Appliance Page 7

  ‘Yeah, but, if it’s your mum, that’d be okay, right?’

  ‘Why? Would you not mind being naked in front of my mum?’

  Lochan swallowed and looked back down at the plane in his hands. Without noticing, he’d stopped winding it, he couldn’t tell for how long. He got back into it with renewed energy. Anita’s mum was very pretty. It was part of the job.

  ‘But if that’s what everyone does. If everybody else is doing it. If, you know, it’s accepted. Like going to the doctor, or like being unconscious for an operation or something while people prod you and probe you, then maybe it’s okay. The naked bit, I mean. I’m not sure about the rest of it. I’d be worried. Worried things might, you know—go missing.’

  Anita snorted out a laugh. ‘What, you mean like your balls?’

  Lochan didn’t laugh. His face flushed, yet at the same time he felt a little surge of excitement, as though the idea was somehow appealing. Or perhaps it wasn’t the idea itself, so much as who was suggesting it.

  ‘Yeah, no. What I meant was—something like a finger, actually.’ Lochan held up the toy plane by way of explanation, his finger still slowly twirling, the odd sensation of the propeller’s fine blade circling his skin, round and round, without ever slicing through. ‘You know, like just your little finger, like it just not being there when you come out the other end, like it’s been forgotten, left out when you’re all—put back together and stuff.’

  Anita squinted. ‘I don’t think that could ever really happen though.’

  ‘Sure it could.’

  ‘Maybe theoretically, but even then—’

  ‘No, but, if theoretically then, yeah, it could actually happen, for real.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Anita frowned, pressing her lips together. ‘It’d mean a loss of data. And data is always retained, you know? It’s constant. It’s not like it could ever just leak out of the cables.’

  ‘Well then, some of the data could stay in the cables. Still retained, still constant, just not all coming out at once. A bit left behind in the pipes. Forever whizzing round.’

  Anita considered this. ‘But there aren’t any stories of it happening. We’d have heard. It’d be in all the papers.’

  ‘But it’d get covered up though, wouldn’t it? They’d know immediately, of course, when you came out with a bit missing. And they’d shuffle you away, and they’d promise you loads of money, if you kept quiet.’

  ‘Well—I guess so.’ Anita smiled. ‘Might even be worth it to get a big payout. Might never have to work again. Like you could live in total luxury all your life. And all for the loss of a little finger.’

  ‘Or a toe maybe. Better to lose a toe.’

  Anita had been watching the progress of the rubber band. Now she reached forward and took the aeroplane from Lochan’s hands. He gave it over without question, taking care to keep the propeller from spinning free.

  Anita had been thinking very carefully about this next flight. She’d had an idea. She held the machine at shoulder height and waited for a drop in the wind. When it came she released the blades and ran a few steps forward down the runway before giving the plane a little shove into the air.

  This time it really flew. It flew beautifully. And not simply gliding. The children watched in silence as the propeller spun fiercely, powering their little machine through the air on a gentle roundabout course, lifting and falling slightly on the breeze. They were amazed at just how long the propeller kept spinning, at how much power all their winding had put into one simple long black rubber band. And when that power was exhausted, down came their plane, very gently, to land nose first in the short damp grass beside the runway.

  The two children ran over to collect it. They checked it. They began winding again at once, Anita this time taking up that vital duty.

  ‘Must have been up for a minute, at least!’

  ‘Nah, it only felt like a minute.’

  ‘But it did fly a long time.’

  ‘Yeah, but like a minute is way longer than that.’

  Lochan went silent for a while, counting in his head.

  At length he nodded, sure of himself. ‘I think maybe like fifteen seconds then?’

  ‘Fifteen’s good. We can try to beat that, next flight.’

  ‘And we’ll time it properly.’

  ‘Yeah, and then try to beat that too.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They both concentrated on the winding; Lochan’s watching being just as intense as Anita’s twirling. It was crucial. It being that part of the procedure in which nothing much happened but on which everything depended.

  Till Lochan found himself looking past the plane, staring through it at the ground below.

  They were now standing on a bit of the runway that looked to have been recently repaired: a long strip of smooth black tarmac patching a wide line, a bar across the concrete, from one grass verge to the other. The grass itself grew differently at either end, extending the same line right across the airfield.

  ‘But if the data is really retained—’ Lochan followed the direction of the line back towards the airport terminal. ‘If it’s still in the cables, whizzing round, then I suppose it could come out later. Like maybe—it might attach itself to someone else?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. What, like I could go through and come out with an extra finger? I don’t think so.’

  Lochan considered this silently for a moment.

  ‘Better that than if you go through and end up with my balls.’

  They both laughed. So much so that Anita lost her grip on the propeller momentarily. They laughed, and then they looked at each other in sudden silence, and they both flushed and turned their eyes away.

  Anita wound the band up to its maximum this time. She could feel the tautness in the rubber, its triple-wound row of knots. It was so tight it didn’t even feel like rubber any more. She could feel that tension in the balsa frame as well. Everything was tense: a hardness, a sort of oneness, pulling the whole object together. And it was holding.

