The room was, in fact, far better appointed than even those libraries and studies I had visited within the homes of the Dingley Dell’s most titanic titans of industry, their league comprehending a half dozen or so gentlemen, who were themselves heirs to our earliest enterprisers in the sectors of coal and iron ore extraction and furniture manufacture and textile production and fruit and vegetable factoring.
Mrs. Pilkins, who was of that class which, whilst not by definition “poor,” scrimped and saved and did without to put a goose upon the Christmas table and warm shoes round her daughters’ feet, commented upon her exquisite surroundings through a breath-whistle of incredulity and an appeal to Charity and Mercy to be “ever so careful not to touch and soil anything.”
Mercy Pilkins, the younger of the two sisters, with eyes opened wider than even her mother’s, consented to the injunction with a nod, but appended withal, “Still, Mama, I should like to curl up in that easy chair, and take down a book and never leave!”
Charity, who shared her mother and sister’s sentiments, was loathe to take a spot between the two upon the beckoning couch when she could instead stand and run her fingertips along the smooth wooden grain of Towlinson’s desktop, those fingers quickly migrating to touch the items which rested thereupon, in clear violation of her mother’s enjoinment. All were things that a man would use in his attendance to the needs of the one-hundred-some-odd mentally-defective men and women (and a small smattering of mentally-defective children) who had been placed under his care: an opened foolscap pad with figures pencilled between its blue lines, a closed ledger, an ink well and pen, a ruler, sealing wax, wafers and pounce box with powder within to blot ink (Charity confirming this with a peek beneath the lid), a string box and fire-box and then another item that could not be identified, but which the young woman took into her hand to overturn and poke and squint at.
“For the sake of Heaven, put that down,” exhorted the girl’s mother. “We weren’t brought into this private chamber to dandle the doctor’s personal effects.”
“But what is it? I should like to know,” returned Charity in weak remonstrance. From where I sat, the item didn’t resemble anything I’d ever seen before. I myself was curious to discover its purpose. I rose from my chair and held out my hand for the girl to give it up. Having done so, Charity went to sit with her mother and sister, as Sir Dabber joined me at desk-side.
“Can you make it out?” asked Dabber. The item was largely flat with dimensions of roughly five inches by four inches. It was composed of some material that seemed an amalgam of ceramic and metal. It was black. There was a rectangular glass window at the top, which slanted upward, as would a propped-up bed. There were a number of raised button-like squares — I counted twenty-four — some containing the imprint of numbers placed in an oddly reversed sequence: 7,8,9, then below these 4,5,6 and so forth. Here is what was imprinted on the squares upon the top row: MC, MR, M-, M+, then down the right side, the mathematical symbols for dividing, multiplying, subtracting and adding, the button with this last imprint being longer width-wise than its neighbours. Next to it was a button bearing the double bar sign for “equals.” At the very top just below the curious window were buttons bearing the imprints “off ” and “on.” Next to these buttons the letters AARP had been written in unfamiliar script.
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.