Java master Suku was investigating the software of a
distant temple. On her monitor large swaths of text glowed
not black but green, indicating that reams of code had been
commented out.
“Curious,” said Suku. “I have opened a fine clock, and
discovered orange rinds and fish bones.”
The head monk explained that the inactive code was no longer
necessary, yet he had ordered his clan to leave it in place:
for if it someday became desirable to restore the logic then
the code could simply be uncommented, rather than wastefully
written from scratch.
“Understandable,” nodded Suku.
The next day the monks assembled again for the Java master’s
inspection. With concern they reported that the head monk
could not be found. Suku gestured up into the rafters where
the missing monk dangled from a strong rope, by the neck. A
foul odor wafted downwards.
“Your head monk’s services are no longer necessary,” said
Suku. “Yet let his corpse moulder above you from this day
forward. After all, his methods may someday become desirable
again, and it would be wasteful to train another monk from
scratch.”
In her final report, Suku noted a swift change in the clan’s
coding practices, and credited the good example set by the
deceased head monk. We should consider his reinstatement,
she wrote.
