Conversion Tables

This is not a fan fiction for the Whateley Academy series. This is an entry in Bob’s Stardust R Us first anniversary story contest. This story has nothing to do with my Whateley serial, period. No, really, I mean it -- cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die.

Your constructive criticism and advice is appreciated though it doesn’t deter me from writing this fluff. This is an exercise in the joys of creativity and in appreciation of the wonderful Whatel … BC … in appreciation of Bob’s generous spirit in hosting this contest. Any violations of copyright, trademark or use of real people or incidents are purely for purposes of humor or parody and done solely for the free enjoyment of the reading public. All rights reserved in perpetuity, John from Wauwatosa WI, 2007.

Adult content advisory: this chapt… this story may contain situations and topics unsuitable for children or most sentient beings, come-to-think-of-it. It’s usually mild stuff, but you were warned. And if it didn’t have any, who would read this predictable claptrap, I mean, let’s be serious.

Conversion Tables

By John from Wauwatosa
Death defying editorial assistance by Karen_J
Simultaneous editing and proofing with no safety net by Janet Nolan

* * * *

Anyone who knows me -- more correctly that should have read -- anyone who knew me, knows I am or was an inveterate bargain hunter. Further they know or knew I am or was a collector of oddities, the quirkier the better. Confused so far? It only gets worse. Old hardware stores, military and scientific surplus, salvage and overstock stores; flea markets and the occasional rummage or estate sale, all got my juices flowing. Auctions, don’t even ask about those. I was an addict.

Lots of it was pure junk, but sometimes to get the choice stuff you have to purchase an entire lot. This is particularly true at auctions and estate sales. To get all the parts to rebuild a classic 1940’s radio, you might have to buy seven partial ones, some in horrid shape, just to get that one critical part. Several times a year I would rent space at the community flea market to sell off my restorations along with any unwanted surplus. The local scrap metal dealer was decent about accepting the unusable steel and die-cast bits along with old copper wire and other more valuable materials.

Sometimes there is so much stuff to sell it is impractical to sell each piece individually. Often the sellers get sick of it and just put a bunch of junk in a box marked, ‘sold as is’. Down-and-dirty but it gets the job done. I got my greatest finds that way and a lot of junk as a by-product. I acquired an impressive *collection* of empty Bakelite cases from old TVs and radios. Then there were the fiberglass and cast aluminum covers from products as diverse as portable sewing machines to small outboard motors. I usually found something useful to do with the cra … the *chaff* I winnowed from the *grain* I wanted. I did have arguably the oddest collection of bird feeders, bird baths and bird houses to be seen anywhere in North America and possibly the World. Also bizarre flowerpots, bird houses, wind chimes … You get the picture.

This is not to say my yard is a junk heap. For one my community has ordinances against this. For another, I can only stand so much mess until even I get sick of it. I’d finished a major *spring-cleaning* when I decided to reward my good effort with a bit of bargain hunting. The local technical college was having a massive surplus sale. I’m not just using ‘massive’ to sound *with-it* or *cool* -- hey, I’m a hip, with-it dude, or was until… The school filled most of an exhibition hall at the State Fair grounds with their surplus. This was augmented with contributions from local industries and organizations. It was all in the name of charity as the proceeds went towards endowing a permanent scholarship fund at the school.

I’d gone to the local university. An MA in business administration got me a decent paying job on graduation but did nothing to school me in the business of finding a woman. I wasn’t an ugly man but I wasn’t a male-model either. I was an average Joe but saddled with a geeks skills in dating and romance. I was hopeless. Add painfully shy and you'll understand why I was in my 40s and single. At least I had my *hobby*.

“Industrial work benches, 25 dollars and up, drill bits, grinders, drill presses, oscilloscopes… I’m in heaven. Oh my Ghod! It can’t be: a tape drive from an IBM 380 series? Oooh, factory-sealed magnetic disc platters and a working drive, 500 dollars.” I was in danger of a serious geek-out.

I controlled myself, wiped the drool from the side of my face and gave the whole sale a quick once-over. I made a few mental notes and decided what I could afford and best make use of. They had an old but still serviceable tube tester I badly needed and modern test meters.

