The Rime... Part III

PART III

There passed a weary time. Each project
Was parched, and glazed each student.
A weary time ! a weary time !
How glazed each weary student,
When looking Codeward, I beheld
A something in the indent.

The ancient Researcher beholdeth a sign in the program afar off.

At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed a plateau:
It grew and grew, and took at last
A certain shape, I knew.

A speck, a plateau, a shape, I knew!
And still it grew and grew:
As if it played hide and seek,
It appeared and disappered and flew.

At its clearer approach, it seemeth her to be a conference paper : and at a dear ransom she finds her own money to attend the conference.

With projects run dry, with salaries stopt,
We could nor work nor talk:
Through utter helplessness all dumb we stood !
I dipped into my saving, I wiped it clean,
And cried, A conference, a conference!

A flash of joy ;

With projects run dry, with salaries stopt
Agape they heard my abstract:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once they started mailin'
As they were preparing the abstract.

And horror follows. For can it be a conference that comes unannounced and without financial assistance?

See ! see ! (I cried) they accept no more !
Hither to work us weal ;
Without an announcement, without assistance,
They run a conference!

The conference name was all a-flame.
The last date was well nigh done!
Almost upon the last abstract wave
Rested the stroke of pen ;
When a strange mail came suddenly
To us from the conference Chairmen.

It seemeth her but a fake conference.

And straight the conference went into problems,
(Did you hear the joke? Oh No!)
For the conference managers accepted
Fake papers produced by a robot.

And the conference organisers are seen to be bogus scientists (and profit-oriented business house managers)

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How damagin is this inference!
The first paper of mine to be printed
In a proceeding of a fake conference !

The Conference is run by a Crooked-Professor and his ghost of a secretary, and no other academic in the Confernece committee

And is this the acceptance letter
Did we see, and rejoice?
And is that Professor all the Committee?
Is that a GHOST? and are there two?
Is GHOST that professor's choice?

Like Conference, like committee!

His letters were junk, his acceptance bogus,
His defence of his actions was rather bold :
His refereering was all hocus-pocus,
The Night-mare PROF-IN-GHOST was he
Who thicks researcher's blood with cold.

Ghost and Prof-in-ghost have diced for the conference's plenary speaker, and he (the latter) chooses the ancient Researcher.

The nice invitation alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice :
"The game is done ! I've won ! I've won!"
Quoth he, and whistles thrice.

No escape from the fake conference.

The conference date nears ; the programme drawn :
At one stride comes the talk ;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the academia,
Spread wide and far, rumours dark.

At the conference talk,

We listened and looked sideways up !
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip !
The lights were dim, and thick the fight,
The speakers' face by OHP lamp gleamed white ;
From the audience rose like a whip-
The protests about the faults
Of a code that ran and gave no seg-faults
In the first compilation- with a chirp.

One after another,

One after one, at a deady pace,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each gave his talk with a ghastly face,
And cursed me with his eye.

The speakers present fake papers and are heckled.

Four time fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, and aplomb,
They talked away, one by one.

But Prof-in-Ghost begins his introduction of the ancient Researcher.

The fake talks did all of them vie
To give and, finish in time,
Every speaker, as he bid good-bye,
To the chair's bell's chime!


Author's note: It is a common belief among programmers that a code that runs at first compilation without error messges or segmentation fault is wrong.