It had all been quite annoying.

After all the years of toil and ridicule and steadily-worsening monetary privations, Krish’s snarkwave research had finally been entering a new phase.

A critical phase, and he needed peace and quiet, especially at night when the waves were at their strongest and most burbly. He had to be able to concentrate; the adjustments now were so incredibly fiddly and delicate.

And then Miss Hobhouse had come along, and simply insisted on making all of this even more difficult.

Miss Hobhouse was his upstairs neighbor, a young woman with violently red hair who worked as a clerk or somesuch in one of the many anonymous office blocks which disfigured the Eastside. This, of course, was not the problem. The problem was how she chose to spend her time after finishing her day’s work: she had several female friends, and insisted on regularly inviting (evidently) every last one of them over for... Krish dredged up the recollection from somewhere that the phrase was “hen parties”. No matter. Whatever their exact name, these gatherings invariably featured a great deal of laughter and thumping about and endless strings of loud and discordant noises which were, he eventually realized, intended to be a form of music.

And it all lasted far into the night.

Krish’s patience was vast, but given enough time even the mightiest of mountains can be worn down into gravel, and finally he had marched upstairs, confronted Miss Hobhouse and admonished her about her nocturnal activities.

She had been less than accommodating. In fact, as much as it pained Krish to say such things about a young woman, she had been quite rude and dismissive, and had even employed common vulgarities.

Somewhat shaken, Krish had retired to his apartment, back to the pristine sanctity of his workbench with its towering racks of equipment and keyboards and screens upon which the Equations danced in green, where he brewed a restorative cup of tea and considered his options.

He could register a complaint with the apartment building’s landlord, but that individual, while remaining essentially civil, had always evidently regarded Krish as some sort of bizarre extraterrestrial tolerated only because of the rent checks it produced, and thus might be disinclined to help.

Alternately, he (Krish) could contact the local constabulary, but, while Krish would be the first to acknowledge that the long years spent working alone at his bench might have dulled his interpersonal relationship skills somewhat, he still had the flickerings of a notion that any official visitors might prove to be more sympathetic towards Miss Hobhouse than towards himself. At least if they were policeMEN...

Move to a new domicile? No. This city, this block, was by far the best snarkwave junction he had been able to locate in the country. No. In the hemisphere. Once he had fully untugled the waves, it would be simplicity itself to use them anywhere, but now.. no.

And even if there had been an equally good location to move to, he now had far too much delicate equipment stacked up and precisely aligned; if he disconnected the handwavium matrix regulators and the vorpal influx forks from the power grid.. even for a few minutes... it would throw his schedule into even further disarray.

And then, as he plumbed the cooling dregs of his cup, an idea occurred.

The equipment..

His research..

He tapped at the workbench's battered top. He had noted several months previously, just in passing, that if allowed to debrillig in precisely the right, or rather wrong way, focused snarkwaves might have certain unexpected side effects on human biorhythmic cycles. Particularly when those cycles were.. at rest..

At the time, he had dismissed the issue as irrelevant, since when his snarkwave technology was finally ready to be put into wide-scale use for the betterment of all society, it went without saying that the proper safeguards would be rigorously employed. A full shell of brillignets would be cheaply manufactured and installed in every wabe..

But now...

He returned the teacup to its waiting saucer, picked up his pen from its holder, and extracted his latest notepad from its storage slot. This last item had already been filled approximately halfway full with various notations. He turned to the first unused page and proceeded to knit a knotted string of calculations, all narrowing down to a final figure.

While it did not literally dance, it was nevertheless distinctly promising.

He went back and re-checked his work, knot by knot.

He reached the figure again. It had survived the review process unscathed, and this time he took his ruler and underlined it.

Yes.

He returned the pen to its holder, and reslotted the notepad. With only a bit of reconfiguring and boosting of signals, Miss Hobhouse’s apartment would just be within range of his workbench equipment. All that would be needed on her end, so to speak, would be some sort of focusing node...

And it wouldn’t have to be terribly large...