The piece-de-resistance — and I could not resist it -- was courtesy of the Air Force Reserve. They donated an entire portable radio transceiver intended for communicating with aircraft and of locking onto low orbit satellites. This marvel from the early days of MAD — that’s Mutual Assured Destruction, not the humor magazine -- could communicate in the HF, VHF and UHF bands. It was love at first sight: I had to have it. It was a compact unit — for its era anyway. Disassembled, it fit in a half-dozen cases each no larger than a military footlocker. It was part of some never fully deployed air defense system abandoned after the ABM treaty restricted such things. 40 years ago it was cutting-edge and top secret. Today it was less sophisticated than a give-a-way solar calculator.

I’d long wanted to get into ham radio; here was a ready-made kit. I’d need to do some modifications but the equipment operated on many of the same frequencies now allocated to amateurs and it was *built*. It had a folding antenna array, could run off AC or battery power, weather resistant construction -- the works.

“Ah, Mr. Tyler, I figured I’d see you here. I see you spotted our little beauty. The Air Force Reserve people say it still works. Bypass the encryption unit they removed and your on—the-air. For anyone else, Greg, 400 bucks, for you, 300 and I’ll get a couple guys to help you load up, deal?”

“Deal.”

* * * *

The scrap value of the copper, silver and other heavy metals in the circuitry was easily worth that. The fly in the ointment was that portions of the manual for it were missing. That was understandable; there was the built-in cryptographic unit the reservists removed. The unit could have used coding methods that are still in use. Such a component would likely remain classified, thus the missing pages. I looked it over and most of the operating instructions and technical specs survived so I figured I could make it work. I drove home in high spirits.

I unloaded my booty and carefully unpacked the cases, snapping photos with my digital camera as I went. This way if I lost something; I knew what belonged where. I was lucky; the Air Force Reserve had recycled it for use rather than scrap it way back when. From an inspection tag it appeared to have last been serviced only 15 years before.

“This is better than I hoped,” I said to myself. I checked out the color coded connectors and plugged it all together. I had a problem; that missing encryption device. I simply needed to jumper past this. The connectors didn’t match -- I had a 25-pin connector that needed to connect to both a 17-pin and an 8-pin connector and all three were male. I traced the wires and was 95% sure I knew what wire did what. One pair of wires I had some doubts on, but they had to do with aiming the antenna — not a big problem if I got it wrong. I could always aim the array manually. I located the matching female connectors and wired my adapter.

After walking away from it for a couple days so as not to be too eager, I finished assembling the units. I set up the antenna in my back yard, a trio of cement blocks serving as a temporary base. I did a few power-up tests. Everything worked; nothing was smoking, popping or arcing. I talked with a local ham club and got instruction how to test the transmitter. It took a week to get all the necessary test equipment assembled but I was raring to go. Oh, I knew I needed a license, but if all I did was test and not broadcast I was fine. There was nothing illegal about simply listening.

I had one last glitch; the various displays were unlabeled, probably as part of declassifying it. This meant I had to identify them. The power-up tests soon isolated which gauges measured output, battery voltage, and so forth. Once I knew which-was-which I could calibrate them. After several days of bench-tests, I was ready to try out the receiver and antenna.

I soon was listening in on commercial aviation and the like. I found several known frequencies, the US Bureau of Standards time signals were godsends. I had the receiver frequency display figured out, but I checked a couple more known signals for confirmation. This was a golden opportunity to play with the antenna aiming and auto-tracking.

“If I’m right, these settings should lock onto an amateur repeater piggy-backed on the remote sensing satellite, Landsat 12. That’s if I understand these conversion tables.”

The conversion tables were needed because the antenna was aimed like a canon. So many degrees, minutes, seconds east or west and zero to ninety degrees from the horizon to directly overhead. The directions to locate the amateur satellite were in astronomical notation, thus the need for the conversion.

I keyed in the commands, the antenna moved and I adjusted the receiver. I couldn’t get a lock as something was interfering. There was a strong signal near the satellite and on a close frequency as well. I assumed the antenna was misaligned and went to manually adjust it. I had the displays turned so I could see them out in the yard and the speakers on as aids to aiming the antenna. There was just the one power switch but I was only receiving. The transmitter was on standby so I was safe, right?

I grabbed the attached metal control box and flipped the selector to fine adjust. I absentmindedly walked in front of the antenna array, thinking nothing of it. I twitched the control. There was a sudden spike in the signal; the *signal lock* and *transmitter online* lamps lit. I felt a violent shock and remember nothing after that … I must have blacked out.

