Though I hesitate to waste time with the gorey details of reconstructive
surgery I thought it might be amusing for others who dabble in the occult
(like Mad Dog, perhaps) to describe the poor monster now roaming the
countryside of Chicago.

It was a poor PB 170 struck down in the prime of life that Igor carried
over the stone entryway as the rain pelted the massive oak doors of our
isolated laboratory.

"Dead..." he mumbled, as he unwrapped the oilcloth and laid the lifeless
thing on the table next to the blazing candelabra. The creature lay cold
and still in spite of our crude attempts to use a borrowed battery and
power adapter to bring it back.

"We'll have to open her up and see what gives," I said. Igor flinched, but
watched with morbid fascination as I removed the five screws that held the
monster's case halves together, and slowly parted the halves to reveal its
innermost secrets. Inside we found clues. Three of the threaded inserts
that held the internal organs in place had been damaged, probably by a
fall.

"Igor, you must scour the village for a hard drive, a young one with lots
of vital energy. I'm afraid our friend here has suffered a mishap, probably
while working on a problem for its former owner."

He nodded and slipped quietly back into the storm. Meanwhile I ordered a
new BTI battery and went to the cellar to try to find some bolts from my
collection of old aircraft instrument parts.

A few weeks later Igor came smiling into the library as I scrawled notes in
the yellowed journal he crept to the side of my desk and removed a silver
static bag from his pocket. "Pretty," he mumbled, and carefully unwrapped a
small box about the size of a deck of playing cards. It was a hard drive,
110 MB and just what we needed for our experiment.

Later that evening I finished attaching all the nerves and muscles, closed
up the little book who was beginning to look like an industrial makeup kit,
and pressed the great switch that would tell us if all our work had been in
vain. Angelic chimes echoed through the vaulted chambers.

"Now, Igor, we must teach it to think for itself. System Seven Point One
would be just the ticket."  And it was. We were rewarded shortly by a
smiling face and the happy march of extensions as the plucky little drive
Igor had brought me whirred to life.

There was just one problem. The little creature was having trouble
communicating with others of its kind. Once again my faithful servant was
sent to the village to find an express modem but he could find only a
PowerPort Gold. But that did the trick. "Breedley-arr, Breedley-arr, skreed
skreed."

Frankenbook is now, as I have said, employed full time in Chicago, and
though scorned by some of the locals there as rather old and clunky it
appears to have a long and reliable life ahead of it.

Not so technically interesting, but dang it feels nice to bring something
back to life.



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