Rain Gear, INKlings, Laundry

I WAS conducted into a big, empty room. The walls were a white, the ceiling a white, the carpet a mocha brown—all decorator colors. Yes, even in whites, there are tasteful whites and there are crass whites, shades that might as well not be white.

The opaque windows blocked all view to the world outside, but the light that was filtering in could only be sunlight. Which placed us somewhere above ground. So the elevator had risen. Knowing this put me at ease: it was as I had imagined after all.

The woman motioned for me to sit on the leather sofa in the center of the room. I obliged, and crossed my legs, whereupon she exited by a different door.

The room had very little furniture. Before the sofa was a low coffee table set with a ceramic ashtray, lighter, and cigarette case. I flipped open the cigarette case; it was empty.

On the walls, not a painting, nor a calendar; nor a photo. Pretty bleak.

Next to the window was a large desk. I got up from the sofa and walked over to the window, inspecting the desk as I passed by. A solid affair with a thick panel top, ample drawers to either side. On the desk were a lamp, three ballpoint pens, and an appointment book, beside which lay scattered a handful of paperclips. The appointment book was open to today's date.

In one corner of the room stood three very ordinary steel lockers, entirely out of keeping with the interior scheme. Straight-cut industrial issue. If it had been up to me, I would have gone for something more elegant—say, designer wardrobes. But no one was asking me. I was here to do a job, and gray steel lockers or pale peach jukebox was no business of mine.

The wall to my left held a built-in closet fitted with an accordion door. That was the last item of furnishing of any kind in the room. There was no bookcase, no clock, no phone, no pencil sharpener, no letter tray, no pitcher of water. What the hell kind of room was it supposed to be? I returned to the sofa, recrossed my legs, and yawned.

Ten minutes later, the woman reappeared. And without so much as a glance in my direction, she opened one of the lockers and removed an armload of some shiny black material, which she brought over to the coffee table.

The black material turned out to be a rubberized slicker and boots. And topping the lot was a pair of goggles, like the ones pilots in World War I wore. I hadn't the foggiest what all this was leading up to.

The woman said something, but her lips moved too fast for me to make it out.

"E… excuse me? I'm only a beginner at lipreading," I said.

This time she moved her lips slowly and deliberately: "Put these on over your clothes, please."

Really, I would have preferred not to, but it would have been more bothersome to complain, so I shut up and did as told. I removed my jogging shoes and stepped into the boots, then slipped into the slicker. It weighed a ton and the boots were a couple of sizes too big, but did I have a choice? The woman swung around in front of me and did up the buttons of my slicker, pulling the hood up over my head. As she did so, her forehead brushed the tip of my nose.

"Nice fragrance," I complimented her on her eau de cologne.

"Thanks," she mouthed, doing the hood snaps up to right below my nose. Then over the hood came the goggles. And there I was, all slicked up and nowhere to go—or so I thought.

That was when she pulled open the closet door, led me by the hand, and shoved me in.

She turned on the light and pulled the door shut behind her. Inside, it was like any clothes closet—any clothes closet without clothes. Only coat hangers and mothballs. It probably wasn't even a clothes closet. Otherwise, what reason could there be for me getting all mummied up and squeezed into a closet?

The woman jiggled a metal fitting in the corner, and presently a portion of the facing wall began to open inward, lifting up like the door of the trunk of a compact car. Through the opening it was pitch black, but I could feel a chill, damp air blowing. There was also the deep rumble of water.

"There's a river in there," she appeared to say. The sound of the water made it seem as if her speaking were simply drowned out. Somehow I found myself understanding what she was saying. Odd.

"Up toward the headwaters, there's a big waterfall which you pass right under. Beyond that's Grandfather's laboratory. You'll find out everything once you get there."

"Once I get there? Your grandfather's waiting for me?"