Well, duh, Brainiac. Do *you* have to prove you’re an airhead? …. Sorry, I’ll shut up.~~

I apologize; my inner monolog is more like a group discussion some days.

* * * *

I woke to an EMT kneeling next to me — or so I assumed. I lay half numb and disoriented. My vision was blurry, but could just make out a 30’ish man in a uniform looking in my eyes as he shined a penlight in mine.

“Miss, Miss Tyler, can you hear me? I need to cut off some of your clothes to examine you. My partner is a woman, if you would feel more comfortable.”

“Huh, I’m not a …” this angel’s voice came out of my throat. It had to be me speaking, but it was not me.

“Are you certain, Janet?” he asked. His voice made me feel safe and protected. I wanted something from this man, but I wasn’t sure what..

My, is he built and so polite. I wonder what he’s like in the sack? … Where did that thought come from?~~

“No, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You are a professional,” I said and automatically smiled. He smiled back in a most amazing way.

I was confused yet comfortable. This was strange; he’d referred to me as a female, Janet specifically. My voice and the twin mounds on my chest seemed to confirm being female at least. I knew those female breasts were there, despite my being in a neck brace. As he’d removed my clothes to check me, I felt the fabric glide over them and I began to tremble a little. My male chest would never have reacted like that. These babies were sensitive, oh yes, yes, YES!

I’d never felt the slightest attraction to men — I was strictly hetero — but this hunk of an EMT had me dripping with anticipation. That’s when I realized I was a woman down there as well. I had an equally profound effect on him as a glance at his tight trousers made obvious. ~~Oh my!~~ My panties got damp in seconds. He reached over to attach a heart sensor when he inadvertently brushed against a nipple. A bolt of lighting shot from my chest to my brain to my groin and everywhere at once. My body tensed, my back arched, I trembled, incoherent noises burst from my lips and I plain-out lost it. I vaguely remember this bizarre blend of smells, hot, cold, textures, flashing colors and an intensely pleasurable series of contractions down below. I lost all sense of time; my mind went blank. I was absolutely out-of-control until some idiot spoiled it all by yelling. “She’s gone into seizure!” In the midst of my bliss I felt a needle stick and I passed out.

* * * *

I woke in a hospital bed. Multiple wires were attached to me and a nurse or doctor was poking and prodding in some embarrassing places, at least one of which I didn’t have earlier that day.

I giggled. “St-stop that, it tickles.” Again I heard that unabashedly female voice.

“Our mystery woman is awake,” the woman in a lab coat replied. I thought I heard a suppressed snicker.

“No need to shout, I’m not deaf.” My voice exuded confident, female and sexy.

~~Okay, time to check facts, I’m clearly female. That *reaction* I had earlier was proof, oh yeah baby! So why am I not screaming here? I need some answers. Nothing ventured … what ever.~~

“You wouldn’t think I was a bit insane if I claimed I was a forty-something guy mere hours ago? I know I’m a woman *now* but …”

“Normally, yes, that claim would make you a guest in one of our padded *suites*.” The woman replied, laughing. “Fortunately for you the neighbor who called in the accident told the EMTs who you were. She was quite adamant about it — said she’d known you since you were a child. She also warned us you have a silly streak. Once the EMT’s had a good look at you, it was obvious who you were. We checked your fingerprints to make doubly certain. You wouldn’t believe how often this happens these days,” ~~Whew! They believe I used to be a guy.~~ “people calling in accident reports claiming a celebrity is involved,” said my nurse, a pleasant looking young woman.

I felt much better until I remembered she’d said ’celebrity’. ~~Celebrity! Me?~~

“And you, Ms. Tyler, are a celebrity,”

~~I don’t think they bought the *I-was-a-guy* story. Plan *A*, denial, is a bust. Time for plan *B*, whatever plan *B* is. I need information bad. So who is this Ms. Tyler?~~

My nurse must have seen the confusion on my pretty face. I’ve seen my face a lot since that day and believe me when I say I’m attractive. My *dewy-eyed pout* is devastating. Throw in my *lost, bewildered look* and grown men cry at the sight. As I was saying, the nurse saw my confusion and tried to reassure me.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to seem like I’m laughing at you. Your neighbor told the EMT’s what a cutup you are, Janet. It’s a shock to think of you living here, we didn’t believe your neighbor at first. We know you grew up in the area, but all the press reports say you live in Malibu, London and Hawaii. I can see why being famous you took the precaution of having your prints on file — identity theft is rampant these days.

