I did not see Miss M_ for the remainder of that week, my time being taken up by other duties around the asylum. However, after our meeting, I was determined to return to the Blackheath Conservatory so that I might observe another meeting of Professor C_'s poetry society. I also intended to obtain a copy of The Voice of the Machine, given that this volume appeared to have a significant place in the life of Miss M_.

Chastened by my previous experience, I made sure to arrive on time for the meeting. I was not the first to arrive, and there was a handful of people already there. I greeted them, then took a seat at the back of the hall to wait for the others. It was not long before Professor C_ entered the hall. As soon as he caught sight of me, he made his way to my side and clasped my hand in greeting.

"Doctor W_! I thought you would return. I hope that today's programme will be more to your liking. Have you plucked up the courage to produce some work yourself?"

I shook my head and apologised that I did not realise it was necessary to be a poet in order to join the society. Professor C_ smiled ruefully. "Oh no. We never force anyone who might not be ready to unleash their muse. Nothing kills inspiration like forcing oneself to write. Now, if you will excuse me?" With that, Professor C_ got up and went to socialise with the other members of the group. I observed him as he circled amongst them, exchanging pleasantries and discussing society business until it was time for the meeting to begin. Then, everyone took their seats.

This time, I witnessed the progress of the meeting from its start. It was very much like any meeting of like-minded individuals. First, the secretary, a mature lady who wore a string of pearls and a pince-nez on a thin chain, read the minutes of the previous meeting. This was followed by a discussion of society business and other matters considered to be of import. At some point during this affair I was formally introduced to the society members. This involved me standing before the group and giving an account of myself to them. I am not ashamed to say that the experience was more intense than any other interview I had been subjected to in the past. The arrival of the tea trolley, pushed by one of the conservatory staff, proved to be a welcome distraction.

After this, the meeting proceeded very much along the course it had taken during my previous visit. Those members of the society who felt so inclined stood before their fellows and recited their latest works. Some read from sheafs of foolscap pages, others from notebooks of various hues; a few recited their verses from memory. As had happened previously, the audience applauded each effort. Forewarned of the effects that had plagued me on my previous visit, I fortified myself with tea from the trolley. Thus I managed to survive to the end of the meeting while remaining alert.

Again, the session of readings ended with Professor C_ standing before the audience. He held a familiar-looking journal in his hands; but, despite my best efforts, I could not determine whether it was the same book I had seen in Miss M_'s room. Professor C_ cleared his throat and began to read from his book.

The strange syllables echoed around the hall, following no discernible law of linguistics. I concentrated, trying to overcome the lethargy that had affected me on my first visit. However, my attention only served to increase the effect of the verse. I found myself staring in fascination at Professor C_, listening raptly to his every word. My vision narrowed until it was as if I was looking down a long tunnel that echoed with a hellish noise. As I stared at Professor C_, his face seemed to change, metamorphosing into a bloated visage whose rubbery lips moved in time with the professor's voice. I struggled to regain control of my senses, trying to force my perceptions back into the real world.

There was a crash, and I felt my head ache with a dull pain. I opened my eyes to see a panoply of concerned faces looking down at me. Arms reached down and pulled me back into my chair, then someone pushed a cup of tea into my hands. Professor C_'s voice cut through the hubbub. "Sir! You fainted! Are you alright?"

I nodded. "I believe so. Just a passing spell. Please, do not let me interfere with the rest of the meeting."

Professor C_ stood back and spoke to the others. "It does not matter. Anyway, our meeting is almost at an end. Now, to the final business of the day."

He ushered the others away from me, allowing me time to recover my senses fully and without interference. By the time that the effects of the strange poetry had passed, there was only myself and Professor C_ remaining in the hall. I rose to my feet. "I apologise, professor, for my earlier weakness. I have been working long hours and getting little sleep."

Professor C_ reached out a steadying hand. "I understand. Some of my colleagues are medical men. I trust you will get some rest before the next session?"

"I shall." I paused. "Professor, may I ask you something?"

Professor C_ nodded. "Of course - so long as it is not too personal."

"The poem you were reading - it was very unusual. Is it your own work?"

Professor C_ tilted his head to one side. "In a way. I was something of a Dadist a few years ago. Their attitudes towards art and language were very interesting. They were of the opinion that all art was a construct and therefore should not be realistic in any way. I was particularly attracted to their poetry. Very often it was just random syllables of nonsense; however, there were some who claimed that they were inspired and treated their verse as if it were the revelations of the apostles."

"And your verse?"

"I do not regard it with any such reverence. I was part of the automatic tendency and believed that it was possible to construct a means of artificially producing language - or something that seemed like it - in accordance with the rules of universal grammar: an ur-tongue if you will.

"I experimented with tables and cards, the contents of which I manipulated in accordance with the laws of certain grammatical constructs. The process was tedious and often gave unsatisfactory results. I began investigations to see if there was a better way of achieving my goals of automatic poetry.

"The source of my inspiration came from a copy of Gulliver's Travels. In the third book, the one that describes Laputa and its domains, Swift described a frame that was made up of cubes inscribed with the Laputan language. By rotating the cubes on the frame, the Laputan scholars believed that they could uncover the secrets of the universe.

"This device was too crude and too random for what I wanted. Then, a colleague of mine - a mathematician - mentioned to me the work of a German engineer who had constructed an Elektronrechnung: an electro-mechanical calculating device. It seemed to me that this could be what I needed to achieve my goals. I corresponded with the engineer and gained enough knowledge to attempt the construction of an appropriate device."

I followed Professor C_'s monologue, fascinated by his enthusiasm. It was obvious to me that the man was dedicated to his dream.

"Did it work?"

Professor C_ smiled. "It does. My poetry machine has opened new worlds to me; worlds beyond those of normal literature. I regard myself as a pioneer, sailing an ocean of language towards shores undreamed of."

"So, the poems you read ... ?"

"... Are created by my machine. I have collected these poems and published them so that others may experience the fruits of my labours."

He held up his book. I could see the title: The Voice of the Machine. I reached out for the volume. "May I?"

"Of course."

I turned the pages of the book, pausing to read a few verses. They appeared to be made up from words that seemed to be random syllables; still, there was an underlying attraction about them.

"Fascinating."

I must have spoken aloud, because Professor C_ responded, "Borrow my copy if you wish. Don't worry. I have a number of copies. They have not sold very well."

"If I may. Thank you."

Professor C_ shook my hand. "Think nothing of it. You may return the book at any time."

I left the conservatory and made my way to the railway station, sure that I had made another step towards understanding my patient.