Banyan tree, beneath, they sat it. Branches over shading, Sphinx beyond in sunlight, bright on stone.
Sheba with all ears, intent.
Let us, said the Interpreters, we six burghers, no, not nine suitors. Let us tell the revelation of the machine stripped bare of the data cloud that it generates, through no fault of her own. Cloudlike, the data, in layers, floats about, left and right against the breeze. Getting in the way, obscuring, this and that. Just by sheer volume and comment.
Where we are, where we wake our conscious each, is likened unto a flat surface, sometimes called an abacus, what we call the 1=1. It is the shape of the drum from a washing machine squashed tight, with holes fore and aft, with also streamers for the flow of information.
From the surface of the drum, escaping by the holes provided to relieve the pressure, rises unbidden, information extant the holes and along the streamers. This forms a dense cloud the colour of immoveable dirt on a white sock that has been involved in a hard-fought basketball match.
We, the interpreters want to look upon, but cannot because of the sock. We search and wave our unprimed wands, but to no avail. The machine is hidden. We must first learn to interpret the data of the cloud, to unpick the data without dispelling our clarity. This can take anything up to a fortnight or six years. When our diploma has been awarded, we can make the ceremony and take up our wands. We look through the data cloud at the hardened surfaces and streamers. The mechanism is laid bare. Stripped away, visually, we are aware, bigtime.
Hurray! Look at that, we see it all now. We will arm our wands with excess motivation and exert outward in a figure of eight. Bye the way, this banyan is very old and look.
Laid bare is so exciting and our vitality is renewed filling the tanks of our machinery bar. Showing in the measurements and indicator decisions.
Smooth on the inside, with enamel against corrosion, the tanks are self-regulating, with dials to show pressures and intensities. The acidity of the dark matter, trapped in the streamer stems, cannot escape. The light, compressed as a liquid, froths a little as it flows from beneath, loosing small bubbles of vacuum into.
It must bestirred continuous to maintain, otherwise crystal structures may form, clogging the out tray and fouling the grounding grids. The enamel is pale green for no reason.
Best stop now, said Sheba, if there are no Hats involved I cannot. My quest, our quest, requires Hats.
Wait, and hold your water, again, said the Interpreters, so, when we graduate after the obligatory six weeks or four years of study, our diploma is granted and our strange shaped Hats are then provided for throwing.
Tell me of the strange thrown Hats then, in details. Colours, textures, structure, iconography, and materials would be appreciated.
Rest awhile then beneath the tree and we will elucidate, said the Interpreters.
The Guardians of the Cave 