What we all want to know — us nurses that is -- is what a hot property like you is doing dabbling with amateur radio, with surplus military equipment at that? Techno-geek does not fit with your public image, girl. It’s refreshing to see you’re no bubble-headed blonde, but electrical devices can be dangerous. We treat many electrical burn patients here; some don’t make it. You’re lucky all you hurt was your pride. You could easily have been electrocuted.” She sounded honestly concerned for me.

~~I have houses in Malibu, London and Hawaii? Who is Janet Tyler? What does she, I mean, what do I do for a living?~~

“How soon can I get out of here? Oh, what’s your name? I can’t see your name tag.”

“I’m Karen J. They call me that because we have three Nurse Karens working in this section of the hospital and on the same shift — it’s very confusing. To keep it clear we have Karen J, Karen M and Karen T. You should see pediatrics; they have Amelia B, G, H, Q and R. I think Human Resources is doing this deliberately.

“I’ll get the doctor so he can release you. You have no injuries, not even a bruise. Your heart checks out fine. The only reason you are still here was the seizure the EMTs observed.” I giggled in response. I had to wipe tears from my eyes I’d laughed so hard.

“What is so funny, Janet?”

“That wasn’t a seizure. That Adonis of an EMT who evaluated me… I don’t know his name but he was terribly fit and his, um… It was huge,” I giggled and blushed.”

“That was Don or The Duke. Like John Wayne? He is quite handsome,” she said and smiled wistfully.

“Okay, The Duke in prepping me dragged my clothing over my breasts and they got sensitive. He reached over to attach some sensor and his sleeve brushed across a nipple and … I think I’m in love! I can honestly say that was the best orgasm I’ve ever had as a woman.” And I wasn’t lying, folks.

“You came?”

“The mother of all orgasms — it was glorious. Then they gave me something and I passed out. Like what a waste, yah know?”

“You do the airhead so well, Janet. I happy to see you can laugh at yourself. I’ll get your doctor and explain about the seizure. P.S. Hon, Don is single.”

~~Fantastic! A prime catch and he’s available … What is going on here. I’m a woman for a few hours and I have the hots for man? … But God what a man! … Get yourself together, Honey. Think this over rational … Honey? I’m thinking of myself as a female so soon? … But I am one now so what’s so bad about that?~~

* * * *

A couple hours later I was out of the hospital, but only after my doctor — a woman — asked some detailed and embarrassing questions about my *seizure.* I explained what happened as best as I could. I answered her every question honestly. I was just as curious as to why it had happened, particularly about how to make it happen again. I didn’t admit that last part, though. I wasn’t fully comfortable with my rapid acceptance of femininity but I wasn’t afraid of it either. I simply had a lot of unanswered questions.

“To sum up you’re telling me that was not a seizure brought on by near electrocution but a mere orgasm, Ms. Tyler?”

“I’d hardly call *that* mere. I’ve never had one like that before.” ~~Oh how true.~~ “If I knew I’d get one of those I’d have tried to have an accident earlier.” I giggled self-consciously thinking of that hunk of an EMT. “Karen J said Don, my EMT, was single. Do you think I’m his type?”

“Ms. Tyler, if you’re not his type, humanity is doomed. He’ll like you, but go slow, he’s shy … Ms. Tyler, um, Janet, can you teach me how to have one like that? The EMTs swore you were convulsing it was so intense.”

“I’d like to, but I don’t know why it happened, not exactly.”

“Can you make an educated guess?”

“I’m a lucky girl?”

* * * *

I got the all-clear and dressed to go. The same neighbor who had reported my accident had sent my purse and some clothes to the hospital. She must have had a key to my house. I noticed everything was new or hardly worn and top-of-the-line. The body-hugging slacks and figure-flattering blouse both had labels in them indicating they were custom tailored for me and from my own line of clothing.

My shoes, a delicate-looking pair of sensibly-heeled sandals were from some Italian maker and appeared expertly made. Everything I wore fit perfectly and was extremely comfortable. ~~ I have great taste in clothing.~~ I called for a cab and stepped out into the sunshine. It felt wonderful as did this body but I wondered about my life, this life I’d fallen into.

