Master Bawan was conducting an initiate monk through the
temple grounds. Eventually they came to the Hall of Wasted
Hours, where the abbots held their morning meetings. Bawan
pointed to the four massive oak pillars that held up the
oldest part of the hall. Scenes of temple life had been
carved into each, on all four sides and stretching from
floor to distant ceiling. The intricate figures possessed
such astounding verisimilitude that the monk could almost
hear the clacking of abaci.
“These were fashioned two hundred years ago by a monk of our
order,” said Bawan. “It took him six years, laboring every
night with a hammer and chisel, his work lit only by the
glow of a single flickering cathode tube.”
Further down they came to another square of four pillars,
identical to the first square in every way.
“These were made a hundred years ago by monks of the Harmful
Go-To Clan, which has since been banished,” said Bawan.
“They replicated the originals with a bamboo pantograph
secured to an electric router. It took them six months,
working by the light of a discarded CRT running Anantha's
Fountain.”
Further down they came to yet another square of four
pillars, even more like the originals.
“These were created fifty years ago by three nuns of the
Elephant's Footprint Clan, which tends our databases and
secures our history,” said Bawan. “The nuns traced the
contours of the originals and fed the coordinates into a
programmable milling machine. The measuring took six weeks;
the carving a few days.”
Finally they came to the new south portico, supported by a
final square of pillars so like the first that the slightest
stray chisel mark had been reproduced faithfully.
“These were installed ten years ago by one of our summer
interns,” said Bawan. “He photographed the originals with
high resolution digital cameras, combined the data into a
three-dimensional topographic mesh with sub-millimeter
resolution, and outsourced the manufacture to a mill in the
next province. Six days, end to end.”
Bawan faced the initiate monk. “Which set of pillars is of
greatest value to the Temple?”
The monk considered and said, “The ones that exist purely as
data gathered by the intern. For though they have neither
height nor breadth nor weight, still from them all other
pillars could be remade.”
Bawan bowed and led the monk out.
That night Bawan walked alone by lantern light through the
hardware archives of the Clan of Iron Bones, in the deepest
cellars under their abbey. Finding at last the particular
VAX mainframe he sought, Bawan hooked up a dusty VT100
terminal, flipped on the power toggle, and opened a C source
file that had not been compiled for a quarter of a century.
Bawan noted with satisfaction how perfectly the statements
had been indented, how descriptive the function and variable
names were, how thoroughly each parameter had been
commented. He smiled at a few TODO and FIXME comments: an
appeal to a future that would never answer back. Then he
scrolled to the top where his own name and email address
appeared proudly.
“The initiate was only half-right,” said Bawan to the
emptiness. “True, the value lies not in carven oak, but
neither does it lie in the shape of the carving; for both
the real pillar and the virtual one may be lost, and the
temple will be no poorer. But when wood first yields to
metal, one more thing is made: and that is the sculptor.”
