Savant (2 page)

He rolled out of bed, and staggered into the small, shared kitchen, his naked feet slapping against linopro that was so old it had lost any bounce it might once have had. He put the heat on under a pan of oatpro that the Students had been topping up for most of the week. He hoped that it would be warm by the time he’d had his regulation shower in one of the stalls in the communal bathroom.

Pitu 3 wanted to get back to his room, his only private space. He’d lived in the School for the first couple of years, but was spared dorm-living; Tobe’s Students were given their own rooms. There were eighteen in the block, all small and sparsely appointed, with one shared bathroom and a kitchen. Seven of the rooms were vacant, but could not be accessed by the eleven remaining Students. At least the kitchen and bathroom were less crowded than they might have been.

Pitu 3 had been Drafted for six years, and had been Tobe’s Student for four. When he had begun, there were fourteen of them, now eleven; the numbers varied. New Students were moved in, and others left. Only two of Tobe’s Students exceeded him in seniority, so he was Pitu 3. He had begun as 14.

Pitu had left his basic education behind, and his mind had been opened by degrees in the School. In his first year Drafted, his chip had been adjusted eight times, but the jumps in his intellectual capacity were small and unremarkable, impaired by a lack of emotional growth that he failed to recognise in himself, but which made him one of the less popular Students in the School. Later chip adjustments were subtle; the mine had been tapped, and the material found wanting.

The Drafted began by studying a broad spectrum of subjects, but Pitu’s results for the first year put him squarely in the mathematics faculty, and at the end of his second year he was moved into Tobe’s class.

To continue as Tobe’s Student for so long was unusual; Pitu had been taking instruction from him for almost a year longer than he had anticipated. His chip had not been adjusted once during that time, and Pitu simply assumed that this was a positive. He wanted to believe that he was finally in preparation for Assistant, and wondered if 1 and 2 were also being monitored. Would they compete for the position?

Tobe’s class was the smallest in College, it had the biggest turnover of Students, and any number of myths and rumours surrounded it. The younger Students fell into two camps: those who could think of nothing more exciting than working under Tobe, and those who dreaded being transferred in. Pitu just enjoyed the status it gave him. It was true that Tobe could barely tell one Student from another, that his interest in them was minimal, and that they could forget humour and affection altogether, but it was also true that Tobe was one of the top three mathematicians on Earth.

Thought might be monitored, quantified and adjusted by Service, via their chips, but ambition was not, neither was excitement, nor dread, nor pragmatism, nor interest, humour or affection.

Pitu stepped out of the shower, worked a small towel under his arms and between his legs until it was too damp to use on the rest of his body, and slung on his robe. He walked back to the kitchen, his wet feet squelching across the linopro, leaving miniature puddles where his high arches didn’t connect with the surface. Ninety seconds later, he was sitting on the cot in his room, his bare feet crossed under his thighs for warmth, cradling a bowl of oatpro that proved to be hot enough, but too thick and gritty.

As Pitu ate, he cast his eyes over the facing wipe-wall, where he had written his latest calculations, referencing the list of formulae neatly arranged on the left. The work was never-ending. Tobe introduced one step at a time, methodically, but it had been four years, and Pitu had known for at least two of them that the work would not end, not with Tobe, and certainly not with him.

T
OBE AND
P
ITU
arrived together for their 08:30 tutorial. Tobe opened the door to his office, and stepped in, followed by Pitu. They exchanged no pleasantries, nor would they.

The room was a regular cube, three metres, by three, by three. This was unusual among the Masters, most of whom opted for the more visually pleasing three-four-five triangle system, resulting in a room that was low-ceilinged, but with a larger floor-plan. Space was at a premium, and every room had the same volume, but Tobe did not particularly value the size of the space, only its orderly configuration.

“It was the same,” Tobe said.

Pitu looked at Tobe, but his tutor did not appear to be addressing him, so he chose not to answer. Tobe usually began his sessions with, ‘Tidings’, which meant nothing to anybody, except that it was a sort of punctuation point that signified a beginning. Neither Student nor Master spoke, nor sat for several more seconds.

“Tidings,” said Tobe.

“Sir,” said Pitu.

Still, they did not sit.

“Upload Master Tobe’s personal Service files for 05:58 to 06:03. The pitch of the sock, work out why it was,” said Tobe.

“Sir?” asked Pitu. “I’ll need specified clearance.”

“Metoo,” said Tobe, turning his back on his Student.

The tutorial was over. It was 08:34.

Tobe turned from Pitu, and stepped onto a low ladder that would allow him to reach the highest bookshelves on the left wall of his office. Pitu watched his Master for a moment, unsure of his next move. Tobe rose to the second step on the ladder, and shielded his eyes with one hand, against the light, as he scanned the book titles. Pitu realised that Tobe had nothing more for him, turned, and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Service sent a tone to Pitu’s button, and he pressed it as he walked away.

Chapter Two

S
ERVICE SENT A
tone to Tobe’s flat at 08:34. Metoo stopped stacking dishes, and went to check on it, knowing that it would concern this morning’s anomaly. She was not worried.

“Metoo,” she said, answering the tone.

“Pitu 3 will request specified clearance, please allow,” said Service.

“Very well,” she said.

Why would Pitu 3 ask for a specified clearance? And why wasn’t he in his tutorial? What was happening? What was wrong with Tobe?
The questions flashed through Metoo’s mind, urging her to panic. She didn’t. It was that damned sock. That squeak had sent Tobe off on a wild goose-chase, and Pitu 3 had, somehow, become involved. Metoo breathed more easily; it was nothing.