~~That blouse was pure silk, the slacks 100% Egyptian cotton. Lord knows what my sandals cost. Am I a fashion designer or a model? That would explain why I’m famous. The way the cab driver looked at me, you’d think he was a sailor just back from a year at sea. I’m amazed we didn’t crash the way he kept looking back at me in the mirror.~~

While waiting for the cab, I’d checked the driver’s license in my purse. I was single, 28 years-old instead of 48, a little shorter, a lot lighter and officially female according to the State DMV, that all-knowing oracle. In my purse was a message from my neighbor. She had made sure my house was secure. She reminded me what a great babysitter I’d been for her children and that she hoped I’d be in town for a while as she missed our friendship. From the tone of her note, I got the impression she’d been a sort of aunt to me when I was a child.

* * * *

I got back to my home, the same home; there was no change in that part of my life. I noticed my house was furnished nicer than before and was in better shape. The BMW Z3 sports car in the drive almost made me miss the *home improvements.* I walked through my home in awe.

~~The exterior siding looked new and when did I have an all-leather living room set?... I have a home theater with a wall mounted B&O sound system? Shit, my video screen fills an entire wall!~~

I checked my closets and bedroom furniture. They were filled with designer clothing and lingerie in every color and style imaginable. I counted over three-dozen swimsuits hanging on a custom rack; most were daring in the extreme. I clearly was proud of my body. I must have bought out a woman’s shoe store given all the footwear I had on display in what used to be a spare bedroom.

~~Some of these shoes have my name pressed into them in what looks like gold leaf. I design shoes too?~~

I found a floor-safe and in it were a ladies wallet, my checkbooks and latest bank statements. I opened the wallet and counted no less than ten credit or debit cards. I clearly traveled a lot as I had multiple Platinum credit cards, several issued by major airlines, all in my name, Janet Tyler. I looked at the most recent bank statement and almost collapsed from shock. “I’m a Victoria Secrets model? And what’s this, a bonus from my producer for winning … Oh Dear!” I said out loud in my surprise.

In the back of my mind I started remembering things. The best I can describe it is I had two sets of memories and I remembered both with crystal clarity. There were gaps in my recollections of *Janet* but they were filling in fast, I was certain. I don’t know why, but I was certain. I put everything back in the safe and I locked it. I was so surprised by what I’d seen I didn’t stop to wonder how I’d known the combination or how I’d known that the safe was there in the first place.

I hurried down to what used to be my parents room when they were alive. Their bed was there exactly as I remembered. There were the pictures of us kids along with my awards. ~~Awards?~~ I took it all in and fell on the bed crying. I knew I was pretty, one look in the hospital mirror as I dressed made that abundantly clear and I do mean abundant. Was I built or what? No wonder Don that hunky EMT got so *enthused* at the sight of me. It was the awards that got to me.

~~ Oh Mom, Dad, I don’t know what happened but I wish you could see me now. You’d be so proud of me.~~ The thought made me cry all the more. What set off the waterworks was my valedictorian certificate from high school, my degree with honors from USC; and dozens of magazine covers with my face or body on them. ~~I was the cover for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, twice? That’s my Best Supporting Actress Oscar.~~ My tears wouldn’t stop.

More and more came back to me, memories of both lives. Greg -- I mean me as a guy -- was a decent son, if un-ambitious and unsuccessful in romance. But Janet, Janet was the All-American Girl. The awards covering my parent’s bedroom were the proof. Janet was a gifted student, captain of her high-school’s State winning girls swim team and President of the Greek Council at USC. ~~George Lucas was my mentor in grad school? I have a masters in film-making and business administration?~~

~~I’m surprised little-miss-perfect has no pictures up showing a boyfriend or from the Prom but then she, I mean I, was so busy, there wasn’t the time for that. Don’t tell me I’m going to be single and middle-aged again?~~

I thought of Don the EMT. How he’d looked at me and how I’d responded. I smiled.~~There is no risk of me being a spinster. No way! I’ve been too busy building my career. It’s time to start a family. I have got to get his phone number. Hell, I’ll just find out what fire station he works out of and seduce him.~~

I looked again at our family pictures. I had the same two sisters as before but this time I was the youngest. ~~Mary looks, well, she’s so fit. Where did my chubby sister go and where are her glasses? Is that an engagement ring? … Liz, that can’t be her. Liz was a thalidomide baby; she was in a wheelchair. Look at those legs and those graceful hands, she’s gorgeous … She’s a mother? … I remember, I’m Aunty Janet and those are … Aaron and Caitlin. Aaron’s a nice boy but Caitlin’s my favorite. Those eyes my niece has and, well, everything about her. She looks just like I did as I started kindergarten.~~

My spirit soared. My rapidly expanding memories of life as Janet were like a fairytale, yet I’d not lost my memories as a man or my sense of self. I was simply a new and much improved me. I was wealthy, successful, attractive, and young. I knew I could land any man I wanted and I had an inkling who that man would be. Life was great. Then I thought of my parents, both long dead and buried. My spirits crashed.

