Elizabeth Moon - The Speed of Dark

“But I think it’s mostly memorizing,” I say, still worried. “I can memorize really rapidly. And I am good at most standardized tests.”

“Explaining it in your own words isn’t memorizing,” Tom says. “I know the on-line text… You know, Lou, you haven’t ever asked what I do for a living.”

It is a shock, like touching a doorknob in cold weather. He is right. I did not ask what his job was; it does not occur to me to ask people what their jobs are. I met Lucia at the clinic so I knew she was a doctor, but Tom?

“What is your job?” I ask now.

“I’m on the university faculty,” he says. “Chemical engineering.”

“You teach classes?” I ask.

“Yes. Two undergraduate classes and one graduate-level class. Chem-E majors have to take organic chemistry, so I know what they think of it. And how kids who understand it describe it, as opposed to those who don’t.”

“So — you really think I do?”

“Lou, it’s your mind. Do you think you understand it?”

“I think so… but I am not sure I would know.”

“I think so, too. And I have never known anyone who picked it up cold in less than a week. Did you ever have an IQ test, Lou?”

“Yes.” I do not want to talk about that. I had tests every year, not always the same ones. I do not like tests. The ones where I was supposed to guess which meaning of the word the person who made the test meant from the pictures, for instance. I remember the time the word was track and the pictures included the mark of a tire on a wet street and some cupolas on top of a long, tall building that looked — to me, anyway — like the grandstand at a racetrack. I picked that for the word track , but it was wrong.

“And did they tell you the result or just your parents?”

“They didn’t tell my parents, either,” I say. “It made my mother upset. They said they did not want to affect her expectations for me. But they said I should be able to graduate from high school.”

“Umm. I wish we had some idea… Would you take the tests again?”

“Why?” I ask.

“I guess… I just want to know… but if you can do this stuff without, what difference does it really make?”

“Lou, who has your records?” Lucia asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I suppose — the schools back home? The doctors? I haven’t been back since my parents died.”

“They’re your records: you should be able to get them now. If you want to.”

This is something else I never thought of before. Do people get their school records and medical records after they grow up and move away? I do not know if I want to know exactly what people put in those records. What if they say worse things about me than I remember?

“Anyway,” Lucia goes on. “I think I know a good book for you to try next. It’s kind of old, but nothing in it is actually wrong, though a lot more’s been learned. Cego and Clinton’s Brain Functionality . I have a copy… I think…” She goes out of the room, and I try to think about everything she and Tom said. It is too much; my head is buzzing with thoughts like swift photons bouncing off the inside of my skull.

“Here, Lou,” Lucia says, handing me a book. It is heavy, a thick volume of paper with cloth cover. The title and authors are printed in gold on a black rectangle on the spine. It has been a long time since I saw a paper book. “It may be on-line somewhere by now, but I don’t know where. I bought it back when I was just starting med school. Take a look.”

I open the book. The first page has nothing on it. The next one has the title, the authors’ names — Betsy R. Cego and Malcolm R. Clinton. I wonder if the R . stands for the same middle name in both and if that is why they wrote the book together. Then blank space, and at the bottom a company name and date. I guess that is the book company. R. Scott Landsdown Co. Publishers. Another R . On the back of that page is some information in small print. Then another page with the title and authors. The next page says “Preface.” I start reading.

“You can skip that and the introduction,” Lucia says. “I want to see if you’re okay with the level of instruction in the chapters.”

Why would the authors put in something that people weren’t going to read? What is the preface for? The introduction? I do not want to argue with Lucia, but it seems to me that I should read that part first because it is first. If I am supposed to skip over it for now, why is it first? For now, though, I page through until I find chapter 1.

It is not hard to read, and I understand it. When I look up, after ten pages or so, Tom and Lucia are both watching me. I feel my face getting hot. I forgot about them while I was reading. It is not polite to forget about people.

“Is it okay, Lou?” Lucia asks.

“I like it,” I say.

“Good. Take it home and keep it as long as you like. I’ll e-mail you some other references that I know are on-line. How’s that?”

“Fine,” I say. I want to go on reading, but I hear a car door slam outside and know it is time to do fencing instead.

The others arrive in a bunch, within just a couple of minutes. We move to the backyard, then stretch and put on our gear and start fencing. Marjory sits with me between bouts. I am happy when she sits next to me. I would like to touch her hair, but I do not.

We do not talk much. I do not know what to say. She asks if I got the windshield fixed, and I say yes. I watch her fence with Lucia; she is taller than Lucia, but Lucia is the better fencer. Marjory’s brown hair bounces when she moves; Lucia wears her light hair in a ponytail. They both wear white fencing jackets tonight; soon Marjory’s has little brown smudges where Lucia has scored hits.

I am still thinking about Marjory when I fence with Tom. I am seeing Marjory’s pattern, and not Tom’s, and he kills me quickly twice.

“You’re not paying attention,” he says to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My eyes slide to Marjory.

Tom sighs. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, Lou, but one reason to do this is to get a break from it.”

“Yes… I’m sorry.” I drag my eyes back and focus on Tom and his blade. When I concentrate, I can see his pattern — a long and complicated one — and now I can parry his attacks. Low, high, high, low, reverse, low, high, low, low, reverse… he’s throwing a reverse shot every fifth and varying the setup to it. Now I can prepare for the reverse, pivoting and then making a quick diagonal step: attack obliquely, one of the old masters says, never directly. It is like chess in that way, with the knight and bishop attacking at an angle. At last I set up the series I like best and get a solid hit.

“Wow!” Tom says. “I thought I’d managed real randomness—”

“Every fifth is a reverse,” I say.

“Damn,” Tom said. “Let’s try that again—”

This time he doesn’t reverse for nine shots, the next time seven — I notice he’s always using a reverse attack on the odd numbers. I test that through longer series, just waiting. Sure enough… nine, seven, five, then back to seven. That’s when I step past on the diagonal and get him again.

“That wasn’t five,” he says. He sounds breathless.

“No… but it was an odd number,” I say.

“I can’t think fast enough,” Tom says. “I can’t fence and think. How do you do it?”

“You move, but the pattern doesn’t,” I say. “The pattern — when I see it — is still. So it is easier to hold in mind because it doesn’t wiggle around.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Tom says. “So — how do you plan your own attacks? So they aren’t patterned?”