  She gave the machine over to Lochan. He took possession of it with great delicacy. Anita turned her wristwatch round, ready to time the flight.

  Lochan faced into the wind. He waited for the right moment. Then he ran as fast as he could, holding the plane two-handed just beside his head, and as he ran he released the propeller, like a relay runner who has to get up to speed before the moment of changeover. And when Lochan released the plane he gave it a good throw, a real boost. And a surge in the wind caught under the wings and the plane went soaring skywards. But in the same instant the wind gusted again and the plane flipped forward and, with all that tension still spinning out through the propeller, powered itself directly into the runway.

  The noise when it hit was not loud. There was a lightness to the sound of its splintering, as small parts broke off and skipped away over the concrete, and the tips of the propeller beat the ground, and the plane flapped around helplessly as the remainder of its power ran out.

  Lochan had both hands clasped over his head. Anita had frozen, her wrist still raised, her fingertips gripping fiercely the rim of her watch.

  Neither spoke as they approached the broken plane, and lifted it together, and turned it gently in their hands, inspecting the damage.

  The wheels had come off, as well as part of the tail assembly. That was what they’d seen skittering away at the moment of impact.

  ‘They were only loosely held on anyway. And they’re meant to be flexible.’

  ‘Mmm. And I think we can fix the tail.’

  ‘The propeller is scuffed.’

  ‘I think it’s probably okay.’

  ‘We could smooth it down with a knife if there are any burrs.’

  ‘Sure. Test the wood.’

  Anita tentatively flexed the central balsa wood dowel. There was no sign it had suffered in the crash. She checked the rigidity of the wings too.

  ‘I think it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Yeah. I think so. We were really
lucky.’

  ‘We just overdid it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it to go up so high.’

  ‘I know. It wasn’t your fault. We didn’t know.’

  ‘Yeah, and you have to test things.’

  They began walking slowly back towards the fence, picking up the other pieces of the aeroplane as they went.

  ‘It makes sense that things go wrong sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah, without things going wrong you can never tell how far you can push it.’

  ‘And we wouldn’t have got anywhere without trying.’

  ‘Yeah, and we were so careful, too.’

  ‘I know, and it’s not too bad really.’

  ‘No—I think it’ll be fine.’

  The day was in full swing now. There was a yellow haze over the terminal and a dust cloud over the building site beside it. There was the constant heavy drone of traffic and occasional beeping horns that echoed in the multistorey car parks. And there were voices shouting, and drills, and intermittent sirens, and the deep reverberant clanging of metal on metal.

  But the children paid none of it any attention as they cradled the pieces of their toy aeroplane, passing it and themselves through the tunnel under the fence, before scrambling up the dry earth bank and on through the scrubby trees towards the housing estate.

  5. Grail Quest

  AFTER ALL, she was better than him. Yes, he loved her for so many reasons, the usual reasons, the uncomplicated everyday reasons, but he loved her above all else because he knew that deep down she was a far better person than he was.

  And not only deep down, it was there in everything she did. It shone right through her. The more she tried to hide it, the more modest she tried to make herself, the more evident it became. At least to him. There was no competition between them. She was simply better. Always was and always would be.

  ¶

  Her name was Jane.

  ‘Janey, please. No one ever calls me Jane.’

  Her name was Janey. He met her at a party in his final year. The party was being hosted by the other girls she lived with. She was sitting apart in her room, in a corner, on her bed. Her bedroom door was open: he went in. He never did like parties.

  ‘I don’t much like them either. Well, they’re alright. I don’t really mind either way.’

  She was reading a book, its cover dark grey and lacking a picture. He couldn’t quite make out the title.

  ‘Perhaps because it’s in German?’

  She knew several languages, besides her mother tongue. He knew only one: the language of numbers. She lowered the book to her lap as he came in.

  ‘You can stay if you like.’

  He sat at the end of her bed. He asked what the best translation of her book might be, so that he could read it too.

  ‘The best translation of any work is always oneself, wouldn’t you say?’

  He looked at her quizzically. She seemed quite serious.

  ‘What I mean is: why translate the words into another language that doesn’t quite match the depth and complexity and beauty of the original text? So much better, I think, to translate yourself into a person who understands the work the way it was intended.’

  And from that moment he was smitten. It was her air of ease that captured him. Her gentle confidence. There was no pretence.

  ‘And of your numbers? What do you hope to do with them?’

  Now, for sure, he loved his numbers, he knew them intimately, he understood them intuitively, but he had no particular plan for them. Numbers were just what he was good at.

  ‘Perhaps you could translate yourself too. Into numbers, I mean.’

  And yes, that was it, she was right on that score as well. That’s exactly what he’d do.

  ‘And then, don’t forget, you’ll need to translate yourself back. That part is vital.’

  And not only himself. He would learn to translate simply everything into numbers. Yes. It seemed so obvious. So clear. He would make it his lifelong goal. His quest.