“What is this worth if I can’t share my good fortune with them? I’m so happy for my sisters. Dear Liz, life was so cruel now look at you. I wish I could have shared this with Mom and Dad.” I sobbed. As if on cue, the phone rang. I listened to the message play, it was the same message Dad had recorded long ago. That had me bawling until …

“Princess, pick up if you’re home. The hospital tried to call us, but we were in-fight returning from your house in Hawaii at the time. You should see our tans. Dad and I miss you, dear. Thank goodness you weren’t injured. We are going to have a long talk about *that*, young lady. You could have been killed. Why don’t you take up a sensible hobby like volunteer work or finding a husband? Dad and I aren’t getting any younger, Janet. We should be back in town by noon tomorrow. We’ll call when you’re to pick us up. I always get a kick out of the reaction people have when you walk up and carry our bags.”

“M-mom? Is that you? You and Dad were …Thank god you’re alright!”

“What’s wrong, Sweetie? You sound like you’re crying.

It was Mom. It couldn’t be but it was. Another memory rushed in. As Janet, I had the same parents and grandparents as I'd had as Greg; except I’d been born when my parents were near 40, not 30 as before. My parents had likewise been born over ten years later in their parent’s lives. They had not been in that terrible traffic accident years before and had not died. My memory formed a picture of my mother in an elegant gown. She was my escort at the Academy Awards that glorious evening I’d won. I remembered how beautiful she looked and how happy she was for me.

We’d -- I mean the whole family and Mary, she wasn’t engaged then -- spent a month in Australia while I did the most recent SI Swimsuit Edition photo shoot. I remembered celebrating my 24th birthday in Perth, Mary and I got very drunk and teased the men mercilessly. Liz and her husband got us to our hotel safely despite having to care for Aaron and their newborn, Caitlin. She chewed us out in the morning too. What a hangover! Liz showed us no mercy, but then she is the older, sensible sister. We celebrated our parents wedding anniversary on our return to the states.

The shock of hearing Mom’s voice made me feel faint. I gathered myself together and we had a long conversation. We only stopped because her cell battery died.

~~All these marvelous things happened because I bought that surplus transceiver. If I hadn’t …Thank God I did.~~ The phone rang again. It was my Dad’s cell — we have caller ID.

“Janet, dear, it’s Mom. I nearly forgot. That nice Mr. Spielberg called us again. You really should take that part in the next Indiana Jones movie or is that Indiana Joan with you portraying Harrison Ford’s granddaughter,” she laughed. My mother was alive and so was dad. I knew what I had to do…

* * * * Not quite one-year later * * * *

“To think, Don, tomorrow will be one-year to the day since we met. You were awfully forward. I mean we hadn’t even kissed and you were undressing me. When you fondled my breasts … Don are you blushing? You know I’m teasing. Promise you’ll wear your EMT uniform to bed. Do it for me, Hon. I promise you won’t regret it.” <>i>~~God I love the look on his face when I tease him. The look on his face when I tell him we’re pregnant should make for a memorable night. I’m so lucky. One last detail.~~ “Dear, could you help me with an errand? Don, Honey, let’s go now. We have to meet with everyone at the church for our rehearsal this evening.”

* * * *

You’re donating all these old circuit boards and meters to us, Ms. Janet? Looks like they came from an old military transceiver. A pity the transmitter stage is burnt out. Would you look at that? It’s as if someone took a sledgehammer to the antenna and the computer. Our students will make good use of it. We can take the boards apart and get a lot of usable components. This is most generous. It would have cost us thousands to obtain all these new. And you gave us a sizable check on top of this donation. I’m dumbstruck. May I ask why you’re donating this?” the inner-city high school principal asked.

“I got everything I wanted from it and then some, believe me …

* * * *

FIN