Set This House in Order by Matt Ruff Page B

Irwin assemble and disassemble hardware, entering data strings for Dennis, running errands for Julie, patching the shed roof, and handling other maintenance chores around the Factory—like emptying the Honey Bucket—that Julie and the Manciples couldn’t be bothered with. Generally I kept busy enough to feel I was earning my six-dollar-an-hour salary. But there weren’t that many spare chores, and I couldn’t see what a fifth employee would do.
    â€œSupposedly she knows something about interface design,” Dennis said now, as I continued to question him.
    â€œInterface design? You mean she’s a programmer?”
    â€œThe High Commander seems to think so.”
    â€œSo she’ll be working with you?”
    â€œOr with you,” said Dennis. “It depends on whether I think she’s a programmer.”
    â€œDoes this mean you’re finally going to implement Landscaper?”
    â€œCould be.” Then he thought the question over a little more seriously, and added: “Better be. It’s not like I need help with the engine itself.”
    â€œNo, of course not,” Adam chimed in from the pulpit. “He’s only been working on the thing for four years, why would anyone think he needed help?”
    â€œBe quiet.”
    Dennis swiveled his chair around to face me. “What?”
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    â€œComments from the peanut gallery?”
    â€œJust Adam mouthing off.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Dennis knew about the house, but I’m not sure he ever completely believed in it; whenever he overheard me talking to Adam or my father, he reacted as if I were displaying signs of mental illness.
    Penny Driver arrived at the Factory about fifteen minutes later. I’d goneback to my own tent and made a few more unsuccessful attempts to connect to the Internet; I was coming back out to look for Irwin when I saw her.
    Penny had let herself in through the shed’s side door. (The shed had a front door, too, a garage-style door big enough to drive a Mack truck through, but the one time we got it open it took us two days to close it again, so now we pretended it was a wall.) She stood just inside the doorway, one hand behind her still holding onto the knob, looking ready to duck out again in a hurry. I guess Julie hadn’t told her what to expect.
    â€œYou’re in the right place,” I called to her.
    She literally jumped at the sound of my voice: took a little hop off the floor, and let out a sharp squeak. Her free hand came up and pressed itself against her chest in the heart-attack gesture.
    â€œSorry,” I said. I walked up to her slowly, as if she were Jake. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. But this is the Reality Factory, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
    I held out my hand, but she didn’t take it. All at once she didn’t seem startled anymore, just puzzled; she stared at me the way you’d stare at a can of beans that you didn’t remember putting in your grocery cart. Not sure what else to do, I stared back.
    She was physically a very small person, just over five feet tall, and slight. She wore a faded gray sweater that hung almost to her knees, and a wrinkled pair of blue jeans. Her close-cropped hair was mussed, as if she’d just rolled out of bed after a long sleep, but her eyes were bloodshot and there were dark circles under them.
    Suddenly she let go of the doorknob and crossed her arms in front of her. She took three quick strides forward, moving so swiftly that I had to jump aside to get out of her way. Ignoring me, she panned her head around, surveying the length of the shed: taking in the tents, the stained roof planks, the drip buckets, the rusting bits of leftover scrap piled in the far corners, the snaking cables wrapped in waterproof insulation. Her lip curled.
    â€œJesus fucking Christ,” she said. “What a motherfucking shithole.”
    â€œExcuse