Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [50]
Dietrich had concluded that it was not the Heinzelmännchen that spoke, but the Kratzer who spoke through him, and he had learned the difficult trick of perceiving the words of the talking head as coming from the giant grasshopper instead—although whether boxes or grasshoppers spoke was in either case wonderful. He said as much to the Kratzer, who explained that the box remembered words as numbers.
“A number may be expressed as a word,” Dietrich responded. “We have the word eins to signify the number one. But how can a word be expressed as a number? Ach … You mean a code. Merchants and imperial agents use such methods to keep their messages secret.”
The Kratzer leaned forward. “You have this species of knowledge?”
“The signs we use to signify beings and relations are arbitrary. The French and the Italians use different word-signs than we do, for example; so to assign a number is not in principle different. Yet, how does the Heinzelmännchen … Ach, I see. He performs an al-jabr of some sort on the code.” Then he had to explain what al-jabr was—and then who the Saracens were.
“So,” the Kratzer said finally. “But these numbers use only two signs: null and one.”
“What a poor sort of number! There gives often more than one of a species.”
The Kratzer rasped his forearms. “Attend! The … essence-that-flows … Fluid? Many thank. The fluid that drives the talking head flows through innumerable small mill races. One tells the Heinzelmännchen to open a sluice gate so the fluid may run down a particular race. Null tells him to leave the gate closed.” The creature drummed rapidly on the desktop, but Dietrich was unsure what mood this represented. In a man, it might signify impatience or frustration. It was clear that the Kratzer sought to communicate certain thoughts that fit poorly within the vocabulary that his talking head had thus far provided, and so Dietrich must tease the meaning from the words much as thread is teased from wool.
The Herr Gschert had been listening to the byplay from his usual position, leaning casually against the far wall. Now he buzzed and clacked and the talking head picked up some of what he said through the “small-sound” automaton to which Dietrich had given the Greek name mikrofoneh. “How does this discussion use?”
The Kratzer said, “Each knowledge uses always.” Dietrich did not think the utterance was meant for him and kept a blank face—although blank faces might convey weighty matters to such an expressionless folk as the Krenk. The servant who groomed the talking head turned a little and, while his great faceted eyes never looked on anything squarely, Dietrich had the uncanny feeling that the servant had glanced his way to gauge his reaction. The servant’s soft upper and lower lips came together and parted in a slow, silent version of what the priest had come to consider Krenkish laughter.
I do believe that I have seen one of them smile. The thought came unbidden, and left him with a curious sense of comfort.
“The twofold number is the smallest piece of knowledge,” the Kratzer instructed him.
“I disagree,” said Dietrich. “It is not knowledge at all. A sentence may impart knowledge; even a word may. But not a number that represents a mere sound.”
The Kratzer rubbed his forearms together in what appeared an absentminded fashion, and Dietrich thought that the act signified something like what a man would mean by scratching his head or rubbing his chin. “The fluid that drives the talking head,” the Kratzer said after a moment, “differs from that which drives your mill, but we may know something of the one by a study of the other. Do you have a word that signifies this? Analogy? Many thank. Hear this