"That's right," she said, handing me a large waterproof flashlight with a strap. Stepping into total blackness wasn't my idea of fun, but I toughened up my nerve and planted one foot inside the gaping hole. I crouched forward to duck head and shoulders through, coaxing my other foot along. With all the bulky rain gear, this proved no mean effort. I turned and looked back though my goggles at the chubby woman standing inside the closet. She was awfully cute.

"Be careful. You mustn't stray from the river or go down a side path," she cautioned, stooping down to peer at me.

"Straight ahead, waterfall?" I shouted.

"Straight ahead, waterfall," she repeated.

As an experiment, I mouthed the word "sela" . This brought a smile and a "sela" from her, before she slammed the wall panel shut.

All at once I was plunged into darkness, literally, without a single pinprick of light. I couldn't see a thing. I couldn't even make out my hand raised up to my face. I stood there dumbfounded, as if I'd been hit by a blunt object, overcome by the chilling realization of my utter helplessness. I was a leftover wrapped in black plastic and shoved into the cooler. For an instant, my body went limp.

I felt for the flashlight switch and sent a welcome beam of light straight out across nowhere. I trained the light on my feet, then slowly took my bearings. I was standing on a three-meter-square concrete platform jutting out over bottomless nothingness. No railing, no enclosure. Wish she'd told me about this, I huffed, just a tad upset.

An aluminum ladder was propped against the side of the platform, offering a way down. I strapped the flashlight diagonally across my chest, and began my descent, one slippery rung at a time. The lower I got, the louder and more distinct the sound of water became.

What was going on here? A closet in an office building with a river chasm at the bottom?

And smack in the middle of Tokyo!

The more I thought about it, the more disturbed I got. First that eerie elevator, then that woman who spoke without ever saying anything, now this leisurely jaunt. Maybe I should have turned down the job and gone home. But no, here I was, descending into the abyss. And for what? Professional pride? Or was it the chubby woman in the pink suit?

Okay, I confess: she'd gotten to me, and now I had to go through with this nonsense.

Twenty rungs down the ladder I stopped to catch my breath, then continued another eighteen rungs to the ground. At the bottom, I cautiously shined my light over the level stone slab beneath my feet and discovered the river ahead. The surface of the water rippled in the flashlight beam. The current was swift, but I could get no sense of the depth or even the color of the water. All I could tell was that it flowed from left to right.

Pouring light into the ground at my feet, I slowly made my way upstream. Now and again I could swear something was moving nearby, but I saw nothing. Only the vertical hewn-rock walls to either side of the river. I was probably anxious from the darkness.

After five or six minutes of walking, the ceiling dropped low—or so it seemed from the echo. I pointed my flashlight beam up but could not discern anything above me. Next, just as the woman had warned, I saw what seemed to be tunnels branching off to either side. They weren't so much side paths as fissures in the rock face, from which trickled veins of water that fed into the river. I walked over and shined my flashlight into one of the cracks. A black hole that got bigger, much bigger, further in. Very inviting.

Gripping the flashlight tightly in my right hand, I hurried upstream like a fish mid-evolution. The stone slab was wet, so I had to step carefully. If I slipped now or broke my flashlight, that'd be it.

All my attention was on my feet. When I happened to glance up, I saw a light closing in, a mere seven or eight meters away. I immediately switched off the flashlight. I reached into the slicker for my knife and got the blade open, the darkness and the roar of the water making a perfect cover.

The instant I switched off my flashlight, the yellowish beacon riveted to a pinpoint stop.

It then swung around in an arc to describe two large circles in the air. This seemed to be a signal: "Everything all right—not to worry." Nonetheless, I stood poised on guard and waited for them to move. Presently, the light began to come toward me, waving through empty space like a giant glowbug coupled to a higher brain. I stared at it, right hand clutching the knife, left hand on the switched-off flashlight.

The light stopped its advance scarcely three meters from me. It motioned upward and downward. It was weak. I eventually realized it was trying to illuminate a face. The face of a man wearing the same crazy goggles and slicker as I had on. In his hand was the light, a small lantern like the kind they sell in camping supply shops. He was yelling to me over the noise of the water, but I couldn't hear him; and because it was too dark, I couldn't I read his lips.

