mentally ready to ask sophisticated questions, but completely lacking access to transistors, quantum switches, or binary processing. Until your great savants, Turing and Von Neumann, finally expressed the power of digital computers, generations of mathematicians had to cope by using pencil and paper.
“The result? A mix of the brilliant and the inane. Abstract differential analysis and cabalistic numerology. Algebra, astrology, and geometrical topology. Much of this amalgam was based on patently absurd concepts, such as continuity, or aptly named irrational numbering, or the astonishing notion that there are layered infinities of the divisibly small.”
Gillian sighed an old frustration.
“Earth’s best minds tried to explain our math, soon after contact. Again and again we showed it was self- consistent. That it worked.”
“Yet it accomplished nothing that could not be outmatched in moments by calculating engines like myself. Galactic seers dismissed all the clever equations as trickery and shortcuts, or else the abstract ravings of savages.”
She acceded with a nod.
“This happened once before, you know. In Earth’s twentieth century, after the Second World War, the victors quickly split into opposing camps. Those experts you mentioned — Turing and von Whoever — they worked in the west, helping set off our own digital revolution.
“Meanwhile, the east was ruled by a single dictator, I think his name was Steel.”
“Accessing the Britannica … You mean ‘Stalin’? Yes, I see the connection. Until his death, Stalin obstructed Russo-Soviet science for ideological reasons. He banished work on genetics because it contradicted notions of communist perfectibility. Moreover, he quashed work on computers, calling them ‘decadent.’ Even after his passing, many in the east held that calculation was crude, inelegant … only good for quick approximations. For truth, one needed pure mathematics.”
“So that’s why many practitioners in the Old Math still come from Russia.” Gillian chuckled. “It sounds like yet another inverted image of what happened to Earth, after contact.”
The Niss pondered this for a moment.
“What are you implying, Doctor? That Stalin was partly right? That you Terrans were right? That you were onto something the rest of the universe has missed?”
“It seems unlikely, eh? And yet, isn’t that slim possibility the very reason why your makers assigned you to this ship?”
Again, the meshed lines whirled.
“Point well taken, Dr. Baskin.”
Gillian stood up to start moving her body through a series of stretching exercises. The brief sleep period had helped. Still, there were a hundred problems to address.
“Look,” she asked the Niss Machine. “Is there some point where all this is heading? Haven’t you a clue what problem Uriel is trying to solve?”
She gestured toward the recorded image of pulleys, leather straps, and spinning disks.
“In a word, Doctor? No.
“Oh, I can tell that Uriel is modeling a set of simultaneous differential equations — to use old wolfling terminology. The range of numerical values being considered appears to be simple, even trivial. I could outcalculate her so-called computer with a mere one quadrillionth of my processing power.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because to me the problem first calls for unlocking the code of a lost language. I need an opening, a Rosetta stone, after which all should be instantly clear.
“In short, I need help from an Earthling, to suggest what the expressions might be for.”
Gillian shrugged.
“Another tough break, then. We’ve plumb run out of mathematicians aboard this crate. Creideiki and Tom both used to play with the Old Math. I know Charles Dart dabbled, and Takkata-Jim.…”
She sighed.
“And Emerson D’Anite. He was the last one who could have helped you.”
Gillian moved toward her reference console. “I suppose we can scan the personnel files to see if there’s anyone else—”
“That may not be necessary,” the Niss cut in. “It might be possible to access one of the experts you already mentioned.”
Gillian blinked, unable to believe she heard right.
“What are you talking about?”
“You assigned me another problem — to find out what the feral-sapient tytlal named ‘Mudfoot’ was staring at, after the council meeting. To achieve that, I enhanced the spy camera’s last scene, before the privacy wasps closed in.
“Please watch carefully, Doctor.”
The big display now showed the final clear picture sent by the lost probe. Gillian found it physically painful to watch the insect’s beating wings, and felt relief when the Niss zoomed toward a corner of the field, pushing the privacy wasp off-screen. What ballooned outward was a section of the ornate contraption of Uriel the Smith — a marvel of pure ingenuity and resourcefulness.
I did take one course in the Old Math, before heading to medical school. I could try to help. The Niss can supply precontact texts. All it wants is insight. Some wolfling intuition…
Her thoughts veered, distracted by the vivid enhancement. Looming around her now was a maze of improvised scaffolding, filled with shadows that were split, here and there, by glaring points of light.
All this incredible activity must add up to something important.
Gillian saw the apparent goal sought by the Niss — a set of shadows that had the soft curves of life-forms, precariously balanced in the crisscrossing trusswork. Some figures were small, with snakelike torsos and tiny legs, brandishing tools with slim, many-jointed hands.
Miniature urs, she realized. The maintenance crew?
A larger silhouette loomed over these. Gillian gasped when she saw it must be human! Then she recalled.
Of course. Humans are among Uriel’s allies, and skilled technicians. They’re also good climbers, perfect to help keep things running.
The Niss must now be straining its ability to enhance the grainy image. The rate of magnification slowed, and remaining shadows peeled grudgingly before the onslaught of computing power. But soon she knew the human was male, from the shape of neck and shoulders. He was pointing, perhaps indicating a task for the little urs to perform.
Gillian saw that he had long hair, brushed left over a cruel scar. For an instant she stared at the puckered wound in his temple.
A moment later, the image clarified to show a smile.
Recognition hit like a blast of chill water.
“My God … It can’t be!”
The Niss crooned, expressing both satisfaction and intrigue.
“You confirm the resemblance?
“It does appear to be engineer Emerson D’Anite.
“Our crew mate whom we thought killed by the Old Ones, back at the Fractal System.
“He whose scout vessel was enveloped by a globe of devouring light, as the Streaker made its getaway, fleeing by a circuitous route toward Jijo.”
The Tymbrimi machine shared one trait with its makers, a deep love of surprise. That pleasure it now expressed in a hum of satisfaction.
“You ask frequently how anyone could have followed us to this forlorn corner of the universe, Dr. Baskin.
“I believe the question just acquired new levels of cogency.”
Kaa
