An Unusual Angle

by Greg Egan

  Tutorial teachers stand by a brownish patch of near-dead grass, frantically searching with their eyes for missing members of their groups. In front of them, an amorphous mass of students is slowly crystallising into thirty lines of alternating sexes.

  (What’s so hard about accepting that?)

  The lines are formed. Now they must be sorted into alphabetical order. Perfectly. And every line must be sorted completely before anything else can take place. Ho hum.

  (Now think. Think hard. Call up every ounce of reasoning left in a brain befuddled by complex, apparently purposeless patterns. There must be some logic behind it. Surely!)

  And now we go in. Single file, slowly, at exactly the right pace, with just the right expression of sober contentment on every face.

  1A1 girls. 1A1 boys. Then 1A2 girls. Then 1A2 boys. Then 1A3 girls. Then 1A3 boys. Then 2A1 girls. Then 2A1 boys.

  (We are arranged in a classifying pattern. Which means that our geometric position can be mathematically analysed to yield a whole list of exciting little bits of information about us: our house, our year, our tutorial group, our sex, and our surname. Fine.)

  2A2 girls. 2A2 boys. Then 2A3 girls. Then 2A3 boys. Then 3A1 girls. Then 3A1 boys. Then 3A2 girls. Then 3A2 boys. Then 3A3 girls. Then 3A3 boys.

  (Now what use could this possibly be? What is the actual practical application of our being categorised in these five levels of subsets? What is the reason?)

  4A1 girls. 4A1 boys. Then 4A2 girls. Then 4A2 boys. Then 4A3 girls. Then 4A3 boys. Then 5A1 girls. Then 5A1 boys. Then 5A2 girls. Then 5A2 boys. Then 5A3 girls. Then 5A3 boys.

  (Of course! I have it, I know it! If, standing there in the hall, insignificant in the company of a thousand other people, we begin to feel depressed, lost, if we begin to feel like misfits, outcasts, jigsaw-puzzle pieces with torn corners, then we will be saved from our depression by the whole ingenious structure of the thing! Because simply by glancing around us, we can see that we belong, that we have an identity! Closest to us are people with whom we have the most in common, and moving further out, the change is gradual, controlled. We are not surrounded by strangers, but by teammates!)

  We are all in the hall.

  Callow coughs coyly for about ten seconds, realises that it will do no good, so he says (politely but with assertion):

  —Could I have your attention now, please.

  It works. Fairly well.

  Behind him, looking bored with trying not to look bored, are the four House Directors. They are sitting on four green plastic seats. I cannot understand why they are there. They do not talk, they just sit and watch. Silent backing singers.

  —The Principal will be here in a few moments. I want you all to give him your full attention.

  And then he is up there, all red hair and shining red face, standing about a metre to the left of the microphone. Looking very enthusiastic. The hall is silent.

  I suddenly, briefly feel the wormhole links between all members of the equivalence class of moments spent at school assemblies. It is not a place I especially wish to explore.

  —Well, kids, it’s nearly the end of another year, and I must say it’s been a particularly-good one. I know I keep on telling you this, and I know I must be beginning to sound like some repetitive old fool

  This is a Joke. To be sure that we realise that this is a Joke, he pauses, puts on his glasses, takes them off, shakes with laughter that comes through his nose, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, bends forward and shakes his head back and forth, slowly, with his mouth wide open. All this without really interrupting the flow of his oration.

  —but I’m quite sincere, I’m quite sincere when I tell you that this school has been getting better-and-better, every year. It’s been improving under my very eyes, and that’s a sign that you’ve been working hard, and that I’ve been working hard

  Merged with a little shaking breath-laughter.

  —and that the staff have been working hard. People have been telling me this all year, they’ve been congratulating me, not that it’s me they should be congratulating, it’s you, because you’re the ones, you’re the ones who’ve been doing it all, they’ve been telling me ‘Look, Fenkirk Vale used to be a fairly good

  With a scowl.