  ‘It can be your holy grail. If you find it I’m sure the world will be very grateful.’

  And so they would be. He was sure of it.

  ¶

  But he had his doubts too. About Janey. About himself. He could never understand why she’d kept with him when he was so inferior to her; the numbers just didn’t match up. Even on their honeymoon, as they lay on the hotel lawn in some foreign land looking up at unfamiliar constellations, he wondered if Janey might have been wiser to have waited for somebody else.

  ‘Do I take you? Do you take me? They’re just words. It’s just a ceremony. And a man-made one at that. Which does lower its integrity somewhat. What God feels about it all, however, that’s a different matter. You might not see it yourself, but God would surely approve. I’m quite certain he would, having once looked deep inside you.’

  And yet his numbers didn’t seem to allow for God.

  ‘Perhaps your numbers are themselves God. Or, if you’re not so keen on that idea, perhaps your language of numbers is the same one God uses.’

  Perhaps it was. Perhaps it had been the original language of all mankind, and would be again someday. A language that would set them on a sure path to the heavens.

  ‘For God so loved the world, he let us wreck it on his behalf. At least that Babel business gave us all a singular purpose. Something to while away the days. Something to strive for.’

  Except something went wrong with the numbers. Someone’s calculations were not up to standard. And all came tumbling down.

  ‘But all those bright new languages, all those different peoples: that was intended to help us, never hinder. Not just different tongues, but actual different ways of thinking. And, if we could but learn those other tongues, so too we could learn those other ways to think, and in so doing help and understand each other better. And then, maybe, eventually, we could get back to building that enormous tower.’

  And yet he felt that for a tower to reach such heights it would need a base of truly mammoth proportions. The task was just too much to contemplate. It was impossible.

  ‘Mankind itself would seem impossible if you were to ask the very first stars, or the cooling rocks, or the teeming seas. Yet here we are.’

  ¶

  His work at the institute was in analysis. He was involved with a device that could see right inside a person and read every part of them without them needing to be opened up.

  He worked on the numbers side of things. The team had already created the basic unit by which any object could be looked through, but how the device understood and decoded what it saw, and how it relayed that information effectively back to the operator, was where his numbers came in. Down at that level of analysis everything was numbers.

  It was his task to convert all these numbers into a useful diagnostic readout.

  ‘An interesting word: diagnostic, wouldn’t you say? Di-agnostic, dia-gnosis, diag-nose. The dia is the through part. But not just through, there is a sense of wholeness to it. And the gnostic, the gnomic, the gnome, well, that’s the understanding part, the knowing part. Except, who can really be said to know anything for sure? One can only really judge, after all. So, no matter how good your diagnosis, it’s always and only a judgement, a best guess. And the quality of the judgement is only as good as the quality of the judge. But who will judge the judge to see if he, or she, or it, is up to scratch? There’s only one true judge, and he keeps things pretty close to his chest. At least in so far as these number matters go.’

  And yet, that was the very idea: to make a machine that was more than simply a judge. To make a machine that was infallible in its knowing. A machine where the diagnosis would be quick and clean and full and absolute.

  ‘Not much good in knowing the problem if you don’t know a way to fix it.’

  Perhaps. But they had to start somewhere. And for the machine to fix the problem too? All in one go? Well, that would require something else entirely.

  ‘That would be the real holy grail. Th
at indeed would be worth striving for.’

  He didn’t doubt that she was right. But all too soon he became distracted in his quest. Next door at the institute, in a wholly separate department, they were playing with dust, with particles, with microscopic elemental specks. And they were sending them down coils of wire, down long fine loops, to end up somewhere other than where they had started, yet bodily no different than before.

  But how could they be sure their transported specks were truly the same specks when their structure was identical to any other speck? And how could they be sure, when the specks were so tiny and the wire so thin, that they weren’t travelling the coils in anything other than the usual way, or that anything exceptional was happening at all?

  What they needed was to send bigger objects: a grain of salt, a sugar cube, a small steel ball. By their calculations it should be possible, but their machine had limited depth-analysis. In this, he thought he might lend them a hand.

  When at home he told Janey all about these new developments she became suddenly very serious.

  ‘How much do we have? Moneywise. What’s our current number?’

  He showed her their most recent statement.

  ‘Then buy as many shares in the institute as you can. As many as we can afford. Buy them quick. Even if it’s only a handful. But do it soon. Do it tomorrow.’

  And he did, because Janey always saw so much deeper than anyone else. All those languages, all those ways of thinking: she didn’t need a special analyser, she didn’t need his numbers to decode the world around her or the people she might meet. She saw right through people, and things, and past-present-future, with merely a glance. She knew what he was thinking, and what he would do, and what the outcome would be when it was done.

  ‘It’s like I always say: the more languages talking to each other, understanding one another, the more varied the manner of thought.’

  And so the two technologies were married.

  ¶

  The institute came and installed a pair of oven-sized units in his basement for him to experiment with. And he sat, late into the evenings, wondering how he could make this new machine better understand the matter it was transporting.