Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

Peering over my shoulder Sir Dabber marvelled aloud, “It must be some sort of calculating device, similar to the theoretical calculating machines of Mr. Babbage, but look at it, Trimmers: note how very small it is.”

“Perhaps it’s a model of something that has yet to be built. A good many of that famed British mathematician’s calculating machines lived only upon paper, although there were perhaps smaller non-functional versions that he put together to shew the design. There’s only one way to know what it is for certain.”

I touched the tiny raised platform with the word “on” inscribed upon it. At that instant a naught followed by a full stop appeared most miraculously within the window. My hand trembled. I set the device down upon the desk and took a backward step. I felt as perhaps did the primeval cave dweller upon first encountering the mystery of fire. Instantly, I berated myself for acting so foolish. I squared my shoulders and reclaimed the device, and after chewing upon my lip for a moment, announced, “We will ask it to perform a calculation. Sir Dabber, what is something arithmetical that we might wish to know?”

Dabber thought for a moment, whilst tapping his fingers on his lips. “There are 107 patients in this hospital. Seventeen are, like Mrs. Pilkins’ brother, Returnees from the Terra Incognita. Ask the machine to tell us the number of those within this place who would not be so classified.”

“Ninety,” blurted Charity, wishing to be helpful.

“I should like the machine to tell us,” admonished Sir Dabber. “Hush now. We must figure how one goes about putting down the figures.”

“I should think,” said I, “that one must first touch the buttons that comprise numerals of the first term: 107.” This I did, the full three-digit-number appearing in that very same miraculous way as did the original naught.

“And now,” said Sir Dabber, his voice lifted to higher pitch in excited anticipation, “poke the subtracting button, so that we should order the sequence in the same way that one would put the operation on paper.”

I nodded and pushed the button with the horizontal line upon it, which we presumed must stand for subtraction. Within the window, there was no change. The “107” remained undisturbed.

“Don’t despair, my friend. Push buttons for the next term, the seventeen.” Dabber’s breath was hot upon my neck and made the hair there stand on end, but I didn’t, nay, couldn’t ask the esteemed man to remove himself. We were discoverers in tandem, and his participation a welcome adjunct in the spirit of collaboration. I pushed the “one” button, and then the “seven” to give seventeen. The 107 promptly disappeared, its place now taken by the newly pushed seventeen.

“And now the equals sign!” cried Charity, who had sailed to my side, for she could not hold herself upon her seat when there was so much magic afoot only a few paces away.

“Yes, I see the sign and I’ll push that button.” It was a simple thing to do, but when the correct number, ninety, appeared within the window, my hand once more began to tremble.

“That was a simple operation. Let us try a much more difficult one,” suggested Dabber. He took the calculating device from me and pushed buttons to divide 66,666,666 (comprehending all the space that the window allowed for putting numerals thereupon) by 12,345,678. The answer was 5.4000003.

“Is the quotient correct?” asked Charity in an eager, nearly breathless voice.

“If it is not, it must come quite close,” I replied. “Sixty-six divided by twelve gives five-decimal-five, but let’s put the longer operation upon a page and see for ourselves.” I was about to take a piece of foolscap from Dr. Towlinson’s desk when I heard voices emanating from the outside corridor. I put the device down upon the spot in which Charity had discovered it and quickly took to my chair. Sir Dabber claimed the chair next to it, whilst Charity returned herself to her mother’s couch with equal alacrity. The voices outside the room were strong and carried themselves quite clearly into the office.

“Where are they now?” The first voice sounded gruff and also quite vexed in tone.

“Why, in your study, of course. That’s where I asked them to wait.” The second voice most certainly belonging to Mr. Howler. It lacked composure and confidence.

“Have you suddenly reverted to the age of two? Since when have I allowed anybody to enter that room in my absence?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking. Yet the door was open. I assumed that you’d be returning in only a brief moment.”

“You assumed incorrectly, my dear Howler. And I should have locked that damned door when I left upon my errand. Yet, nonetheless, due to your negligence of duty I must now contend with—” With a great interruptive sigh of impatience: “Who is seeing to the other visitors? Go along. Quickly now, Howler, or we shall have the entire populace of the Dell prowling our halls and performing acts of scattered mischief.”

“Yes, sir.”

As we unwelcome guests listened to the corridor voices, we exchanged uneasy looks. Yet it was young Charity’s face that gave evidence of the greatest discomfiture. In fact, in the briefest instant that worrisome countenance suddenly contorted itself into a display of true horror, striking commensurate fear within the hearts of all of the rest of us.

“Good God, Charity, what is it?” I put to her from across the room in a poorly elevated stage whisper.

“The machine! The little calculating machine! It’s still—!”

The time for explanation having expired, Charity leapt from her seat and flung herself at the desk where she fumbled with all of her fingers to take up the computational device and find upon its face that button which returned it to its former dormant state, the button being in both my estimation and fortunately hers as well, “Off.” That button having now been pressed and the permanent occupant of the room having now appeared in the doorway of his premises (his head turned to make certain that his employee was moving with all expedition in the direction of his downstairs post), the girl promptly placed herself at the window and assumed the posture of one lost in her meditations, which her mother now disturbed to abet the conspiracy. “Charity, dear, come away from that window and sit yourself down. Dr. Towlinson has arrived.”

With a deliberately effected (and quite convincing) carefree air, Mrs. Pilkins’ oldest daughter acceded to her mother’s wishes and wordlessly repaired to the couch, sitting herself, it should be noted, upon both of her hands, each in need of having its discernible tremor withheld from the view of Dr. Towlinson, lest they betray to him the pretense behind her otherwise commendable performance.

“Good afternoon, Sir Dabber,” said the doctor, who to my knowledge was fast approaching his sixtieth year, though he was a specimen in apparently prime and robust health. Dr. Towlinson wore horn-rimmed spectacles, which he now adjusted upon his nose as if the better to identify each member of that impertinent quintet that had stoutly stormed his office.

“And Mr. Trimmers. And good afternoon to you, my dear Mrs. Pilkins and the Misses Pilkins.”

Having clasped hands with each of us (excepting Charity) in the quick and prosy manner of a farmer shaking the last drop of milk from his dairycow’s teat, the doctor moved to his desk to take his place behind it, doctors, like any member of the more exalted professions, being well aware that placement behind one’s desk offers the best advantage for commanding a room with authority. In this respect Towlinson resembled nothing so much as a judge upon his bench or perhaps a butcher before his block, cleaver in hand.