Overview
Trlk, the Sybillian, should be thanked for the whole thing, I suppose, though it would be a grudging thank-you I'd give him, considering all the trouble he caused. Still. . . .
I first saw him on a July morning at the beginning of the vacation schedule, when four of us on the local side were trying to do five people's work.
My first inkling anything was wrong came when I returned from the courthouse beat and stuck a sheet of paper in the typewriter to write the probate court notes.
I struck the keys. They wouldn't go all the way down. I opened the cover plate, looked in to see what was wrong. I saw nothing.
"Hey!" I said. "I know you're down there. What's the big idea?"
Trlk squeezed his head up from the levers.
"Listen, will you get out of there? I've got work to do!"
He wouldn't, though. Eventually I gave up.
So began a strange collaboration, with Trlk perched on my shoulder dictating stories into my ear while I typed them. He had definite ideas about writing and I let him have his way. After all, I didn't know anything about literature.