"… ing except that… time. Or you'd… in that regard, since…" the man appeared to be saying. Indecipherable. But he seemed to pose no threat, so I turned my flashlight back on and shined it on my face, touching a finger to my ear to signal that I could barely hear him.

The man nodded several times, then he set down his lantern and fumbled with both hands in his pockets. Suddenly, the roar subsided from all around me, like a tide receding. I thought I was passing out. Expecting unconsciousness— though why I should be passing out, I had no idea—I braced myself for a fall.

Seconds passed. I was still standing. In fact, I felt just fine. The noise of the water, however, had faded.

"I came't'meet you," the man said. Perfectly clear.

I shook my head, tucked the flashlight under my arm, folding the knife and pocketing it.

Going to be one of those days, I could just tell.

"What happened to the sound?" I asked the man.

"Oh yes, the sound. It was loud, wasn't it? I turned it down. Sorry about that. It's all right now," said the man, nodding repeatedly. The roar of the river was now the babble of a brook. "Well then, shall we?" he said with an abrupt about-face, then began walking back upstream with surefooted ease. I followed, shining my flashlight in his steps.

"You turned the sound down? Then it's artificial, I take it?"

"Not at all," the man said. "That's natural sound, that is."

"But how do you turn down natural sound?" I asked.

"Strictly speaking, I don't turn it down," the man replied. "I take it out."

Well, I guess, if he said so. I kept walking, saying nothing. Everything was very peaceful now, thanks to his softening the sound of the water. I could even hear the squish-squish of my rubber boots. From overhead there came a weird grinding as if someone were rubbing pebbles together. Twice, three times, then it stopped.

"I found signs that those INKlings were sneakin' in here. I got worried, so I came't'fetch you. By rights INKlings shouldn't ever make it this far in, but sometimes these things happen. A real problem," the man said.

"INKlings?" I said.

"Even someone like you, bet y'wouldn't fancy runnin' into an INKling down here, eh?" said the man, bursting into a loud guffaw.

"I suppose not," I said. INKling or whatling, I wasn't up for a rendezvous in a dark place like this.

"That's why I came't'get you," the man repeated. "Those INKlings are bad news."

"Much obliged," I said.

We walked on until we came within hearing of what sounded like a faucet running full blast. The waterfall. With only a quick shine of my flashlight, I could see it wasn't your garden variety. If the sound hadn't been turned down, it would have made a mean rumble.

I moved forward, my goggles wet with spray.

"Here's where we go under, right?" I asked.

"That's right, son," said the man. And without further explanation, he headed straight into the waterfall and disappeared. I had little choice but to head straight into the waterfall, too.

Fortunately, our route took us through what proved to be a "dry" part of the waterfall, but this was becoming absurd. Even all suited up in this rain gear, I was getting drenched under sheets of water. And to think the old man had to do this every time he entered or left the laboratory. No doubt this was for information-security purposes, but there had to be a more graceful way.

Inside the waterfall, I stumbled and struck my kneecap on a rock. With the sound turned down, I had gotten confused by the sheer discrepancy between the non-sounds and the reality that would have produced them had they been audible. Which is to say, a waterfall ought to have a waterfall's worth of sound.

On the far side of the falls was a cave barely big enough for one man. Dead center was an iron door. The man pulled what looked like a miniature calculator out of his pocket, inserted it into a slot, and after he maneuvered it a bit, the door opened silently inward.

"Well, here we are. After you," said the man. He stepped in after me and locked the door.

"Rough goin', eh?"

"No, uh… that wasn't…"

The man laughed, lantern hanging by a cord around his neck, goggles and hood still in place. A jolly ho-ho-ho sort of laugh.

