Savant

by Nik Abnett

  Despite not touching his boots, Estefan took a vacuum sealed pack from his pocket, opened it, and wiped his hands with the alcohol swab inside, dropping the pack and the swab, where he stood, when he had finished using them.

  Estefan’s socks were too white to be cotton. Techs were allowed to Requisition clothes made from natural fibres, even though they were rare and came at a price, because of the ingrained habits passed down through generations. Old, manmade fibres had been prone to static electricity, and could cause excess sweating, neither of which was compatible with old electronics. Many Techs were still superstitious about natural fibres, and would rather wear them beyond the point of decency than switch to pro. Modern Tech, even the knackered obsolete stuff that most Techs had to work with was not sensitive to foreign bodies, including dust and liquids, and all electrical components were self-insulating at the molecular level. Estefan had no qualms about wearing pro, and preferred to spend his Requisites on other things.

  Estefan turned to the Operator.

  “I’ll leave my socks on, if it’s okay with you,” he said. He wasn’t asking.

  “Fine,” said the Operator.

  The other Tech erected a mini-crane in the corridor outside Tobe’s office, to transfer hardware into the room without having to walk back and forth, and Estefan found his way across the linopro, following in the Master’s footprints.

  Estefan reached the compress button on the wipe-wall, hit it, and waited to see what would come out of the mini-print slot. In theory, the print-out should include everything on the wipe-wall, but neither of the Techs had ever seen a wall that was such a collage of various bits of paper stuck down with spit, and acres of scrawled, and cross-written calculations.

  The compress button was designed to rationalise the work, and print it out in a format that could be followed by others in the same field. It didn’t matter what was on the wipe-wall, in so far as it could be handwritten musical score, a story in any language, mathematical calculations, or a combination of many things. It didn’t matter how many times things were crossed out, or how many arrows, circles or lines were used to link thoughts together. It didn’t matter how many symbols were used or whether punctuation was correct. The job of the compressor was to track the process, and then present it in a way that was succinct and accurate, without bypassing any of the creativity or thought processes of the author.

  Pages started to emerge from the mini-print slot. Estefan cast an eye over them, but they meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t easily ascertain whether the text book pages were being included. After 20 pages, or so, the mini-print began to make an odd sucking noise.

  “Toner,” said Estefan.

  “You’re kidding,” said the other Tech.

  “No,” said Estefan. “This thing needs toner.”

  ESTEFAN HIT THE switch on the mini-print to turn it off, and set to work fitting a compress button and mini-print slot to the floor.

  In theory, the system could be fitted to any surface, and the best of the newer models could be retro-fitted, so that the memories in the surface of the vibrations, which had resulted from the pressure of pen on wipe-wall, or, in this case, chalk on linopro, could be picked up and analysed after the event. Neither of the Techs had fitted one in practice, and neither knew anyone that had retro-fitted a mini-print system, let alone in linopro with a none standard, frankly unknown, unstable writing medium, which was also littered with pages of text from various books, including diagrams and non-standard mathematical symbols.

  Fitting the system was not difficult or complicated. The unit came in two, self-contained sections with one broad-spectrum flat sensor to pick up vibrations on the surface that was being used as a wipe-wall. It should only have taken about 20 minutes to fit the system, but Estefan was hampered by having to stand on the surface he was working on, not to mention the fact that he was being constantly admonished by the Operators not to step on anything that might be classed as evidence. He must not obliterate the material, either by wiping out the chalk marks, or by interfering with the floor’s memory of the vibrations it had collected while Tobe was making his calculations. He didn’t have much of a margin for error.

  METOO LEFT TOBE in the kitchen with his cup of tea, and went to the garden room to try to get rid of the Police Operator. She hoped that she might be able to persuade him to leave the way he had come, and only return if she needed him, which she considered extremely unlikely.

  She closed the door of the garden room behind her. Saintout was standing with his back against the wall adjacent to the window. He looked very relaxed, leaning against the wall, with his feet crossed, casually, in front of him.

  “Toner,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?” asked Metoo.

  “I was just coming to find you,” said the Operator, “something about the mini-print in his office needing toner. What the hell is toner?”

  “Tobe has never allowed anything to be changed in his office, and, when he moved in, the equipment was already pretty-well obsolete. I’ve been trying to persuade him to have everything upgraded for about a year, but I hate to push; we went through massive traumas over the bookshelves and library steps.”

  “Sorry I asked,” said Saintout.

  “Tobe’s mini-print still uses toner, a chemical that needs to be topped up at regular intervals,” said Metoo, by way of speeding things up. “And do not leave this room through that door,” she added, pointing at it.

  “Service doesn’t have any toner, and I’m guessing they need to extract information,” said Saintout, ignoring Metoo’s last comment.

  “What are they doing to his room?” asked Metoo. She was anxious, even though she had known that this would happen, that they would dismantle his office. She also knew that, no matter how careful they were, Tobe would know that someone had been there without his permission. It could take weeks or even months to get him happy and settled again.

  She looked at the Police Operator.

