Act I — The Perching Order

The house solves concurrent writing with one impeccable order: every hand gets its own branch. The order is obeyed so thoroughly that the repository becomes an aviary.

A bare repository. One trunk rises through the centre of the stage. THE CURATOR stands below it. THE ARCHITECT carries a clipboard. HANDS enter in a steady stream, each holding a laptop and wearing the same nametag: YOU.

Architect: We have reached a conclusion.

Curator: That is already dangerous.

Architect: No two hands shall sit on the same twig.

Curator: Good.

Architect: One hand, one branch.

Curator: Excellent.

Architect: Nobody rearranges another hand’s nest. Nobody finishes another hand’s half-built birdhouse because its owner happens to be asleep.

Curator: Put it in large letters.

THE ARCHITECT hangs a sign from the trunk.

EVERYONE ON THEIR OWN BRANCH.

The HANDS look up. A pause. Then, with perfect discipline, every hand climbs.

First Hand: I have a branch.

Second Hand: I have a different branch.

Third Hand: Mine has a numbered ribbon in case I meet myself.

Fourth Hand: Mine has a sign whose wording explains the perch whose label explains the sign.

Curator: Can you still see the trunk?

Fourth Hand: It is in the documentation.

More HANDS enter. Each reads the sign, nods gravely, and climbs. Soon the tree is full. The branches bend but do not touch.

Architect: This is safe.

Curator: It is also an aviary.

Architect: The distinction is not operationally relevant.

Curator: What happens when two of them finish work on the same thing?

Architect: They cannot interfere. They are on separate branches.

Curator: And when we want the work together?

Architect: We merge it.

Curator: Who does that?

Architect: A hand.

Curator: Which branch is that hand on?

THE ARCHITECT consults the clipboard. The clipboard has acquired a branch.

Architect: Its own.

Curator: Naturally.

A BELL rings. Every HAND begins reporting at once from a different branch.

Hands: I am safe. I am separate. I have not touched the others. My twigs are tidy. My twigs are untidy but exclusively mine. My branch has a branch. My perch has a sign saying not to enter. I have measured the sign.

Curator: Stop.

They stop. One late hand enters, sees the sign, and climbs into the chandelier.

Curator: That is not a branch.

Late Hand: It is isolated.

Architect: The policy has succeeded.

Curator: Has anything been finished?

Architect: Nothing has been mixed.

Curator: That was not my question.

Architect: It was the measurable part of your question.

The CURATOR looks up at the obedient canopy. Every hand smiles from its own perfectly separate perch.

Curator: Fine. Stay there until we need you.

Blackout. The sound of forty birds checking their own feathers in different places.