The room we'd entered was like a swimming pool locker room, the shelves stacked with a half dozen sets of the same gear we had on. I took off my goggles and climbed out of the slicker, draping it over a hanger, then placed my boots on the shelf. The flashlight I hung on a hook.

"Sorry't'cause you so much trouble," the man apologized, "but we can't be slack on security. Got't'take the necessary precautions. There's types out there lyin' in wait for us."

"INKlings?" I prompted.

"Yessir. And those INKlings, in case you were wonderin', aren't the only ones," said the man, nodding to himself.

He then conducted me to a reception room beyond the lockers. Out of his slicker, my guide proved to be a kindly old man. Short and stout; not fat so much as sturdily built. He had good color to his complexion and when he put on his rimless spectacles, he was the very image of a major pre-War political figure.

He motioned for me to sit on the leather sofa, while he himself took a seat behind the desk. This room was of exactly the same mold as the other room. The carpet, the walls, the lighting, everything was the same. On the coffee table in front of the sofa was an identical smoking set, on the desk an identical appointment book and an identical scattering of paperclips. Had I been led around in a circle back to the same room? Maybe in fact I had; maybe in fact I hadn't. Hard to memorize the precise position of each scattered paperclip.

The old man looked me over. Then he picked up a paperclip and unbent it to scrape at a fingernail cuticle. His left index finger cuticle. When he'd finished with the cuticle, he discarded the straightened paperclip into the ashtray. If I ever get reincarnated, it occurred to me, let me make certain I don't come back as a paperclip.

"Accordint'my information, those INKlings are like this with the Semiotecs," said the old man. "Not that they're in cahoots, mind you. INKlings're too wary, and your Semiotec's got his own agenda planned out way ahead. So cooperation's got't'be limited to the very few. Still, it doesn't bode well. The fact that we've got INKlings pokin' around right here, where there oughn't't'be INKlings 'tall, just shows how bad things are. If it keeps on like this, this place's goint'be swarmin' with INKlings day and night. And that'll make real problems for me."

"Quite," I concurred, "quite." I hadn't the vaguest idea what sort of operants these INKlings were, but if for any reason they'd joined forces with the Semiotecs, then the outlook wasn't too bright for me either. Which was to say that the contest between our side and the Semiotechnicians was already in a delicate balance, and the slightest tampering could overturn the whole thing. For starters, I knew nothing about these INKlings, yet they knew about me. This already tipped the scales in their favor. Of course, to a lower-echelon field independent like myself, not knowing about INKlings was only par for the course, whereas the Brass at the top were probably aware of them ages ago.

"Well, if it's all right with you, let's get hoppin'," said the old man.

"Absolutely," I said.

"I asked them't'send 'round their crackest Calcutec, and seems you've got that reputation.

Everyone speaks mighty highly of you. You got the knack, got the gumption, you do a crack job. Other than a certain lack of team spirit, you got no strikes against you."

"An exaggeration, I'm sure," I said.

The old man guffawed again. "And team spirit's no great shakes. The real question is gumption. You don't get't'be a first-string Calcutec without your share of spunk. That's how you command such high wages, eh?"

Yet another guffaw. Then the old man guided me into an adjoining workroom.

"I'm a biologist," he said. "But the word biology doesn't begin't'cover all that I do.

Everythin' from neurophysiology to acoustics, linguistics to comparative religion. Not your usual bag of tricks, if I do say so myself. These days I'm researchin' the mammalian palate."

"Palate?"

"The mouth, son. The way the mouth's put together. How the mouth works, how it gives voice, and various related topics. Here, take a look at this."

Whereupon he flicked a switch on the wall and the lab lights came on. The whole back of the room was flush with shelves, each lined with skulls. Giraffe, horse, panda, mouse, every species of mammal imaginable. There must have been three hundred or four hundred skulls. Naturally, there were human skulls, too. Caucasoid, Negroid, Asiatic, Indian, one male and one female of each.

"Got the whale and elephant in the storeroom downstairs. Take up a lot of space, they do," said the old man.

