DESMOND PROCTOR'S DUMP

 

DESMOND PROCTOR'S DUMP

by

Albert Woods

Desmond Proctor, a twenty-nine year old, lanky, slightly acne-scarred, but otherwise unremarkable computer programmer, had a theory. It ran like this: data can be fed into a computer; either laboriously in dribs and drabs over a long period, or more impressively en masse, in one simple transferring operation from another computer, or storage devices and media. Why, therefore, should it not follow that the human brain - which we know can absorb, and retain, vast amounts of information - also be capable of accepting blocks of data, whole libraries, languages, possibly memories; all in one hit. Why not?

His job, though clearly requiring a certain mathematical logic, had never demanded inventiveness; and had not been the impetus behind this thinking. What had, was his appearance. In simple terms, he was ashamed of it; embarrassed by his awkward frame, and forever wishing that he were rugged and handsome, able to attract the office girls who, more often than not, gave each other telling glances whenever he lumbered through the data processing department. He wished, even if for a short time only, he could have a body like Rod Kirkbride's, though not - which was why he embarked upon his scheme - the man's mind. Rod might be macho from a physical point of view but, in every other respect, he was a dunce; a dirty minded dunce at that, forever pawing girls, pinching their bottoms - and getting away with it. A truly deplorable specimen.

Besides, who'd want Kirkbride's job? Systems Engineer, he liked to call himself. Maintenance Monkey, was more like it. All he did, indeed all he could do in Desmond’s estimation, was grease the tape drives and replace fuses. He knew nothing about the science of computing. And that was just as well; for if he had, he would never have agreed to Desmond Sellotaping the electrodes to his temples.

What the programmer had told Rod to lure him into the computer suite, after work, was that he was developing a new method of inputting data. If the idea worked, as he thought it should, it would bring an end to lengthy keyboard operations, and start a new era in information technology. Once perfected, anybody would be able to use the machines as second nature; in a totally expert fashion. To whet his man's appetite, he had promised that time spent, now, would be rewarded with a cut of the massive profits that would soon flow from the invention. Rod, whose craving for cash ranked second only to his craving for sex, swallowed the bait, hook, line and sinker.

"Can you feel anything yet?" Desmond asked him, after a few seconds of twelve volt cranial stimulation.

"No I can’t," said Rod.

"You can now," Desmond was sure of it, having upped the output; the lack of any physical response from his victim signalling that the first stage was complete. Kirkbride's mind had electronically decanted into the computer’s circuitry, and a few hurried inputs on the keyboard confirmed it. Blip, blip, blip, characters appeared on the visual display unit. "Where the hell am I?" they read – followed by a string of flashing, emboldened, exclamation marks.

It would take some time to prepare himself for the transfer, so Desmond, fearful of a power cut - which had the potential to wipe the machine's memory entirely - depressed the 'Return' 'Stop' and 'Save' keys, thus temporarily dumping the hapless Kirkbride to the system’s hard drive.

Now, before continuing, he took the precaution of inspecting the goods; after all, he justified his action to himself, he would be spending a few days, maybe more, inside Kirkbride's body. It seemed only sensible to make sure that it wasn't defective; and bearing the man’s questionable habits in mind, nothing would surprise him. Actually, it was not at all bad, even around the genital area where, if there were to be any evidence, the likelihood of disease was highest.

The body was quite alive, breathing normally and, in every detectable way, perfectly healthy. All it lacked was data in the nerve centre which, if all went according to plan, Desmond would now give it. To achieve this, he needed to connect a second set of electrochemical cells to his own head, and load himself into memory.

Then would come the tricky bit; for with his natural reluctance to involve a third party to operate the controls - once both bodies were inanimate - Desmond had had to write a subroutine which would take over the next stage automatically, and effect the transfer. That, again, was his constant worry; not if it would work, but whether there might be a power cut right in the middle of the proceedings, leaving him helplessly draining out of the silicon limbo. His employers had yet to invest in an uninterruptable power supply. For this reason, he had set the machine to also make a backup copy of himself onto disk, so that when the emergency instructions he had left in his desk drawer were found, both minds could be restored to their bodies. Still, that shouldn’t be necessary: it was worth the risk, and Desmond sat back with the computer on 'Run', dreams of a week of orgiastic sex evacuating his brain, along with the rest of his life experience.

It worked.

Desmond opened his new eyes to see his usual body sitting opposite him. It was also reviving; and the look on its face betrayed its horror for, as yet, Rod Kirkbride's brain pattern did not know that it was now residing in a new shell so was, quite understandably, recoiling wildly at what was perceived as the presence of a double. Desmond had been wise to manacle his old self to the chair: it was, as he'd suspected it might, showing signs of imminent violence.

"What's going on?" Kirkbride bleated.