  —school, you know, not bad

  With a scowl.

  —if you didn’t mind everything second class. But now it’s really improving, getting to be one of the better schools about the place’. Now all sorts of people have been saying this: people from the Department, Rotary Club members, even other Principals. They’re, they’re

  More shaking breath-laughter.

  —beginning to get a little worried

  Conspiratorially.

  —because Fenkirk Vale has been beating them in places where they’re used to being the top. Swimming carnivals and athletics carnivals and debating and music, just about, yes, just about everything.

  Near the front of the hall, a thirteen-year-old boy in the Slow Learners class makes a very dangerous mistake. He has been sitting in one position for fifteen minutes (first years come in first) and he is beginning to get a cramp. Logically, he moves. He stretches his legs out in front of him to let the blood flow freely again.

  Seward catches this during a pause, finds it distracting, forgets what he was about to say next. Which makes him angry. He puts on his glasses, looks down at the boy, says angrily:

  —Look, sonny, would you mind not wriggling about while I’m trying to talk to the whole school.

  Then he looks away and starts to remember what he was about to say.

  But the boy cannot let it rest. He did nothing wrong; he was merely shifting his legs a few inches to stop a cramp. Surely not a major distraction to anyone. Yet he has been publicly reproved. Hence an unfairness has been committed, and it must be exposed, and the situation rectified. All perfectly logical, perfectly sensible.

  All perfectly just.

  But not the done thing.

  He calls out:

  —Look, I didn’t do nothing. What’d I do wrong?

  Seward turns on him.

  —Look, sonny, you don’t just answer me back like that! You come and see me in my office after this assembly! Understand?

  The situation is absurd. This is too much.

  —Fuck you

  he says casually.

  Seward explodes.

  —How dare you! How dare you use language like that at me! Get out of here now! Go out and stand outside my office and wait for me! By golly you’ll find out what happens when you try something like that! Get out there and wait for me!

  By now the boy realises he has gone about as far as he can go, and there is little value in co-operation.

  —Get stuffed you silly bugger!

  he says. There is no anger in his voice, just a little resentment at all this fuss about nothing.

  Seward runs down the steps at the side of the stage, runs up to the boy, tries to grab him by the arm, all the time giving the audience a running commentary of what he’s going to do.

  —Come with me! You’ll come with me, you’ll come out and I’ll show you some respect you little trouble-maker! I won’t stand for this sort of thing!

  The boy struggles to get away, but Seward grabs him firmly and drags him to the door.

  —NO!

  he pleads. He is angry now, fighting mad, kicking and punching and trying to bite. His teacher stands by and watches helplessly (how can I call him a lousy coward when I do nothing myself: I ought to bring the roof down on us all to hide the shame). They vanish out the door.

  But the voices carry.

  —NOW LOOK! YOU GO AND STAND OUTSIDE MY OFFICE DOOR NOW! NOW, YOU HEAR ME! OR I’LL HAVE YOU EXPELLED! NOW DO AS I SAY YOU DISOBEDIENT LITTLE CHILD OR YOU’LL BE IN BIG TROUBLE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

  —You just get your fucking hands off me or I’ll get the police onto you.

  Some noises, then Seward yelling too loudly for words to be heard.

  Then he com
es in, composes himself with a few deep breaths, and walks back onto the stage.

  The boy’s teacher unobtrusively slips out through the door.

  Short cut-away to fantasy sequence: Before Seward can begin to speak, the entire school stands in one frightening rumble, and begins booing and jeering so loudly that even with the microphone he cannot be heard. Teachers are ignored. The front rows swarm the stage, and drag him off. He is carried by the masses to the far end of the hall, where he is lifted up and hung by the collar from a basketball hoop. And then he is pelted with fruit and paper and erasers and …

  Alternative fantasy sequence: As Seward approaches the middle of the stage, the entire school begins to chant in perfect unison:

  —Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

  Nobody moves, nobody listens to his outraged yelling, nobody can hear the sharp warnings of teachers moving in. Everyone is chanting at about the same volume, so there are no ‘trouble-makers’ to grab, to single out. Even the most hysterical girls retain their composure as Seward charges at the front rows brandishing the microphone stand. They just sit there, being bruised, chanting evenly, steadily.