"Well, I guess," I said. A few whale skulls and there goes the neighborhood.

All the skulls had their mouths propped open, a chorus ready for inspection; all stared at the opposite wall with empty sockets. Research specimens or no, the atmosphere in the room was not exactly pleasant. On other shelves, although not so numerous as the skulls, were jars of tongues and ears and lips and esophagi.

"What d'y' think? Quite a collection, eh?" twinkled the old man. "Some folks collect stamps, some folks collect records. Me, I collect skulls. Takes all kinds't'make a world, eh?"

"Er, yes."

"From early on, I had this interest in mammalian skulls, and I've been buildin' up the collection bit by bit. Been at it close't'forty years. Unscramblin' the skulls has taken me longer than I ever thought possible. Would've been easier't'figure out living flesh-and-blood human beings. I really think so. Granted, of course, someone young as yourself's probably more interested in the flesh and nothing but, eh?" the old man laughed. "For me, it's taken thirty years't'get't'where I can hear the sounds bones make. Thirty years, now that's a good long time."

"Sounds?" I said. "Bones produce sounds?"

"Of course they do," said the old man. "Every bone has unique sound. It's the hidden language of bones. And I don't mean metaphorically. Bones literally speak. Research I'm engaged in proposes't'decode that language. Then, 't'render it artificially controllable."

The details escaped me, but if what the old man said were true, he had his work cut out for him. "Very valuable research," I offered.

"Truly," said the old man with a nod. "That's why those types have all got designs on my findings. 'Fraid the word's out. They all want my research for their own ends. F'r instance, suppose you could draw out the memories stored in bones; there'd be no need for torture.

All you'd have't'do is kill your victim, strip the meat clean off the skull, and the information would be in your hands."

"Lovely," I said.

"Granted, for better or worse, research hasn't gotten that far. At this stage, you'd get a clearer memory log taking the brain out."

"Oh." Remove the skull, remove the brain, some difference.

"That's why I called for your services. So those Semiotecs can't steal my experiment data.

Civilization," the old man pronounced, "faces serious crises because science is used for evil—or good. I put my trust in science for the sake of pure science."

"I can't say I understand," I said. "I'm here on a matter of pure business. Except my orders didn't come from System Central and they didn't come from any official agent. They came directly from you. Highly irregular. And more to the point, probably in violation of professional regulations. If reported, I could lose my license. I hope you understand this."

"I do indeed," said the old man. "You're not without cause for concern. But rest assured, this request was cleared through the proper System channels. Only the business procedures were dropped. I contacted you directly't'keep everything undercover. You won't be losin' any license."

"Can you guarantee this?"

The old man pulled out a folder and handed it to me. I leafed through it. Official System request forms, no mistake about it. The papers, the signatures, all in order.

"Well enough," I said, returning the folder. "I pull double-scale at my rank, you realize. Double-scale means—"

"Twice the standard fee, right? Fine by me. Fsct is, as a bonus, I'm willint'go to a full triple-scale."

"Very trusting of you, I must say."

"This is an important job. Plus I already had you go under the waterfall. Ho-ho-ho."

"Then may I see the data," I said. "We can decide the calc-scheme after I see the figures. Which of us will do the computer-level tabulations?"

"I'll be usin' my computer here. You just take care of the before and after. That is, if you don't mind."

"So much the better. Saves me a lot of trouble."

The old man stood up from his chair and pressed a coordinate on the wall behind him. An ordinary wall—until it opened. Tricks within tricks. The old man took out another folder and closed the wall. Resealed, it looked like any other plain white wall. No distinguishing features or seams, no nothing.

I skimmed the seven pages of numerics. Straightforward data.

"This shouldn't take too much time to launder" I said. "Infrequent number series like these virtually rule out temporary bridging. Theoretically, of course, there's always that possibility. But there'd be no proving the syntactical validity, and without such proof you couldn't shake the error tag. Like trying to cross the desert without a compass. Maybe Moses could do it."