"There's been a slight hitch," Desmond lied. "It seems we've changed bodies." He had anticipated this reaction, with a suitable explanation ready in order to pacify and reassure his guinea pig. "Don't worry," he concluded it with a confident summing-up. "I can reverse the process..."

"Thank God!"

"....but..."

"But what?"

"But not tonight. I'll need to do some more work on the program first."

"And how long will that take?"

"Not long. A few days, maybe. No time at all, really."

"So what do we do in the meantime?" Kirkbride was, seemingly, beginning to come to terms with his situation.

"Well," Desmond pretended to give the matter his full consideration, "we'll just have to be each other for a while. Obviously, we can't tell anybody what's happened. There'd be too much sensational interest; they'd probably whisk us away to some research establishment, and start doing experiments. God only knows what that might lead to. They could even cock things up to such an extent that we'd never be able to swap back."

The estimation of Rod had been right. He was gullible; so malleable that he accepted the advice, and agreed to live a lie until the programmer could perfect the restoration.

After he’d packed off Kirkbride to his own flat for the night, the first thing Desmond was gagging to do was to get to grips with some of the office girls. Janice would be as good a starting point as any. She was always canoodling with Rod behind the filing cabinets and, more than once, Desmond had interrupted their antics to find the dirty git with his hand up her jumper. He looked out her address in the address book, which was in his inside pocket.

She was very pleased to see him. "Hello Rod, darling," she beamed from the open doorway. "Come for the usual have you?"

"Er... yes," said Desmond, already falling into his planned routine of keeping his responses brief, lest he be drawn into some conversation which would betray his complete ignorance of anything that had previously transpired between the girl and the randy engineer, let alone what the intriguing ‘usual’ actually consisted of.

"Oh, goody goody," Janice cooed, making straight for the bedroom. "Right, lover;" she grinned, saucily, in his face when they got there, "it’s in the wardrobe."

Desmond studied her, puzzled. "Sorry," he said, feigning fatigue. "I've had a bit of a busy day. What’s in the wardrobe?"

"Silly boy," she grinned, lasciviously. "The Desmond Proctor suit, of course. Go on; put it on."

What on earth could she be talking about? Desmond Proctor suit? Was this some cruel joke that her and Kirkbride had been sharing at his expense?

"Here it is," the salivating creature disturbed his train of thought. "Hurry up. I can't wait to see you in it."

Rather than risk her rejection, Desmond did as she asked; and it felt most unsettling. The suit was identical to his usual work one; even down to the Boy's Brigade enamel badge which he always wore in the buttonhole.

"That's better," Janice said, once he'd got into it. "And now, Desmond my darling, let’s be animal."

Desmond? How could she possibly know he was really Desmond. "I'm Rod Kirkbride," he claimed, just as her knickers hit the floor. “What’s all this Desmond business? Why call me Desmond?”

"You scumbag!” she snarled, starting to hurriedly dress again. "If you’re going to spoil everything, you can bugger off!"

Before he had time to plead with the girl, and agree to respond to any name that took her fancy, the bewildered programmer found himself shoved out, with the door slamming firmly, and finally, behind him.

He sloped in to the Two Brewers for a settling drink. Girl must be crackers, he told himself. Perhaps Pauline from Accounts would be a better prospect. She'd been seen messing about with Kirkbride several times and, from what he’d overheard the lads in the canteen saying, was usually ‘well up for it’. That sounded good; and her address was also in the man’s book.

"Oh look at you," she greeted him when he arrived. "You sweet, sweet man. How thoughtful. Come in, please."

“Thoughtful?” Desmond questioned, glad of such an encouraging reception, yet mystified at the same time. “What have I done?” he asked.

"The suit," she said. "You're already dressed for action. For that, I'm going to let you do absolutely anything you want with me; so long as I can call you Des, while we’re at it."

So this was the 'in' thing, it seemed. All of them taking the piss. How cruel they were. "What's wrong with Desmond Proctor, anyway?" he couldn't resist challenging, quite harshly.

"What do you mean?" Pauline, whose sizeable breasts were already unleashed, and bobbling right under his nose, looked lost.

"Well, sod you," the goggle-eyed Desmond protested. "He's not all that bad, is he? I mean, I know he's no oil painting but, surely, you don't have to be so bloody nasty about him."

That was it. The girl’s hereto lustful expression immediately scrunched into one of total contempt. "Get out of here, Kirkbride!" she snapped. Again, Desmond found himself both out on the street, and achingly frustrated.

 

Despite the unfathomable experiences and disappointments of the evening, it amused Desmond when he turned in for work next morning; being the maintenance engineer, having all the girls winking and blowing him kisses. Even Janice and Pauline seemed to have forgiven him for whatever it was that he'd done wrong last night. Janice went so far as to apologise. "Sorry Rod," she whispered, while he was kneeling beside her desk to change the toner cartridge in her laser printer. "But you know how it is,” she excused herself, taking his hand and guiding it up under her skirt. “You know what I have to have."