  Alternative fantasy sequence: About three quarters of us begin to sing, the rest hum the tune …

  Stand up! For our leader Seward! He’s

  A truly wondrous man!

  A paragon of virtue and

  We’re all of us his fans!

  This school just keeps improving!

  While he’s around the place!

  So bow down and grovel when you see

  That truly angelic face!

  Just as ‘Stand up!’ is sung we all rise slowly, without a pause in the singing.

  The effect is very hard to predict.

  Actually, we are all too collectively gutless to do anything. We just sit there dumbly as if nothing at all extraordinary had happened.

  —Now, where was I?

  He fumbles for a while with his glasses.

  —There are a few things I’d like to particularly mention. One thing this school has produced that’s on an international level. I’m not talking about just this state, or just this country. I’m talking about being among the best in the world. And that’s our band. It went to Europe recently to perform at a Youth Orchestra Festival in Holland. And I’ve had some very, some vvvvery impressive reports about it. In fact, I got a telegram from the Minister for Education, and I’ll read that out to you. It says ‘Congratulations on the success of your band in Amsterdam stop’. Now that’s from the Minister for Education himself. Now our band was there competing

  Ugh!

  —with other high-school bands from all over the world, the very best of ’em, and it got a special mention in the coverage of the festival by The West Australian.

  May I point out to you that the only band from Western Australia is perhaps likely to be mentioned in a Western Australian newspaper, and that this does not signify anything particularly outstanding about this band in relation to other bands except that it comes from the same geographical area as the newspaper you read?

  —So I’m very proud, you should all be very proud, of our band because they’re bringing Fenkirk Vale up to world standard.

  Trific!

  Short cut-away to fantasy sequence: He says:

  —Yes, like I tell you, this school is getting better and better and better and better!

  His voice is rising and trembling.

  —And I am the cause of this! You can thank me that we’re approaching world standard! And in a few more years, we’ll be the very best school in this state, in this country, in the world! WE’LL BE THE GREATEST, THE BEST, THE BIGGEST, THE MOST SPECTACULAR SCHOOL IN THE ENTIRE COSMOS!

  Then his head blows up. High blood pressure.

  Actually, he decides to change the subject.

  —Now you probably know that the School Council has voted to change itself into a new form, which will have no lower school members and no teachers represented. It will now be called the Student Council, and …

  Quite a coup, I heard. All engineered by someone who’s leaving this year. Aren’t politicians incredible?

  —Attendances at P&C meetings have been disappointing lately, so I’d like you to all just encourage your parents to come-along-once, just so they can see the wonderful things our P&C does …

  No comment.

  —More miscellaneous, boring trivia.

  Ditto.

  —Well, kids, I hope you have a good holiday, and you come back next year ready to work hard.

  He walks quickly off the stage.

  We leave the hall by a procedure which is almost the same as the entrance procedure played backwards.

  I spy around for a few minutes with a viewpoint. The boy ran home. He’ll go to another school next year.

  Hopefully one that isn’t improving quite so rapidly.

  Ho hum.

  Chapter 15

  MORE COMPANY

  In the morning, I can’t do anything until the mail’s come.

  Well, nothing useful. I can eat breakfast, wash the dishes, read the newspaper, drink glass after glass of cold water because although it’s only late morning the temperature is thirty and rising.

  And that sort of thing.

  I rarely get any letters, but every day I feel an odd, inexplicable disappointment when there is Nothing For Me. It gives me a big kick to write away for camera specifications and price lists for books on film-making, then waiting each day for the stuff to arrive. Is that some sort of landmark in loneliness? It really does give me a big kick.

