Eclipse Three

by edited by Jonathan Strahan

  "They're the first machines man has built to serve his brains, not his brawn," she said. "One day children will use something like UNIVAC for their homework, instead of memorizing multiplication tables."

  Mrs. Sullivan frowned. "But then they won't learn anything."

  "They will. They'll learn how to use numbers, see the patterns and connections. That's what mathematics is all about." She reached into the pocket of her sweater and took out a pack of Luckies. "Do you mind?"

  "Not at all. Let me get you an ashtray." She went into the kitchen.

  "What's your conference about?" Carolyn asked, leaning forward. She had never told her mother about the numbers making shapes, when they played the cash-register game, because it would sound kind of weird, but she thought Dr. Hopper probably understood.

  "Let me see. Tomorrow morning's schedule has papers on combinatorics, twin primes, set theory, and imaginary numbers."

  "What, like a make-believe one—fifty blibbity-blips?"

  Her mother put the ashtray and a book of matches by Dr. Hopper's plate. "Carolyn! That's no way to—"

  Their guest held up her hand. "It's a reasonable conjecture," she said, lighting her cigarette. "But no. Numbers like this." She took a mechanical pencil from the same pocket and drew a figure on the inside cover of the matchbook: √-1. "The square root of negative one."

  Mrs. Sullivan stared. "I was an English major, and I only got through algebra, so forgive me, but if you multiply two negatives, isn't the answer always positive?"

  "Yes. Every time."

  "So the square root of negative one is impossible."

  "No, only imaginary." Dr. Hopper smiled. "I know it sounds like mathematical fiction, but it's quite useful in understanding electromagnetics and quantum mechanics."

  "I see," Mrs. Sullivan said.

  Carolyn could tell that her mother was only being polite, but she wanted to know more about how numbers could be magic and how imaginary things could be useful. Because if the numbers in story problems were about real life, then—

  "Is that your topic at the conference?" Mrs. Sullivan asked.

  "No, Dr. von Neumann and I are part of a symposium on recent developments in electronic data coding. Among other things, we're going to be discussing one of your favorite games." She turned to Carolyn.

  Huh? "Which one?"

  "Tic-tac-toe." She tapped her ash into the small glass dish. "A bright young man at Cambridge—England—has programmed a computer called EDSAC to play. The Xs and Os are on a cathode ray display—like the picture tube in your TV."

  "It's a pretty easy game," Carolyn said. Why would the brains talk about that?

  "Exactly. It's finite, with perfect information."

  "What?"

  "Sorry. Mathematically, that means there's no luck involved. You can know every possible move, and there are only a limited number."

  Carolyn nodded. "Yeah. Nine."

  "Not even close. Try 362,880."

  "Uh-uh!"

  Dr. Hopper smiled again and drew a small tic-tac-toe board on the matchbook. "First move you have nine choices where to put an X, right?"

  "Sure. That's what I said."

  "Ah, but then the next player has eight choices of where to put an O. Seven choices for the second X, and so on until someone wins. Or ties." She stubbed out her cigarette. "That big number is nine times eight times seven times six—" She waved her hand in the air. "Etcetera, etcetera."

  "Why on earth would anyone want to build a machine that plays games?" Mrs. Sullivan asked.

  "Programming a computer to make logical decisions is the first step in replicating human intelligence. If all goes well, Tic-tac-toe is going to help create a better future." Dr. Hopper stood up. "May I use your phone? It's a local call. Dr. von Neumann."

  Carolyn's mother seemed to be in a bit of a daze. Guests usually talked about the weather, or how the Phillies were doing that season. "Of course," she said after a moment. "On the table, in the hall. I'll get dessert. Coffee?"

  "Please. Two sugars. I'll only be a minute." Dr. Hopper put her napkin down beside her plate and left the room. Carolyn heard her dial, then say, "Johnny? It's Grace. Are we still on for breakfast tomorrow?"

  All night, Carolyn tossed and turned, thinking about numbers and Tic-tac-toe—and Vineland. Even though she had never met her father, only seen pictures, she felt like she almost knew the boy in the notebook, who had sworn to rescue his best friend if Bobby was ever in danger. Too late for that.

  But now she could rescue Bibber.

  The next morning, while her mother was getting ready for a Women's Club meeting and Dr. Hopper was waiting for her taxi, she filled the pockets of her shorts with chalk and pencils and a pen. She tucked a dozen sheets of scrap paper into the composition book that held the secrets of the Lo-Shu Club. She was ready.

  By 9:30, the house was empty. Carolyn left a note—Gone to the library.—and headed into the woods. When she reached the stile, she slipped over into the garden. She crept along the far edge until she could see in through the library's bay window.

  Good. Bibber was there. He lay on his stomach, moving a line of toy soldiers around a fort made of blocks. She duck-walked along the base of the porch to the front door and tiptoed through to the room of cabinets and animal heads, then quietly opened the double doors to the library.

