# 2 — The Clack-Interference

Ollie did not kick monowheel. Violence, as retired tender had scribbled on margin of Vat Seven's brass valve-log, always knocked scale off thermometer.

Instead, Ollie brought broad flat of drift-alder paddle down across vat rim with hollow, resonant *thwump*.

Alder-grain formed pale barrier between descending brass jaws of caliper and tender floating babbie. Caliper teeth struck dry wood with angry, vibrating *ping*.

"Obstruction!" Grod barked, dry walnut-elbows locking rigid. Carbon pencil snapped clean in half, dropping two brittle black splinters through grating. "Interference with certified biometric audit! Municipal Code seventy-two! You harbor non-compliant, unauthorized protein!"

Ollie looked Grod level in spectacles. "Pinch it now, steam escapes. Takes three slow hours to knit velvety crumb. Puncture rind, turns into porridge."

"Porridge is accounted for under Schedule D!" Grod shouted, round lenses fogging milky-white from lipid vapor. "Porridge is taxable by liter! Soft cutlet is an administrative anomaly! Soft cutlet is treason against jawbone!"

Caliper rose high, spidery wrist cocking to jab around paddle edge.

At that exact split-second, velvet heart pocket on Ollie's smock erupted.

Clamshell flew open with explosive snap like dry hickory walnut popped in vise: *THWAP-CLACK*.

Telescoping antenna shot upward through sesame steam, extending all six brass joints until tip quivered four inches from Grod’s quivering chin. Monochrome LCD flared electric, venomous lime-green.

*BEEEE-BOOP-KRRRR-SHHHH.*

Noise blasting from miniature speaker grille was ferocious, ear-splitting cocktail: screechy dial-up static, boiled tea-whistle, and two iron ore-trams grinding sideways on greasy turntable.

Grod hopped. Both patent-rubber boots cleared grating simultaneously. Seventeen zinc clipboards across chest clattered like a tray of dropped brass spoons. Rattle-bang.

"ATTENTION AUDITOR," Clack brayed through speaker-mesh distortion, vibrating so fierce in heart pocket that Ollie’s ribs buzzed. "PRIORITY OVERRIDE FROM CENTRAL EXCHANGE. CODE EIGHT-ZERO-EIGHT. IMMEDIATE MASTICATION SUSPENSION ORDER."

Grod froze on slick catwalk, clutching clipboards with chalky, shaking fingers. Round spectacles hung askew from left ear. "Central... Central Exchange? Down here on Sump spur?"

"DO NOT PROBE POROUS PHENOMENON," Clack crackled, green screen flashing frantic, blocky bitmap of an exploding megaphone. "PHASE-B ENZYMATIC FERMENTATION IS FULLY EXPEDIENT. MECHANICAL PENETRATION OF VAT FOUR WILL TRIGGER IMMEDIATE ELECTROMAGNETIC FINE: FORTY THOUSAND CREDITS DEDUCTED DIRECT FROM PENSION LEDGER."

Grod’s mouth dropped slack. Single bead of condensed coriander steam dripped off hat brim, splashing warm onto lower lip.

"Forty... forty thousand?" Grod wheezed, stumbling two heel-clattering paces backward until heels struck balloon tire with muffled *whumpf*.

Clack snapped clamshell half-shut with satisfied click, leaving glowing slit of lime-green pixel-eye peering over waxed flax.

"And besides," Clack muttered in haughty, tinny sibilance, "your caliper jaws are three millimeters out of true, you ridiculous, rusty scarecrow."