Desmond didn't know, but had quickly learned to smile in agreement. He was amazed at her brazenness, and noticed that she was staring straight at Rod Kirkbride who was, this morning, sitting in his desk, and inhabiting Desmond’s unattractive body. "Can I ask you something Pauline?" he said, concocting a lie. "I know this might sound a bit queer, but I think I did something to myself at the weekend playing Rugby. I bashed my head, and I'm not altogether certain if it's affected my memory. Remind me why you want me dressed up like Desmond Proctor."

"You know," Pauline went all coy.

"But I can't quite remember..."

"I don't like to say..."

Desmond's hand ferreted roughly. "Go on," he urged.

"Well," she was distracted, gazing, entranced, at the Proctor body, "just look at him. He's magnificent. I... in fact, we, none of us can resist him. We're completely besotted with Desmond; and regardless of who we're with, he's all we want to think about. I suppose you'd call him our ultimate fantasy man. But, of course, you know that, don't you, Rod."

"Oh, er, yes," Desmond manufactured a cough to mask a choking gulp. "I do - now you remind me."

"And guess what," Pauline came over all gooey, innocently pouring more salt onto the wound. "He's come out of his shell, all of a sudden; invited me and Janice back to his place, tonight. Says we're going to have one of those threesome things. Said we can share him. Sounds like bliss."

 

There was no delay, now. "It's done," Desmond told Rod Kirkbride that very afternoon. "I've worked out the reversal process. We can change back immediately."

"Ah," said Rod guardedly, putting down a ‘Basic Guide to Fortran Programming’ manual. "I'm not so sure we can, old chap. There's a problem."

"Problem? What sort of problem?"

"It's your subroutine. It's not running properly. I've been testing it out. There's a bug in there somewhere."

Desmond was appalled. "You've been playing with that?" he reeled. "It's not your job. You've no right to tamper with it."

"Why not? I am the programmer, after all."

"Don’t be funny, Rod; you're not. I am."

"No; you're the engineer. And I've been watching your pathetic attempts at servicing."

"Well, anybody can do that; but not everybody can write programmes. Now, exactly what is this so-called bug?"

Kirkbride moved his current body to one side to allow Desmond’s current body access to the keyboard. "It's the 'Copy' facility," he said. "Whenever you press it, the computer goes into 'Delete' mode. I've lost two discs-full of data that way already. I don't know what they had on them, but there’s sweet F A on them now."

"You bloody idiot!" Desmond cursed, urgently removing the top cover from the apparatus. "They were copies of you and me; backups - in case anything goes wrong. We'll have to do it without them now; there's no other way. Ah, here we are, here's the trouble." On saying that, he stalled in a moment of unwelcome realisation, his face reddening. "Ehm, my fault actually,” he mumbled. “I must have accidentally cross-wired these relays when I cleaned this machine earlier."

"And anybody can do my job?" Kirkbride scoffed.

"Maybe not," Desmond whispered, grudgingly, unravelling a loom of twisted flex.

Once the suite was clear of other personnel, the pair sat themselves down before the computer console, and donned the electrodes. "Are you sure it's fixed?" Kirkbride asked, doubting, and clearly anxious.

"Course I am. Everything’s in order. I've tried 'Copy' on several discs. It worked every time."

"But what about the other commands? Have you tested the rest of the modes?"

"Really!” Desmond huffed. “Those we need."

"Well I hope you're right," Kirkbride sighed. "Tell you what;" he changed the subject, "I'd give anything to leave things as they are. You lucky devil. Those two birds, Pauline and Janice, are crackers about you. Of course, it's your intellect that attracts them. And I've laid it all on for you tonight. You're going to get that mind of yours well and truly blown; and not just your mind, I wouldn’t mind betting."

"So I believe," Desmond grinned, smugly, at what was now, he felt, his not so unattractive body, then positively smacked the appropriate keys to urgently start the reversal process.

 

At the flat, the girls were waiting with eager, expectant smiles all over their pretty faces. "Where's Desmond?" Janice asked, as Rod Kirkbride staggered in, dragging a huge cardboard box, tied with ribbon.

"He's here," said the systems engineer, who was now back in his own body. “I’m just the delivery boy.”

The anticipation was supplemented with admiration. "In that box?" Pauline pointed. "What a card he is. What a brain."

"Indeed," Kirkbride agreed, untying the bow, and starting to open the lid. "You'll both get your fair share. I think you'll find he'll leave nothing to the imagination."

"Kinky," Janice approved. "Trust Des to come gift-wrapped. He's got such a clever mind. He's so good at everything."

"Well he's not so hot at servicing computers and peripherals," Kirkbride couldn’t help but snort; triumphantly tipping the contents out onto the floor. "I told him the printer lines were yellow, not green. If you two are planning an equal split, I reckon it should work out at five thousand-odd pages each."

 

*  *  *

Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

 

 

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