  Bibber looked up, and his whole face filled with a smile. Carolyn put her finger to her lips—Shh.

  Bibber nodded. "Why are we being very quiet?" he whispered.

  "I don't want your housekeeper to hear us."

  "Oh. She won't," Bibber said. "Mrs. Addison is in the kitchen with Cook. She leaves me alone until my lunch." He shrugged. "Unless I make a big noise."

  "What time do you eat?" Carolyn asked in her normal voice.

  "Lunchtime."

  That wasn't much help. But Carolyn figured it'd be at least noon, and that gave her plenty of time. "Do you know how to play Tic-tac-toe?" she asked.

  "Uh-huh. I'm pretty good."

  "Great." She laid the composition book and two pencils on the table. When she drew the grid on a piece of scratch paper she said, under her breath, "By the sign of the magic turtle."

  Carolyn knew how to use numbers for a lot of useful things, but she hadn't known they could be magic until she met Dr. Hopper. If she said that was real, Carolyn believed it. She was at the Institute, with Einstein, the smartest man in the world, so she ought to know.

  "You go first," she said.

  Bibber drew a tiny X in the top right corner, and she followed with an O next to it. She wanted to put her O in the center—it was the best move—but she also wanted Bibber to win the first game. When he drew his third X in a row, he smiled in triumph. "I told you. I am good at this."

  "Yep. So you get to draw the next one."

  He did, his tongue in the corner of his mouth, concentrating on making the four lines as straight as he could.

  There. They had both drawn the sign that made them members of the Lo-Shu Club. "You are my brother," Carolyn whispered. "I will rescue you from danger." She made an O in the center square, but let Bibber win again.

  "Where do you keep Lotion?" she asked.

  "He crawls all over the house. The downstairs part. Right now he's under the table."

  "Here?" Carolyn moved one of the chairs and squatted down. On the carpet was the biggest tortoise she had ever seen—even bigger than the one in the Bronx Zoo. At her movement, he turned his head and looked at her with a yellow, reptilian eye. "How do you get him to come out?" They couldn't lift him, not even the two of them. He was the size of an ottoman.

  "I wait until he's hungry," Bibber said. "We could try and feed him now."

  "What does he eat?" He looked as prehistoric as a dinosaur, with scaly front feet the size of salad plates. He might eat anything.

  "Fruit and stuff. Leftover salad. Watch." Bibber pulled a cluster of blue-black grapes from his pocket and lay them in a pile a foot away from the edge of the table.
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  In real-life slow motion, the tortoise rose up and lumbered forward, one leg at a time, until he stood over the grapes. He extended his surprisingly long neck, lowered his head, and mashed the grapes into his mouth in three pulpy bites.

  "It's bad to feed him on the rug," Bibber said, pointing to a purple stain that was almost invisible against the elaborate floral design. "Mrs. Addison says."

  "I can see why." Carolyn stared at Lotion's back. She'd planned to draw the Lo-Shu numbers onto the turtle with chalk, but she didn't need to. The pattern was carved into nine plates on his shell, the center square marked with five dots arranged like the pips on Monopoly dice, faint traces of red paint in the deepest grooves.

  Lotion was already magic.

  Now for the tricky part. Carolyn circled the room, chalking √-1 on the four walls, the window frame, the doors, and a side or shelf of each bookcase.

  "What are you doing?" Bibber asked.

  "Making things imaginary." It was pure math, and would be unconnected to the real world, where Vineland waited.

  When she had marked all the openings, she made one more circuit, checking her work, then turned to Bibber. "Can you sit on Lotion?" The tortoise had eased back down to the floor, and lay with his eyes shut. He looked sturdy enough.

  "Sure. I ride him around, sometimes." Bibber straddled the carved shell and scratched the tortoise on the top of his leathery head. "How long do I hafta sit here?"

  "You'll know." Carolyn hoped that was true. She circled the room again, taking a few books from the shelves: Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island, The Wind in the Willows, Peter Pan, The Jungle Book, The Wizard of Oz. She added a dictionary and the scrapbook with the picture of their fathers to the stack. Then, stepping around Bibber, she arranged the eight books in a square, three on a side, with Lotion at the center to make nine.

  "What are those?"

  "Books I think you'll like."

  "I can't read." Bibber frowned. "I told you."

  "You will. Pure math creates its own perfect world." She wrote nine blue numbers in ink on the soft skin on the back of Bibber's neck:

  4 9 2

  3 5 7

  8 1 6

  Magic turtle, magic boy.

  "That tickles." Bibber laughed.

  "Sorry." She patted his hair. "But now you can live happily ever after." She turned toward the door.

  Bibber frowned. "Are you leaving?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "No. I want you to stay." He sounded sad.

  Carolyn looked around at the room full of books and light and comfortable chairs, a room she'd always dreamed of. It was so tempting—a lifetime to sit and read, uninterrupted, no chores, no nuns—she bit her lip—no Mom. You're all I have, she heard in her mind, and shook her head. "I can't, Bibber. I have to go home."