He rolled up his figurative sleeves and set to work. It meant another night lost, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made, and in the end it was a success: he was able to cobble together and compress the needed components just enough to squeeze them all into the hollow interior of a large “gemstone” which he constructed out of a quantity of Green Handwavium extracted from the dwindling store in his refigerator. (One small mercy was that he did not have to use any of his remaining stocks of Red or Puce. He couldn’t spare even a milligram of those...) The stone, the node, was then attached to a small metal band. The resulting “ring” was bulky and an esthetic nightmare, but it appeared functional.

The next problem was getting the node into Miss Hobhouse’s close possession. Despite young women’s oft-reported fondness for jewelry, he strongly suspected that if he simply presented the node to the one in question, she would immediately become suspicious of his motives, and refuse to accept it.

He therefore did a bit of research, consulting the proper authorities, and an alternate method of deployment quickly presented itself. He extracted a sheet of plain white paper from storage, sliced off the half which bore a watermark and wrote out a missive which gave the impression that the node had been dispatched to Miss Hobhouse by an anonymous swain. (Despite the regular gatherings with the other women, he had the definite impression that Miss Hobhouse prefered the romantic company of males.) The note and the node were sealed up together in a small box, addressed and mailed off to Miss Hobhouse. He even found the walk to the corner mailbox to be nicely invigorating; he really did need to get out and get more exercise..

He contrived to be lurking in the general vicinty of the apartment's bank of mailboxes the next day at delivery time, and he saw that his “gift” had indeed been delivered. As an added bonus, a certain treatise he had much been looking forward to reading was delivered to his box. The hours passed, and the scanning equipment abruptly illuminated itself on the workbench, and sent its report into the Equations. Krish put aside the treatise (intriguing, but also containing at least two critical errors; if he ever had a moment, he would have to dispatch another missive, this one to the authors) and settled himself in at the controls.

Yes, she had put the node upon her finger; he could see the figures shift as she moved about her own apartment above his head. It might have been possible, with a bit more more powerful and advanced equipment, to engage her mind directly while she was still fully conscious, but with his current arrangement... his calculations had indicated that he could only broadcast continuous low-level feelings, a species of pacification and contentment, which would hopefully discourage her from removing the node prematurely.

His calculations proved to be correct. She did not remove the node, and after several anxious hours, the more jagged lines of code knitted into her Equation flattened out into smooth waves. Miss Hobhouse had finally gone to sleep. Krish made more adjustments, millimeter by careful millimeter, tightening the waves, focusing..

The lines went flat, then began to shimmer almost subliminally around the tight hard knot. If his theories were correct, her mind was now truly brilliged. The most critical juncture. Could he burble in a few simple strings of instructions, without being physically present?

He typed at one of the keyboards and then he waited, every muscle tensed.

The minutes crawled past.

The Equation shifted.. shifted.. stopped.

There were three - distinct - thumps on the ceiling.

He rose from his bench, and blew out a steadying breath while extracting his handkerchief and polishing his eyeglasses. His remote testing unit stood at hand, freshly stocked with new batteries for the occasion. (It had been a long time since he had had any use for it..) As he had never possessed the funds to purchase truly first-rate components for it, the wretched device was heavy and bulky. He secured a hold on the attached handle and, sagging slightly to one side, went to the door...

Time for the final phase of the experiment.

But no. An obstacle presented itself. Lurking in the hallway was Miss Brannigan. She was a tall bespectacled woman with blonde hair who lived on the next floor down, in Unit 23, and was another blight on Krish’s existence, although admittedly far less of one than Miss Hobhouse and her friends. Miss Brannigan was employed by some variety of bank downtown, and continually insisted on showing an excessive interest in Krish and his work, always questioning him about both whenever the two of them met, which was more often than might be attributed to mere chance. If his snarkwave theories had not met with such universal scorn in the greater scientific community, Krish might have suspected that Miss Brannigan was some sort of covert agent in the employ of a hostile power, attempting to gain access to his research. But it appeared this was not the case, and so she remained merely an annoyance.

In any event, he finally extricated himself from the latest conversational imbroglio with both his patience and dignity intact, and proceeded up the stairs to the fourth floor and down the hall to the proper door. Unit 42. A glance in either direction. No one, especially no Miss Brannigan, was in sight.

He knocked. If something had gone wrong at this stage, always a possibility, however remote, it was prudent not to simply barge into the waiting situation.

There was no reply, and so he tested the doorknob. The instructions had included the order that the portal be unlocked, if it was not already in that state.