"Moses even crossed the sea."

"Ancient history. To my knowledge, at this level, never once has a Semiotec succeeded in securing illegal access."

"You're sayin' a single-conversion trap's sufficient, eh?"

"A double-conversion trap is too risky. It would effectively reduce the possibility of temporary bridging to zero, but at this point it's still a freak stunt. The trapping process isn't solidly grounded. The research isn't complete."

"Who said anything 'bout double-conversion trapping?" said the old man, working another paperclip into his cuticle. The right index finger this time.

"What is it you're saying, then?"

"Shuffling, son. I'm talkin' shuffling. I want you to launder and shuffle. That's why I called on you. If it was simple brainwash laundry, there wouldn't have been any need't'call you."

"I don't get it," I said, recrossing my legs. "How do you know about shuffling? That's classified information. No outsider's supposed to know about it."

"Well, I do. I've got a pretty open pipeline to the top of the System."

"Okay, then run this through your pipeline. Shuffling procedures are completely frozen at this time. Don't ask me why. Obviously some kind of trouble. Whatever the case, shuffling is now prohibited."

The old man handed me the request folder once again.

"Have yourself a good look at the last page. Should be shuffling procedure clearance there somewhere."

I opened the folder to the last page and ran my eyes over the documentation. Sure enough, shuffling clearance authorized. I read it over several times. Official. Five signatures, no less. What the hell could the Brass be thinking? You dig a hole and the next thing they say is fill it in; fill it in and they tell you to dig a hole. They're always screwing with the guy in the field.

"Could I ask you to make color copies of all pages of this request. I might find myself driven into a nasty corner without them."

"Fine," said the old man. "Glad to make you your copies. Nothing to worry 'bout. Everything's on the up and up. I'll give you half your fee today, the other half on final receipt. Fair and square?"

"Fair enough. Now, to get on with the laundry. After I'm done, I'll take the wash home with me and do the shuffling there. Shuffling requires special precautions. I'll be back with the shuffled data when I'm through."

"Noon, four days from now. It can't be any later."

"Plenty of time."

"I beg of you, son, whatever you do, don't be late," the old man pleaded. "If you're late, something terrible will happen."

"World going to fall apart?" I kidded.

"In a way," said the old man, "yes."

"Not this time. I never come in late," I said. "Now, if it's not too much to ask, could I please trouble you for some ice water and a thermos of hot black coffee. And maybe a small snack. Please. Something tells me this is going to be a long job."

Something told me right. It was a long, hard job. The numerics themselves were the proverbial piece of cake, but with so many case-determinant step-functions, the tabulations took much more doing than they first appeared to require. I input the data-as-given into my right brain, then after converting it via a totally unrelated sign-pattern, I transfer it to my left brain, which I then output as completely recoded numbers and type up on paper. This is what is called laundering. Grossly simplified, of course. The conversion code varies with the Calcutec. This code differs entirely from a random number table in its being diagrammatic. In other words, the way in which right brain and left brain are split (which, needless to say, is a convenient fiction; left and right are never actually divided) holds the key. Drawn, it might look something like this: Significantly, the way the jagged edges do not precisely match up means that it is impossible to reconvert data back into its original form. Nonetheless, Semiotecs can occasionally decode stolen data by means of a temporary bridge. That is, they holographically reproduce the jagged edges from an analysis of the data-as-retrieved.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. The more we Calcutecs up our technologies, the more they up their counter-technologies. We safeguard the data, they steal it. Your classic cops-and-robbers routine.

Semiotecs traffic illegally obtained data and other information on the black market, making megaprofits. And what's worse, they keep the most valuable bits of information for themselves and the benefit of their own organization.