T
OBE SCANNED THE
top shelf in his office for a text that he had not consulted for years. He knew it was there, he could not remember a time when it hadn’t been there; he had studied it in his teens, but his work had long-since bypassed probability. The book should have been third from the right, with a blue cover. The book third from the right on the shelf had a grey cover. He checked the books to either side; both were shades of beige, not distinctly different from the grey book that sat third from the right on the top shelf. He stepped down from the ladder, and stood in the middle of the room. He didn’t move for several seconds.

“Metoo,” he said.

I
T WAS PROVING
to be a strange day, not the perfect, ordinary day that it had promised to be only a few hours earlier. Service would be demanding today.

Tobe was still standing in the middle of his office when Metoo arrived a few minutes later.

“Master?” she asked, as she stepped into the room.

“Eustache,
On Probability
,” he said, “it isn’t there.”

“Probability?” she asked.

“Eustache,” he said, again. “Top shelf, third from the right.”

What could he possibly want with Eustache?

Metoo squeezed past Tobe, who seemed incapable of movement, and took the first three steps up the ladder, allowing her to reach the top shelf, just. She slipped the third book from the right, off the shelf, and let it fall into her hand. The spine of the book was grey with age, and the embossed title was so old and worn as to be unreadable, but the covers of the book, front and back, were made of sky-blue book-cloth, preserved from the light, pressed against their neighbours. Metoo flipped the book open, and checked the title page,
On Probability
, Eustache et Henriot.

She handed the book to Tobe, who looked at the faded spine, and then at the blue book-cloth. He opened the book, and began to riffle through the pages. He had not moved. Metoo watched him for a moment, but decided not to ask. He needed what he needed, and, today, it was this; but what did probability have to do with the squeak her socks made?

A
S SHE RETURNED
to the flat, Pitu 3 approached Metoo. She had forgotten to expect him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’ve only been here a minute or two,” said Pitu 3. “I hit my Service button. The Schedule’s fine.” He didn’t know what was going on, any more than Metoo did, but, in the few dealings he’d had with her, she’d made him feel comfortable. People weren’t generally nice to Pitu, so he liked being around someone whose default setting was kindness. She was one of the reasons he was hoping to become Tobe’s Assistant; she would be a great Companion to work with. This might be his chance.

“Specified clearance,” she said, opening the door. “Come in.”

Metoo checked Pitu 3 in with Service, and, having allowed him access, turned to go.

“I have to check some personal file footage for this morning,” said Pitu 3.

Metoo turned and looked at him.

“I’m sorry?” she asked.

“Footage,” he answered, “05:58 to 06:03.” Pitu wanted to engage Metoo, partly because he seldom had anyone to talk to, but also because she might be able to influence his promotion to Assistant; after all, it had been four years.

“I’m sorry?” she asked again.

Metoo had managed not to panic twice already this morning, and it was not yet 9 o’clock. Her regular Service had tripled almost before the day had begun in earnest, and now this. She stood for a moment, facing Pitu 3, as he turned to look at her. Her hands were clasped in front of her, but she showed no other signs of tension.

“You have specified clearance,” she said, “you don’t have to tell me anything.”

She knew what he was doing. He was reviewing the footage of the sock incident. Pitu 3 would watch Tobe sit down to his breakfast, he would hear Tobe say, ‘It’s the same’, he would watch Metoo turn back, and he would hear the squeak her sock made on the linopro.

The event had taken seconds, but Tobe had been careful to make sure that Pitu 3 saw everything. Why wasn’t Tobe doing the maths? Tobe had instant, total recall; why waste time making Pitu 3 review the footage, work out what Tobe needed, and then do the maths? Tobe could do it in significantly less time.

What did probability have to do with any of it?

Metoo’s last thought was that it should have been her. If Tobe wanted to delegate, while he did something else, why had he given the work to Pitu 3, his Student, rather than his Assistant?

P
ITU LEFT
T
OBE’S
flat with a skip in his step. He wasn’t quite jubilant, but his confidence was certainly boosted. If he could get this right, and accomplish the maths in short order, he might have a chance. Metoo was not the only one who had thought about Tobe’s motives.

Pitu returned to his room, hit his Service button, and took up the rag that hung from a hook on his wipe-wall. He obliterated everything but three of the formulae on the left-hand side, and set to work. This was real-world maths, and, in real-world maths, results were immediate and gratifying, unlike the theoretical stuff he wrestled with every day.

Pitu 3 was not the best theoretical mathematician in Tobe’s class, but it had been his turn to have the first tutorial of the day, in rotation, and he was going to make the best of this opportunity. He had been given an Assistant’s job, and he was determined to prove that he would be a fine Assistant, that he was ready for promotion.

The probability of Pitu 3 having the first tutorial of the day should have been one in eleven, but there were only four tutorial days in a week, so, in theory, there was only a one in eleven by four in seven chance that the sock incident would have fallen on a day when his tutorial was first. However, it could take up to twenty days to cover eleven 08:30 tutorials, cutting those chances from four in seven to only eleven in twenty. He had beaten odds of one in eleven by eleven in twenty. This was a good day.

W
HEN
P
ITU
3 had gone, Metoo returned to Service.

“Anomalies?” she asked.

“Minor and monitoring,” Service answered.

“Very well,” said Metoo.

T
OBE STOOD IN
the middle of his room, examining the calculations on the wipe-wall, which stretched wildly from one side to the other, filling all the space that he could reasonably reach without stretching too high, or stooping too low. The answer should have been there. Probability should have been the answer. The calculations appeared to be correct. Tobe looked at his hands. He held a pen in his right hand, and a rag in his left. He looked down, and saw the book lying, open, forgotten at his feet. He bent to pick it up.