Chapter 4 — The Faxtron-7200

April 2, 1950 Rain. Again. The city had two seasons. Rain... and waiting for rain. The Detective stood at the office window, watching droplets race each other down the glass. One reached the bottom first. The others never stood a chance. Behind him, the telephone sat quietly. Almost too quietly. The silence didn't last. It rang once. Twice. Three times. He answered on the fourth. "Information Technology Investigations." The voice on the other end trembled. "I... I think we need you." The Detective took another sip of coffee. "Most people do." "It's the fax machine." His hand stopped halfway to the desk. "...Which one?" There was a pause. Then, quietly... "The old one." The Detective closed his eyes. "Don't touch it." "We already did." Another pause. "It printed something." "What?" "...We didn't send anything." The Detective set the coffee down. "I'll be there." The Accounting Building hadn't changed since his last visit. Same brick walls. Same squeaky floors. Same secretary behind the front desk. She looked relieved. "I was hoping you'd come." "I was hoping I wouldn't have to." She pointed toward the records room. "It's in there." The Detective nodded once. "I know." The room smelled like paper. Old paper. The kind that had yellowed before anyone in the room was born. In the corner... Sat the machine. Beige. Rounded edges. A single orange light blinked lazily. The brass nameplate had dulled with age. But it was still readable. FAXTRON-7200 The Detective removed his hat. Not out of respect. Out of habit. Sue stepped into the room carrying a sheet of paper. "I found this." He took it. Wrinkled. Still warm. Across the top... In faded thermal lettering... PAPER TRAY TOO FULL He looked into the empty paper tray. "...That's impossible." Sue shrugged. "I didn't write it." "I know." He walked around the machine once. No hurry. No wasted movement. The telephone cord looked fine. Power was steady. No loose covers. No broken hinges. It looked... Perfect. He hated that. Without a word, he picked up the handset attached to the fax line. He dialed a number from memory. The room filled with sound. A piercing chorus of screeches, whistles, and static. Like two diplomats trying to negotiate world peace through a pair of broken harmonicas. Sue covered her ears. "What is that?" The Detective listened carefully. "Conversation." "That doesn't sound like talking." "It isn't." He hung up. The room fell silent again. Except... The Faxtron hadn't finished. Its relay clicked. Once. Twice. Then the rollers turned. Slowly. Deliberately. No one had touched it. A sheet of thermal paper emerged. Blank. Almost. At the very bottom... In tiny letters... READY The Detective stared at it. Sue whispered, "What does that mean?" He folded the paper in half. "It means..." He slipped it into his coat pocket. "...it's awake." Sue looked at him, waiting for an explanation. She didn't get one. Instead, he knelt beside the machine. Ran his hand gently across the side panel. Just beneath years of chipped paint... His fingers stopped. Almost hidden beneath the dust... Someone had scratched four initials into the metal. F.I. Old. Very old. Older than the machine should have been. The Detective's expression changed. Only for a second. Long enough for Sue to notice. "You've seen this before." He stood. Once again placing his hat on his head. "Once." "What happened?" He looked toward the rain-streaked window. His reflection stared back. "I lost." Outside, thunder rolled across the city. The Detective walked into the rain without another word. Back in the records room... The little orange light blinked. Steady. Patient. Waiting. Far beneath the machine... Almost hidden against the base... A tiny brass tag caught the light. Stamped into it were six words. Property of Faxtron Industries – Prototype 7200