The knob turned and the door opened with a slight squeak that magnified itself to thunder.

The only illumination inside was what filtered through the excessively frilly curtains from the lamppost in the apartment’s parking lot.

Except.. no.. for a single sharp speck of green light.

Krish squared his shoulders and stepped across the threshold.

Krish closed and locked the door. He placed a careful hand on the section of wall where, in his own presumably identical apartment, the lightswitch was located, and he was rewarded with the feel of the plastic nub discretely poking into his palm. He flipped the switch.

The first thing he noticed was that the door to the hall closet was open. Such things offended his sense of order, and he pushed it shut.

He turned.

Miss Hobhouse was standing in the middle of her living room, her legs spread slightly apart, the broom she had (presumably) used to strike the floor lying discarded at her feet. As previously noted, she had red hair. She also was the possessor of rather pale skin, and a spray of freckles across her cheeks, which perhaps made her appear somewhat younger than she might otherwise have.

Her slender form was draped with a rather flimsy blue... sleeping garment. An depressingly good match for the curtains. Krish supposed that the object must have a name, but he didn’t know what it was. The next thing that came to his attention was that, yes, she was wearing the node, and the hand to which the node had been attached was floating up in the air, as if underwater, or a similar environment of reduced gravity. (Which was rather ironic, because the mechanism wouldn’t survive prolonged submersion in water.)

The node was, of course, the source of the green light.

He moved closer.

He had to admit to a trace of nervousness. Miss Hobhouse’s eyes were now.. rather disturbing. But that was only part of the problem: while those eyes didn’t look at him, but rather stared straight ahead unblinkingly, the node-bearing hand was not entirely random in its movements but rather followed him about whenever he changed position

Much in the manner of a king cobra he had once witnessed, as it reared up to strike...

He berated himself, and regained the proper scientific detachment. He started to fumble with his remote testing unit, thinking as he often did that it really required three hands to operate properly..

He paused as a thought came to him. In a sense, he now possessed three hands.

Did he not?

He cleared his throat and took the verbal plunge.

“Can you... hear me, Miss Hobhouse?”

“yes, Controller. i can hear you very well.” Her voice was soft and flat and calm, an enormous and not unpleasant change from her usual emotional caterwaulling.

“Good.. I would like you to...” He paused with raised eyebrows. “Controller? What do you mean, Miss Hobhouse?”

“you are the Controller of the Green, Controller.”

“The green.” He looked at the light of the node again. “That is an intriguing reaction, since I did not specifically code that into... But no. Miss Hobhouse. Please call me.. ah... ‘Professor’. Do you understand?”

“i understand, Professor.”

“Now then. Please hold up your hand. Your... free hand.”

“i Hear and i Obey.” The indicated hand floated up, and joined the one attached to the node. She now looked like a stereotypical sleepwalker in one of those insipid Hollywood productions that for some reason people insisted on churning out.

But then, she was a sleepwalker...

Wasn’t she?

He passed his hand in front of her eyes, which continued to not blink.

“You.. are asleep, Miss Hobhouse?”

“yes, Professor. i Dream in the Green.”

“You.. ‘dream in the green’, you say?”

“yes, Professor.”

“And when you wake up tomorrow morning?”

“i will no longer Dream in the Green.”

“Will you remember any of this?”

“i will Remember nothing, Professor.”

He nodded absently. With his current equipment, that was what his calculations had predicted.

“Please turn your free hand.. palm up.”

“i Hear and i Obey.” She rotated the indicated appendage in a smooth motion.

“Please hold this for a moment, Miss Hobhouse.” With a slight grunt, he placed the remote unit in her hand.

“i Hear and i Obey.” He noted with interest that her arm did not bow or tremble under the weight.

“Thank you.” He depressed a button on the unit and the device became operational, all of the various readout screens lighting up, minature Equations. The unit featured a pair of pointed probes, attached to the side by a dangling pair of leads. He untangled all of this and carefully touched the probe-tips to the surface of the node, first at one set of junctions, then another. The readouts flickered reassuringly: everything seemed to be in order, if anything, doing better than he had expected. It seemed he had actually underestimated the effect of the unbrilliged snarkwaves on Miss Hobhouse’s sleeping mind. “Fascinating.”