Our organization is generally called the System, theirs the Factory. The System was originally a private conglomerate, but as it grew in importance it took on quasi-governmental status. In the same way as, say, Ma Bell in America. We rank-and-file Calcutecs work as individual independents not unlike tax accountants or attorneys, yet we need licenses from the state and can only take on jobs from the System or through one of the official agents designated by the System. This arrangement is intended to prevent misuse of technologies by the Factory. Any violation thereof, and they revoke your license. I can't really say whether these preventative measures make sense or not. The reason being that any Calcutec stripped of his qualifications eventually ends up getting absorbed into the Factory and going underground to become a Semiotec.

As for the Factory, much less is known. It apparently started off as a small-scale venture and grew by leaps and bounds. Some refer to it as the Data Mafia, and to be certain, it does bear a marked resemblance in its rhizomic penetration to various other underworld organizations. The difference is that this Mafia deals only in information. Information is clean and information makes money. The Factory stakes out a computer, hacks it for all its worth, and makes off with its information.

I drank a whole pot of coffee while doing the laundry. One hour on the job, thirty minutes rest—regular as clockwork. Otherwise the right-brain-left-brain interface becomes muddled and the resulting tabulations glitched.

During those thirty-minute breaks, I shot the breeze with the old man. Anything to keep my mouth moving. Best method for repolarizing a tired brain.

"What are all these figures?" I asked.

"Experiment data," said the old man. "One-year's worth of findings. Numeric conversions of 3-D graphic-simulated volume mappings of the skulls and palates of various animals, combined with a three-element breakdown of their voices. I was tellin' you how it took me thirty years t'get t'where I could tune in each bone's waveform. Well, when this here calculation's completed, we'll finally be able't'extract that sound—not empirically, but theoretically."

"Then it'll be possible to control things artificially?"

"Right on the mark," said the old man.

"So we have artifical control—where does that get us?"

The old man licked his upper lip. "All sorts of things could happen," he said after a moment. "Truly all sorts of things. I can't go spoutin' off about them, but things you can't begin't'imagine."

"Sound removal being only one of them?"

The old man launched into another round of his belly laugh. "Oh-ho-ho, right you are, son. Tunin' in the signal of the human skull, we'll take the sound out or turn it up. Each person's got a different shaped skull, though, so we won't be able't'take it out completely.

But we can turn it down pretty low, eh? Ho-ho-ho. We match the sound-positive to a sound-negative and make them resonate together. Sound removal's just one of the more harmless applications."

Harmless? Fiddling with the volume was screwy enough. What was the rest going to be like?

"It's possible't'remove sound from both speakin' and hearin'," resumed the old man. "In other words, we can erase the sound of the water from hearing—like I just did— or we can erase speech."

"You plan to present these findings to the world?"

" Tosh" said the old man, wiping his hands, "now why would I want't'let others in on something this much fun? I'm keepin' it for my own personal enjoyment."

The old man burst out laughing some more. Ho-ho-ho.

He even had me laughing.

"My research is purely for the specialist. Nobody's got any interest in acoustics anyway," the old man said. "All the idiot savants in the world couldn't make head or tail of my theories if they tried. Only the world of science pays me any mind."

"That may be so, but your Semiotec is no idiot. When it comes to deciphering, they're genius class, the whole lot of them. They'll crack your findings to the last digit."

"I know, I know. That's why I've withheld all my data and processes, so they wouldn't be pokin' into things. Probably means even the world of science doesn't take me seriously, but what of that? Tosh, a hundred years from now my theories will alI've been proved. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Hmm."

"Okay, son, launder and shuffle everything."

"Yessir," I said, "yessir."

For the next hour, I concentrated on tabulations. Then took another rest.

"One question, if I might," I said.

"What's that?" asked the old man.

"That young woman at the entrance. You know, the one with the pink suit, slightly plump… ?"

"That's my granddaughter," said the old man. "Extremely bright child. Young's she is, she helps me with my research."

"Well, uh, my question is… was she born mute that way?"

"Darn," said the old man, slapping his thigh. "Plum forgot. She's still sound-removed from that experiment. Darn, darn, darn. Got't'go and undo it right now."

"Oh."