— What is exact in numbers, he said, except their own exactitude?
— No, I said, no, not the numbers themselves, but …
He folded his stubby arms and glared at me like a vexed owl. His right eye-socket was larger than the left, it always made him look as if he were wearing a monocle.
— Well? he said. What, tell me.
— I don’t know, I said. Something else.
He snorted.
— What else is there, but numbers?
The printer sprang into clattering life, he turned to it with a scowl. Leitch looked at me sidelong and sneered, slipping a piece of chocolate into that little pink prehensile mouth.
That was the night Miss Hackett came to see us. She was a thin tall woman of middle age with a prominent sharp face and lacquered brass hair. She put her head around the door that led from the offices upstairs, with a smile that was at once both arch and roguish. Leitch, slumped at the console, sat upright hastily and stared at her. She came in and shut the door behind her and advanced on him purposefully, with a hand thrust out, still playfully smiling, her lips compressed, as if we were children and she had slipped into the nursery to bring us a treat. She wore a tweed business suit and a white blouse with ruffles at the throat. She had a mannish walk, her high heels coming down briskly on the floor in a series of sharp, smart blows. Leitch got to his feet, stuffing the empty wrapper from the chocolate bar into his pocket with surreptitious haste. She stopped in front of him with a snap.
— Mr Cossack, she said brilliantly. I’m Hackett. So pleased.
There was a smear of lipstick on one of her large front teeth. Leitch tittered in fright and put his hands behind his back.
— Oh! he said. No, I’m not …
A tiny flaw appeared in Miss Hackett’s smile, like a hairline crack in a china cup. She cast a questing glance about her. She had already taken me in, without quite looking directly at me. Professor Kosok came in from the lavatory in the corridor, still fumbling with his flies. For a moment he did not notice her. She waited, beaming, as he shuffled forward. When at last he saw her he stopped short, rearing back a little, his wide eye growing wider. She seized his hand and shook it violently once, as if she were cracking a whip. She seemed to think he must be deaf, for when she spoke she shouted.
— Hackett! she said. Thought I’d just pop in and say hello!
He continued to regard her with a grim surmise. She heaved a brisk little sigh and glanced about her brightly.
— Well! she said. And how goes the good work?
Leitch and I looked at each other, and immediately a truce was tacitly agreed between us. In the face of all the possible things Miss Hackett might represent, even Leitch felt in need of an ally. She carried a briefcase under her arm, a wafer-slim pouch made of burnished soft leather, it bespoke a marvellous importance. She fixed on the console, pointing a finger tipped with gules.
— This must be the nerve centre, I suppose? she said. It looks so complicated!
There was a brief silence. The professor grunted, and turned his back, motioning at Leitch with a cursory wave to show her the machine. Leitch put on a sickly smile and cleared his throat. Before he could speak, however, Miss Hackett held up a hand to silence him.
— Yes, thank you, she said quickly, with a sort of steely graciousness. I’m afraid I’m a feather-head when it comes to these contraptions.
The professor was poring over the printer. He was in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, the tabs of his braces on show. With her head on one side she considered him, taking aim at him between the shoulder-blades.
— I’m just here for a chat, she murmured. Just a chat.
She went and stood at the printer, and for a moment both of them watched in silence the sheets of figures coming up.
— How fast it goes! she said, leaning to look more closely. And so much of it! You know, we’ve been so impressed with the quantity of the material you produce here.
Professor Kosok grunted again, and again walked away from her. She continued to watch the print-out, shaking her head in a little show of admiring wonderment. The professor sat down at the console, breathing hard, and started to stab at the keys with two stiff index fingers, like an amateur pianist in a temper. Leitch and I stood on either side of him. Miss Hackett came and hovered at his shoulder. It was like a little recital, we might have been gathered around the parlour piano.
— Of course, Miss Hackett said with a silvery laugh, we have noticed a certain lack of … well, of results, shall we say?
She waited, but he went on hitting the keys as if he had not heard. She took a deep breath, and grasping my arm she moved me firmly aside, and executed a swift little twirl that brought her to a half-sitting position against the console, facing him, with her arms folded and her ankles neatly crossed. She flashed her nursery smile again, and inclined her head and peered into his face, twinkling at him.
— The minister, you know, she said in a playfully menacing tone, the minister likes results.
He lifted his hands at last violently from the keyboard, and turned around in his chair and looked up at Leitch with a harsh laugh.
— Results! he said. She wants results!
He turned again and glared at her.
— What are you talking about? he said. What do you mean, what results are these, that this minister expects?
She pounced, leaning forward with sudden force and bringing her hands together in a soundless clap.
— But that’s the point! she cried gaily. That’s what we want you to tell us! You see?
Leitch, for some reason, laughed.
She rose from her perch on the console, tucking her briefcase more firmly under her arm, and stepped past me. She was careful not to touch me this time, no doubt recalling, more vividly than she would have wished, the feel of that stick-like thing inside my sleeve. She walked off a little way, head bowed in thought, then turned and retraced her steps slowly.
— We are all aware, she said, what an honour it is that you are working here, a person of your … your … And of course, in such a case the cost is not a large consideration.
— Cost, what cost? the professor cried. This is nighttime.
Leitch coughed.
— Downtime, he said softly.
The professor turned in his chair again and glared at him. Miss Hackett waved away these interruptions, frowning, making a great show of following her train of thought.
— But we have our masters, you see, she said, even the minister is accountable.
She stopped in front of him, smiling down at him pensively, letting her gaze wander over his irate brow and pop eye, his clenched jaw with its ginger bristles, his bow-tie, his boots. Then in a flash she had drawn up a chair and plumped down on it, pressing her briefcase firmly on her knees, with an air of setting all constraints aside and getting down finally to the real business.
— My dear sir, she said. Listen. When you came to us first you spoke of conducting certain studies. I have the documentation here.
She gave the briefcase a friendly smack, as if it were the head of a trusty hound.
— It’s vague, she said. The documents are vague. We were vague, at the time. You, forgive me, were vaguest of all.
The professor stood up abruptly and stamped away from her, rubbing a hand over his scalp, his short legs working angrily.
— Studies, yes! he said. I am conducting studies! You think I lied?
Miss Hackett shook her head, still blandly smiling.
— No no no, she said soothingly, with pursed lips. What an idea! Of course there is no question of … fraud. Only, this machine, you see, it costs such a lot of money to run, even in …
She looked to Leitch, who breathed, fawning.