Miss Hobhouse did not reply.

He folded up the probes and stashed them away. Then he reclaimed the remote unit, deactivated it and placed it on a conveniently-located coffee table. He winced; the piece of furniture, while sturdy, had been painted a catacysmic shade of purple.

Miss Hobhouse’s hand remained in place. Moved by the spirit of scientific inquiry, Krish gave it a gentle downward push, or rather he attempted to. It was as if he was attempting to shift a reinforced steel bar.

“You may lower your hand now, Miss Hobhouse.”

“i Hear and i Obey.”

The hand instantly went limp and dropped back to her side.

Krish walked around her, slowly studying her from all sides...

He felt he could use a better view...

“Miss Hobhouse. Please go stand on the coffeetable..”

“i Hear and i Obey.” Her movements were like her eyes. Disturbing. Somehow simultaneously fluid and jerky, very much in the manner of a well-oiled machine. And when she was in position on the table, she stopped with a total suddenness, as if she had been deactivated in the same fashion as the probe unit sitting next to her. Only the node moved, following him as once again he circled her.

Her stance...

“Miss Hobhouse. Please pose more.. decorously.”

“i Hear and i Obey.”

To his extreme annoyance, she began to.. fondle... herself.

“No, no!” Her hands returned to their previous positions. “Do you not know the meaning of the word ‘decorous’?”

“it means ‘sexy’, Professor.”

He took a moment to hurl interior imprecations towards whatever benighted individual had been tasked with Miss Hobhouse's education.

“Did you not take any ballet lessons as a girl?”

“no, Professor.”

He sighed. The toe of his shoe nudged the broom handle, and he automatically picked it up and leaned it out of the way against a convenient.. audio speaker. (Now he knew where the ‘music’ had been coming from...) Then he gingerly perched himself on a sofa which was next to the coffeetable. Actually, first he perched, then settled back in pleased surprise. Its color scheme was as regrettable as the coffee table, but he was forced to admit that it was quite comfortable.

Staring up at Miss Hobhouse, his curiosity continued to tickle at him.

“You work in.. an office?”

“no, Professor. i dream in the Green. i Hear and then i Obey”

“Oh. Yes. Quite. But when you are not dreaming.. you work in an office?”

“yes, Professor.”

“Which office was it again? What talents do you possess?”

“i work for adeline wholesale theatrical supplies, Professor, which is located at 523 detroit avenue southwest. i can type 120 words a minute. i can use the Blockhouse Database program. i can ride a horse. i am a qualified masseuse. i-”

“A masseuse?”

“yes, Professor.”

“Well.. then..” He hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. He was feeling a trifle tense. “Perhaps you can give me a.. what is the phrase.. a backrub?”

“i Hear and i Obey.”

She stepped down off the coffeetable and circled around behind him, the gauzy wisps of her garment swirling silently around her bare feet. Then her hands clamped into place on his shoulders and began to work.

It seemed she had not been exaggerating her talents, and he settled back further. Combined with the softness of the sofa, it was quite pleasant. He glanced again at the speaker, and the stereo system to which it was hooked. It was a much more elaborate model than his rather threadbare system. There was also a cabinet filled with numerous compact discs. Krish eyed this last item.

“I don’t suppose you have any Mozart compositions in your musical collection, Miss Hobhouse?”

“no, Professor.”

He nodded in resignation.

“I suppose no young lady does such things anymore, in this degraded day and age?”

“i do not Understand the question, Professor.”

“Listen to real music. Attend ballet classes.”

“anna took ballet classes when she was a child, Professor.”

“Oh? Who is Anna?”

“anna lee, Professor. she works at ottoman’s discount furniture. when i am not dreaming in the Green, she is my friend.”

“Oh..” He considered. “Is Miss Lee one of those who attend your... parties?”

“yes, Professor.”

The parties. His sense of contentment grew exponentally. He no longer had.. to deal.. with-

It was then, only then, that the horrific realization crashed down over him.

when he had first envisioned this experiment...

he had overlooked one critical point...

He could now gain total control over Miss Hobhouse’s thoughts and actions when she was asleep...

in the green...

But when she was awake...

She would still be assembling her friends and hosting the parties.

Continued in Part Two