  "But you'll come visit?"

  She opened the double doors. "I'll try." She stepped into the next room and closed them behind her, then marked each one with √-1.

  "Keep Bibber away from Vineland," she said aloud, then added, "Please."

  There. That was all the magic she knew.

  She tiptoed back through the house, holding her hand tight on her pocket so the pen and pencils wouldn't make a noise. She was in the room with the paintings of fruit before she noticed that her other hand was empty. Her father's composition book, with all the notes and secrets of the Lo-Shu Club—she'd left it on the library table.

  In a quiet hurry, she went back for it. Through the dining room, into the room she had no name for, to the double doors that—

  Carolyn stared.

  There were no doors.

  Stuffed and mounted animal heads stared out glassily from above the wide rosewood cabinet that now filled the wall. And among them hung the empty shell of an enormous tortoise, its carved and polished surface glinting in the dim light.

  Don't Mention Madagascar

  Pat Cadigan

  For Allen Varney

  I don't actually remember meeting Suzette. It's like we were heading in the same general direction and fell into step together. She knew everybody I knew and vice versa, but amazingly enough we had no ex-boyfriends in common. But we'd never have let a guy come between us. "No penis between us," Suzette used to say with her big old grin. Girlfriend had a great grin.

  Suzette was about five-four, five-five, and proportioned like a dancer. I think she had trained as one once but she never said and I never asked. I've never asked a lot of questions; still don't. It's not that I don't care or I'm not interested. I've just always figured that if there's anything I need to know about anyone, they'll tell me, no need to interrogate. Not that I mind answering questions as I also figure if anyone wants to know something, they'll ask; no need to admit to anything prematurely.

  Suzette was more forthcoming. She'd drop tantalizing little tidbits into a conversation in an offhand way—like, "Hey, I used to have shoes like those but someone stole them while I was getting defibrillated. I swear, you gotta keep an eye on your stuff every minute in Mongolian emergency rooms." Anyone else, it would have been showing off; Suzette just knew how to take things in stride. I like that in a person.

  The only time I ever saw her ruffled was on this one occasion. At the time, she was an office manager for a real estate agency and coming in regularly to the coffee bar. By day I made soy lattés and iced half-caff mochaccinos with a twist, and I studied computer engineering at night school. About 11 o'clock on a Tuesday morning, she showed up looking like a woman who'd just been caught in a high wind—rumpled, dreadlocks practically standing on end, eyes too wide and too bright, and a little out of breath.

  I said, "Jeez, what happened?"

  "I just quit my job," she said.

  "Oh. Well." I knew this couldn't be what had her all freaked. "Are congratulations in order?"

  She flicked a glance to my right and I knew The Great Dick Tater had to be giving me the stink-eye because I said something to a customer that wasn't What can I get for you today? The GDT took his assistant manager responsibilities very seriously.

  "I don't know what's in order. Everything's out of order." She glanced to my right again; the GDT must have been wearing a face that could sour milk. Soy milk.

  "What can I get you today?" I said cheerfully.

  Suzette's mouth opened but nothing came out.

  "One medium American filter, mellow blend of the day, room for cow," I announced, repeating her order from yesterday. I rattled off the price while I double-cupped it to go, staring the GDT down with my back. Suzette paid and dropped a few coins in the tip jar. All the baristas split the tip jar, something you should keep in mind if you like your overpriced coffee without extras like employee saliva. Suzette was top of the no-spit list (posted conspicuously in the locker room, along with security camera photos to prevent episodes of mistaken identity), a policy that even the GDT respected.

  Transaction done, Suzette went upstairs to sit. I gave it five minutes before announcing I was going on my break.

  "Jeez, Pearl, what kept you?" Suzette said when I finally joined her.

  That annoyed me; she knew damned well what the GDT was like. "Sorry," I said, taking off my apron and folding it up. "I couldn't just drop everything. Then I had to walk up the stairs because the teleporter's broken again."

  Suzanne gave me a sharp look at that last.

  "Kidding," I said; as she visibly unclenched, I added, "The teleporter's not really broken, I just needed the exercise."

  Bam—she was white-knuckled all over her body again, which was a neat trick for someone with skin that dark. "Stop that," she growled. I felt a sudden seriously terrible pain in my upper arm; Suzette had me in a Death Grip of Doom.

  "Ow." I thought I could hear bone start to crack within the pulp formerly known as my bicep. "What kind of day are you having?"

  "Odd." Her grip loosened.

  I pulled away fast before she changed her mind. "How odd?" I asked.

  She took something out of her back pocket, unfolded it,
put it on the table: a photograph. I winced; folding photographs goes against my personal code of fussy conduct. I'm no tight-ass—I'll tear the tags off pillows, jaywalk, even wear white after Labor Day. But fold a photograph? It's practically a physical pain.

  "Look at that." Suzette tapped her finger on it hard. I winced again because touching the surface of a glossy-finish photograph is another of my fussy things.