  “His desk,” she said. “Bottom drawer on the left.”

  Saintout began to relay the information back to Service.

  “Get Service to send me a tone if you need anything else,” said Metoo, giving up on the idea of getting rid of the Operator, at least for now.

  ESTEFAN WAS JUST finishing the retro-fit when the call came in. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk, carefully, so as not to drag the underside of the drawer over the stuff on the linopro, and looked inside.

  “You should see what’s in here,” he called to the Tech still standing in the corridor, shouting instructions.

  “Put everything in the bucket, and I’ll crane it out,” said the other Tech. “Any toner in there?”

  Estefan started going through the drawer, dropping things into the bucket that was suspended next to him.

  “Hey,” he said, “this could be the stuff he wrote on the linopro with.” He held up the box of chalk for the other Tech to see.

  “Great, stick it in the bucket,” said the Tech. “Toner?”

  “Looks like it,” said Estefan, lifting out an ancient cardboard box with an old-fashioned screw-top bottle inside, half-full of liquid. “This lot belongs in a museum.”

  In less than half an hour, all the data possible had been collected from both mini-print slots. Neither of the Techs had a clue whether any of it would be readable, but that was why this Operation was being carried out in four phases: the principals were being interviewed, the footage was being reviewed, the Techs had printed out the data for dissemination, and now, the specialists would come in.

  Chapter Thirteen

  PITU 3 WAS stretchered back to Service. The Medic didn’t think there was any urgent need for him to go to the infirmary, and planned to stay with him. Interrogation was far more critical at this point than Pitu 3’s health status. He could be hospitalised after he was interviewed.

  Pitu 3 was transferred to a chair-stretcher and carried in an elevator up to the Service Floor. He did not enter the main Service Floor where ei
ghteen Operators were still busy monitoring the screens, and a dozen Techs were milling around, but came in through the exterior gallery, a walkway on the outside of the circular room, half a storey lower, so that no one passing along it could be seen at screen-height inside the room, proper.

  Pitu 3 was put in the interview room next to the one occupied by Strazinsky and McColl. Pitu 3 was there because of Strazinsky, and Strazinsky was there because of Pitu 3. If either one could get hold of the other, who knew what might ensue? As it was, the two men would never have met in the normal course of things, and were unlikely to meet now, despite their involvement in the same, potentially critical, event.

  No Ranked Operator was available, immediately, as they were in discussions about how to treat Tobe’s room, but Pitu 3 was considered to be a minor player in the incident, so a Named Operator was sent to de-brief him, along with one of the few female Operators, who was really only there to put him at his ease. Mudd was also with them. The interview room was the mirror image of the one next door, and it was unusual to have so many people in it at once, so it was somewhat cramped, not least because of the chair-stretcher.

  “Let’s get you out of that, shall we?” asked the female Operator. “My name’s Bim. How are you feeling, Pitu?”

  “I’m fine, really. It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all,” he said, trying to get out of the chair-stretcher.

  “Just sit back, Pitu, we need to unstrap you first. We’ll have you out of there in no time.

  “This is Operator Bello. He’d like to ask you a few questions, if you’re feeling up to it,” said Bim, gesturing to the man who had just entered the room. “I’m going to step out for a moment if that’s all right.”

  Pitu nodded, although he still looked pale and pitiful.

  There was no rush. Pitu would be allowed to tell his story in his own words. With all the other information that was available, his testimony was insignificant, and he was not considered a reliable witness. He had been Tobe’s Student almost as long as anyone had, but he was kept there so that Tobe had familiar faces in his class, rather than because he was any real long-term asset. Pitu 3 would, no doubt, be moved back to the School as a Senior, eventually. When, would depend on how restless he became. Most Students didn’t last more than four or five years with a Master, and a six-year stint, while not unheard of, was very rare.

  Pitu 3’s involvement in this incident almost certainly assured his departure from Tobe’s class, and it would not be because of a promotion to Assistant.

  Bim returned to the interview room with two fold-up chairs, after Pitu had already been removed from the chair-stretcher and seated in one of the chairs that belonged in the room. She wheeled the chair-stretcher out into the corridor, while Bello unfolded one of the chairs and placed it next to Pitu for the Medic Operator to sit on. All three men were sitting when Bim returned, unfolded the last of the chairs, and sat down opposite Pitu, next to Bello.

  “Are you all right to start?” Bim asked Pitu 3.

  Pitu nodded.

  Bello removed a small electrical device from a case that he had brought into the room. He placed it on the table, and took out a cord of plaited wires, which he handed to Medic Operator Mudd.

  “Perhaps you could prepare the subject,” said Bello.

  Mudd took the cables and began to run through Protocols with Pitu 3, who had a strange look of excitement on his face.

