In the Beginning

It was the sight of the little box with the flashing lights and the tiny silver switches that turned Fred into a raving lunatic.

We had all known that he was something special during freshman year, when he strolled into the Science Department with the Hewlett-Packard 65 programmable calculator strapped to his side, his long hippy-hair flowing down the back of his neck, his thick glasses amplifying those brown cow eyes, carrying that beat-up copy of Popular Electronics magazine and spouting nonsense about building our own computer. We weren't idiots; we knew that computers were huge, monstrous machines which filled entire rooms and required Doctorates to understand and operate. We'd grown up watching the video feeds from Mission Control down in Houston, seen all the cabinets full of equipment necessary to fly those spacemen to the moon.

High School freshmen do not build computers. This we knew with complete confidence.

But Fred was not a typical freshmen. There was and always had been something wrong with him, like something in his head just wasn't matched up with the normal plane of existence. Like that fancy calculator strapped to his hip, which happened to be a gift from his father, a payoff for all those years of not being home and then dropping his wife like a bad case of dandruff and skipping town with some blonde chick in a Trans Am. Fred didn't really seem to care, and we never talked about it; he showed more emotion for the calculator than he'd ever shown about his dad.

He shoved the rag in our faces.

"Look," he said, "they've finally done it! Turned it into a kit! Now everyone will be able to build their own computer. Including us."

We were all dubious. Steve gave his usual smirk. Phil, who was trying to work out a particularly clever riff on his guitar and found everything amusing, guffawed.

"Simple to you, Oh Master of all things Wizarding," said Steve. "But to us peasants, we're still scrabbling in the dirt for our daily bread. Of what particular use will this computer be to us?"

"Not us specifically, of course," Fred said. "The Department."

"Which 'Department'"?

"The Science Department, of course!"

Steve shook his head while giving Fred a most pitiable smile. "You seem to forget, my scientific friend, that though we are all gifted in the academic realms, we lack the mechanical skills required for this venture. We are Lab Assistants. We set up laboratory equipment. We clean beakers and test tubes. We grade papers and provide tutoring to the miserable masses. We do not build computers."

Fred smiled back, undaunted. "These are kits, Master Steven of the Doubting tongue. Any fool can build a kit. Even fools like us!"

"Any fool can build a kit, any fool can cough and spit," sang Phil "But when all is said and done, will we still be having fun?"

I did the slow clap to show my approval. "Nicely done, son. But to be serious for a moment, there is the question of money. What does this kit cost?"

"Five hundred dollars."

We all whistled - in harmony. Phil hit a particularly dissonant chord on guitar. "Methinks our coffers are insufficient for the Quest, my liege," he said. "Owing to the fact that fuel for my trusty steed has become more costly of late."

"Aye," agreed Steve. "We're all feeling the pinch on that score."

"Not to worry," Fred grinned. "We'll simply apply for a grant from the school."

Phil was dubious. "A grant? What does that mean?"

"That means," answered Steve, "that we write up a proposal to the administration begging for money, promising the moon if they'll deliver."

"Exactly."

"And who, pray tell, is going to write this massive missive to swindle the school out of their hard-taxed monies in order to allow us to purchase and then produce this scientific wonder-box?"

Fred looked meaningfully at Steve. Phil, smirking, looked at him, too. And then I joined in.

"Looks like it's unanimous, Prince Stephan," I said. "You have the magic words, which means you get to write the spell."