On first cool day of autumn, a messenger had come to the
Temple bearing urgent news. To her puzzlement she found
every courtyard vacant, every hallway and common-room empty.
Not a soul was to be found.
Passing an open doorway, she heard the clattering of keys
from within. Inside she found an old scribe staring hard at
a monitor.
“Where—” began the messenger.
“Vacation,” said the scribe without turning around, waving
absently in the direction of the rest of the temple.
“Not you?” asked the messenger.
“I, too,” said the scribe.
“But on your screen—” said the messenger.
“Yes,” said the scribe. “The ugliest, buggiest, most
obstreperous PHP code you will find in the Seventeen
Provinces.”
“Then why do you labor on it?” asked the messenger.
“Because,” smiled the scribe. “It is not the Temple’s code.
It is mine.”