  TOBE STOOD IN his room, the door propped open, as usual. The room was a two metre cube with a low cot on the left and a narrow bookcase opposite. There was a small window close to the ceiling, on the wall opposite the door, which he never looked out of, and the wall opposite the bed was a wipe-wall, partially obscured by the bookcase. There was no storage space, other than the bookshelves, but there was a small table under the window, which served as a desk of sorts. The room was more like a monastic cell than a bedroom, but it suited Tobe. He didn’t care about clothes, which Metoo always organised for him, since he always dressed and undressed in his bedroom or on his way to the bathroom, and he didn’t really have any belongings. The few things he had become obsessed with over the years lived in the desk in his office.

  Tobe sat on the cot for a few minutes. He didn’t need to take so much as a pace to stand in front of the bookcase, so he stood, and pulled a copy of On Probability off the top shelf, all in one, measured movement. He sat down on the cot, again, and began to thumb through the book.

  Metoo was in the garden room. She had told Tobe that she wanted to check on her plants, and perhaps he’d like to work in his room. Tobe had said that he didn’t work in his room, because he worked in his office. Never-the-less, he had turned his back on her, and walked away down the corridor.

  “Service needs to interview him,” Saintout told her.

  “That’s impossible,” Metoo answered. “He wouldn’t understand it, and it’d frighten him. He’s not good with questions.”

  “You don’t seem to understand,” said the Police Operator, “Service needs to interview him.”

  “I understand, perfectly. I just don’t see how it’s going to be possible.”

  “They could do it here.”

  “He can’t have strangers in the flat. He can’t bear anyone in the flat, not even his Students. He won’t talk to anyone from Service. He doesn’t even sign in for himself. I don’t know if he even remembers that Service exists.”

  “We’ll get a doctor in. We’ll medicate him,” said Saintout. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “You know,” said the Police Operator, “that isn’t out of the question.”

  Metoo thought for a moment that he was joking. She almost laughed. Then she looked at him, and realised that he was, literally, deadly serious.

  “It’s that important?” asked Metoo.

  “I don’t know,” said Saintout, “I don’t have clearance to that level, but the fact that I don’t have clearance to that level tells me all that I need to know. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.”

  Metoo’s head dropped, and her thumb came up to her mouth, as if she was going to chew the nail on it. She stood that way for several seconds.

  “They have to interview him,” said Saintout. “Do you want me to call a doctor, or what?”

  Metoo was pacing the room. She stopped in front of a shallow shelf where she was growing some ornamental plants, including an old English plant called ‘Honesty’. She was growing it because it had become very rare in the past two hundred years, in Britain, and a plant enthusiast that she corresponded with in Siberia had offered her some seeds. She also liked that it was called ‘Honesty’, and was even more pleased with the name that her friend had given to the flat, oval seed-pods that he had sent to her. They were delicate, papery, silver objects that she almost didn’t want to submerge in soil, because they were so beautiful. The English translation for their Russian name was ‘Moon Pennies’.

  Metoo relaxed, visibly, as she ordered her thoughts: Tobe was as honest as the day was long. He did not know how to dissemble, let alone lie. There had been occasions, when she first became Tobe’s Student, when Metoo had cringed at his lack of tact, but anyone who worked in College eventually got used to that; it was a common character trait among the Masters, especially the scientists and mathematicians.

  Service knew Tobe’s profile, so they knew that he was incapable of lying. That being the case, surely it didn’t matter who interviewed Tobe, or how. If he was asked a direct question, providing that it wasn’t a combination question, he would offer a direct answer.

  Metoo stopped pacing, and turned to face Saintout.

  “Or what,” she said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I HAD THE first tutorial of the day, 08:30 with Master Tobe,” said Pitu 3.

  “Before that?” asked Bello.

  “When before?” asked Pitu 3, bewildered. “There wasn’t a before.”

  “Okay. That’s good,” said Bello.

  “It’s f
ine,” Bim said, reassuring Pitu 3.

  “So, I went to my tutorial for 08:30, and we arrived together. He might have said something, I don’t remember,” Pitu 3 continued, lifting his eyes to look at Bim, searching for approval before he went on.

  He was sitting forward on his chair, with his forearms resting on the table between him and Bim. The other three were all sitting back in their chairs. He kept his head low, sometimes holding it in his hands, sometimes dropping it down between his shoulders, and once, knocking one of the sensors off his skin, so that Mudd had to replace it for him. His hands moved a good deal; some of the time they were palm down on the table, stroking the surface, where the finger sensors made odd clicking noises, at others they were in his hair. He also touched the back of his head a good deal, certainly more than was usual. Every time his hands moved, the ribbon between him and Mudd tightened, or went slack, or rustled with an odd, harsh sound, and the sensors and wires clicked against the table-top.

  Part of the interview involved monitoring Pitu’s physical responses to the questions put to him, and to his answers. The Medic had taped sensors to Pitu’s chest and finger tips to monitor his heart-rate and breathing, and how much he was sweating, the plaited cord of wires running from the sensors to the small device that sat on the table next to Bello. Pitu 3 seemed very pleased with the equipment; at last he was being valued. At last, someone was taking notice of him... Everyone was taking notice of him.

  Service Central was also uploading footage of the interview in real time, so that the process could be completed as quickly as possible, and the College could be brought back down to Code Green, at least.