  I could always write to Relatives. But what can you say to Relatives? And what can they say to you? They can tell you all the exciting things your little cousins have been doing, and who’s sick, and who’s well, and who’s going somewhere, and who’s come back.

  I’d rather not get a letter at all.

  It is the 5th of January.

  For the third time I walk through the hot, shimmering air to the letter box. A few yellow envelopes (bills) stick through the slot. I open the box.

  Four bills and something from the bank for my parents. A letter for one of my sisters. And a square red envelope for me. Definitely not Post Office Preferred.

  It is about five centimetres long. The address looks like it has been printed by an offset printer. I walk back inside, I leave the rest of the mail on the kitchen table, then I take the red square up to my room.

  I examine it. It was postmarked at the GPO, midday, 4th January.

  I am afraid to open it, so I find something else to do. With a long focal length and close-focussing ability, I examine the address. I can see that it is fairly normal, cheap paper, dyed red. Around each letter of the address is a tiny border of white where there is no dye, and then there is the letter itself, where the paper is dyed black.

  Which seems to suggest that the red was dyed on with gaps for the letters.

  How very unusual.

  The envelope has no return address. It is completely plain, monotonous red on the back.

  The envelope is seamless.

  It is also completely rigid, right up as close to the edge as I can tell. Hence it is stretched very tightly over some unbendable square which it fits exactly.

  Almost as if the paper was formed on the contents. I think of a square of metal (plastic, wood?), being dipped in pulp, coated …

  But paper isn’t made that way. It wouldn’t work. It’s rolled in sheets, not coated onto surfaces. There’s no process that works like that, not for paper.

  At least I’ve never heard of one.

  Down to the kitchen for a sharp knife. Using a metal ruler placed about a millimetre from one edge of the square, meticulously parallel (it would somehow seem sloppy any other way), I slice through the paper. It cuts easily, exactly, without any tears, because it is stretched so tightly. But the cut I make does not pull apart. Although I have cut right through the paper, all I have done is made a very thin slit in the envelope which I cannot tear open. The paper fee
ls soft, but I cannot enlarge that slit with my fingers. With the knife I cut two small incisions very close to the sides, thus freeing a tiny rectangle of paper to flap up, revealing a shiny metallic surface. I try to drag the square out, but the paper grips it too tightly.

  Now I am curious rather than neat. I zig-zag the back of the envelope with cuts, peeling off triangular pieces. Soon all of one side of the metal square is exposed. It is polished, almost glassy; it looks like aluminium deposited on a telescope mirror. The edges are exactly perpendicular, and hence very sharp. I cut myself three times peeling off the paper from the other side.

  The other side is identical to the other side.

  Huh.

  About as exciting as a letter from a Relative.

  There is absolutely no doubt about who sent it.

  —Nobody can say I don’t appreciate fan mail!

  I say to the sharp metal square.

  No response.

  But who else could it be?

  Not Uncle Phillip up to his practical jokes. He wouldn’t have the resources.

  And besides, he only sends poisonous insects.

  I’m not sure about what to do with the paper. Take it to someone? Get it analysed?

  I burn it.

  And I pick up the square carefully and put it in my bottom drawer.

  I can’t think of anything else to do with it.

  Whenever I can’t think of what to do with something, I put it in my bottom drawer if it’s large, and I put it in my core sample if it’s small.

  My bed, you see, is supported by four hollow metal posts. Already I have filled two of the posts with small bits of junk that I’ve been dropping in since I was able to reach that high. The third post is quarter-filled. Together, the posts form a time-vertical sample of my life. The bits of food have probably undergone radical chemical changes, but all the other stuff will be perfectly preserved when, in a few thousand years from now, some archaeologist discovers the core sample, and hence discovers me.

  Maybe I’ll have a chance to drop a few spools of film in there. Perhaps.

  I start reading the screenplay of Doctor Zhivago.

  The square stays right out of my thoughts, as it should. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything. No writing appears on its surface. It’s downright boring.