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"You see, a pattern of numbers can represent anything you like, can be used to map any surface, or modulate any dynamic process--and so on. And any set of company accounts are, in the end, just a pattern of numbers. So I sat down and wrote a program that'll take those numbers and do what you like with them. If you just want a bar graph it'll do them as a bar graph, if you want them as a pie chart or scatter graph it'll do them as a pie chart or scatter graph. If you want dancing girls jumping out of the pie chart in order to distract attention from the figures the pie chart actually represents, then the program will do that as well. Or you can turn your figures into, for instance, a flock of seagulls, and the formation they fly in and the way in which the wings of each gull beat will be determined by the performance of each division of your company. Great for producing animated corporate logos that actually mean something.
"But the silliest feature of all was that if you wanted your company accounts represented as a piece of music, it could do that as well. Well, I thought it was silly. The corporate world went bananas over it."
Reg regarded him solemnly from over a piece of carrot poised delicately on his fork in front of him, but did not interrupt.
"You see, any aspect of a piece of music can be expressed as a sequence or pattern of numbers," enthused Richard. "Numbers can express the pitch of notes, the length of notes, patterns of pitches and lengths."
"You mean tunes," said Reg. The carrot had not moved yet.
Richard grinned.
"Tunes would be a very good word for it. I must remember that."
"It would help you speak more easily." Reg returned the carrot to his plate, untasted. "And this software did well, then?" he asked.
"Not so much here. The yearly accounts of most British companies emerged sounding like the Dead March from Saul, but in Japan they went for it like a pack of rats. It produced lots of cheery company anthems that started well, but if you were going to criticise you'd probably say that they tended to get a bit loud and squeaky at the end. Did spectacular business in the States, which was the main thing, commercially. Though the thing that's interesting me most now is what happens if you leave the accounts out of it. Turn the numbers that represent the way a swallow's wings beat directly into music. What would you hear? Not the sound of cash registers, according to Gordon."
"Fascinating," said Reg, "quite fascinating," and popped the carrot at last into his mouth. He turned and leaned forward to speak to his new girlfriend.
"Watkin loses," he pronounced. "The carrots have achieved a new all--time low. Sorry, Watkin, but awful as you are, the carrots, I'm afraid, are world-beaters."
The girl giggled more easily than last time and she smiled at him. Watkin was trying to take all this good-naturedly, but it was clear as his eyes swam at Reg that he was more used to discomfiting than being discomfited.
"Please, Daddy, can I now?" With her new-found, if slight, confidence, the girl had also found a voice.
"Later," insisted her father.
"This is already later. I've been timing it."
"Well..." He hesitated, and was lost.
"We've been to Greece," announced the girl in a small but awed voice.
"Ah, have you indeed," said Watkin, with a little nod. "Well, well. Anywhere in particular, or just Greece generally?"
"Patmos," she said decisively. "It was beautiful. I think Patmos is the most beautiful place in the whole world. Except the ferry never came when it said it would. Never, ever. I timed it. We missed our flight but I didn't mind."
"Ah, Patmos, I see," said Watkin, who was clearly roused by the news. "Well, what you have to understand, young lady, is that the Greeks, not content with dominating the culture of the Classical world, are also responsible for the greatest, some would say the only, work of true creative imagination produced this century as well. I refer of course to the Greek ferry timetables. A work of the sublimest fiction. Anyone who has travelled in the Aegean will confirm this. Hmm, yes. I think so."
She frowned at him.
"I found a pot," she said.
"Probably nothing," interrupted her father hastily. "You know the way it is. Everyone who goes to Greece for the first time thinks they've found a pot, don't they? Ha, ha."
There were general nods. This was true. Irritating, but true.
"I found it in the harbour," she said, "in the water. While we were waiting for the damn ferry."
"Sarah! I've told you..."
"It's just what you called it. And worse. You called it words I didn't think you knew. Anyway, I thought that if everyone here was meant to be so clever, then someone would be able to tell me if it was a proper ancient Greek thing or not. I think it's very old. Will you please let them see it, Daddy?"
Her father shrugged hopelessly and started to fish about under his chair.
"Did you know, young lady," said Watkin to her, "that the Book of Revelation was written on Patmos? It was indeed. By Saint John the Divine, as you know. To me it shows very clear signs of having been written while waiting for a ferry. Oh, yes, I think so. It starts off, doesn't it, with that kind of dreaminess you get when you're killing time, getting bored, you know, just making things up, and then gradually grows to a sort of climax of hallucinatory despair. I find that very suggestive. Perhaps you should write a paper on it." He nodded at her.
She looked at him as if he were mad.
"Well, here it is," said her father, plonking the thing down on the table. "Just a pot, as you see. She's only six," he added with a grim smile, "aren't you, dear?"
"Seven," said Sarah.
The pot was quite small, about five inches high and four inches across at its widest point. The body was almost spherical, with a very narrow neck extending about an inch above the body. The neck and about half of the surface area were encrusted with hard-caked earth, but the parts of the pot that could be seen were of a rough, ruddy texture.
Sarah took it and thrust it into the hands of the don sitting on her right.
"You look clever," she said. "Tell me what you think."
The don took it, and turned it over with a slightly supercilious air. "I'm sure if you scraped away the mud from the bottom," he remarked wittily, "it would probably say "Made in Birmingham"."
"That old, eh?" sa
id Sarah's father with a forced laugh. "Long time since anything was made there."
"Anyway," said the don, "not my field, I'm a molecular biologist. Anyone else want to have a look?"
This question was not greeted with wild yelps of enthusiasm, but nevertheless the pot was passed from hand to hand around the far end of the table in a desultory fashion. It was goggled at through pebble glasses, peered at through horn-rims, gazed at over half-moons, and squinted at by someone who had left his glasses in his other suit, which he very much feared had now gone to the cleaner's. No one seemed to know how old it was, or to care very much. The young girl's face began to grow downhearted again.
"Sour lot," said Reg to Richard. He picked up a silver salt cellar again and held it up.
"Young lady," he said, leaning forward to address her.
"Oh, not again, you old fool," muttered the aged archaeologist Cawley, sitting back and putting his hands over his ears.
"Young lady," repeated Reg, "regard this simple silver salt cellar. Regard this simple hat."
"You haven't got a hat," said the girl sulkily.
"Oh," said Reg, "a moment please," and he went and fetched his woolly red one.
"Regard," he said again, "this simple silver salt cellar. Regard this simple woolly hat. I put the salt cellar in the hat, thus, and I pass the hat to you. The next part of the trick, dear lady... is up to you."
He handed the hat to her, past their two intervening neighbours, Cawley and Watkin. She took the hat and looked inside it.
"Where's it gone?" she asked, staring into the hat.
"It's wherever you put it," said Reg.
"Oh," said Sarah, "I see. Well... that wasn't very good."
Reg shrugged. "A humble trick, but it gives me pleasure," he said, and turned back to Richard. "Now, what were we talking about?"
Richard looked at him with a slight sense of shock. He knew that the Professor had always been prone to sudden and erratic mood swings, but it was as if all the warmth had drained out of him in an instant. He now wore the same distracted expression Richard had seen on his face when first he had arrived at his door that evening, apparently completely unexpected. Reg seemed then to sense that Richard was taken aback and quickly reassembled a smile.
"My dear chap!" he said. "My dear chap! My dear, dear chap! What was I saying?"
"Er, you were saying "My dear chap"."
