Pantomime; The Election & Reign of Rudolf of Hapsburg; Testes; Nonsymmetrical dyadic relations; the Investiture Controversy; Phosphorus; Traditional impotence remedies; the Arminian heresy; and—
“Some of these strike one as being too complicated for monads,” he says, desperate for some way to break the ice. “Such as this—‘The Development of Portuguese Hegemony over Central Africa.’ ”
“Look at the number at the top of that card,” Waterhouse says. “It is the product of five primes: one for development, one for Portuguese, one for Hegemony, one for Central, and one for Africa. ”
“Ah, so it’s not a monad at all, but a composite.”
“Yes.”
“It’s difficult to tell when the cards are helter-skelter. Don’t you think you should organize them?”
“According to what scheme?” Waterhouse asks shrewdly.
“Oh, no, I’ll not be tricked into that discussion.”
“No linear indexing system is adequate to express the multi-dimensionality of knowledge,” Dr. Waterhouse reminds him. “But if each one is assigned a unique number—prime numbers for monads, and products of primes for composites—then organizing them is simply a matter of performing computations… Mr. Root. ”
“Dr. Waterhouse. Pardon the interruption.”
“Not at all.” He sits back down, finally, and goes back to what he was doing before: running a long file back and forth over a chunk of metal with tremendous sneezing noises. “It is a welcome diversion to have you appear before me, so unlooked-for, so implausibly well-preserved, ” he shouts over the keening of the warm tool and the ringing of the work-piece.
“Durability is preferable to the alternative—but not always convenient. Less hale persons are forever sending me off on errands.”
“Lengthy and tedious ones at that.”
“The journey’s dangers, discomforts, and tedium are more than compensated for by the sight of you, so productively occupied, andin such good health.” Or something like that. This is the polite part of the conversation, which is not likely to last much longer. If he had returned the compliment, Daniel would have scoffed, because no one would say he’s well preserved in the sense that Enoch is. He looks as old as he ought to. But he’s wiry, with clear, sky-blue eyes, no tremors in his jaw or his hands, no hesitation in his speech once he’s over the shock of seeing Enoch (or, perhaps, anyone ) in his Institute. Daniel Waterhouse is almost completely bald, with a fringe of white hair clamping the back of his head like wind-hammered snow on a tree-trunk. He makes no apologies for being uncovered and does not reach for a wig—indeed, appears not to own one. His eyes are large, wide and staring in a way that probably does nothing to improve his reputation. Those orbs flank a hawkish nose that nearly conceals the slot-like mouth of a miser biting down on a suspect coin. His ears are elongated and have grown a radiant fringe of lanugo. The imbalance between his organs of input and output seems to say that he sees and knows more than he’ll say.
“Are you a colonist now, or—”
“I’m here to see you.”
The eyes stare back, knowing and calm. “So it is a social visit! That is heroic—when a simple exchange of letters is so much less fraught with seasickness, pirates, scurvy, mass drownings—”
“Speaking of letters—I’ve one here,” Enoch says, taking it out.
“Great big magnificent seal. Someone dreadfully important must’ve written it. Can’t say how impressed I am.”
“Personal friend of Dr. Leibniz.”
“The Electress Sophie?”
“No, the other one.”
“Ah. What does Princess Caroline want of me? Must be something appalling, or else she wouldn’t’ve sent you to chivvy me along.”
Dr. Waterhouse is embarrassed at having been so startled earlier and is making up for it with peevishness. But it’s fine, because it seems to Enoch that the thirty-year-old Waterhouse hidden inside the old man is
“Some of these strike one as being too complicated for monads,” he says, desperate for some way to break the ice. “Such as this—‘The Development of Portuguese Hegemony over Central Africa.’ ”
“Look at the number at the top of that card,” Waterhouse says. “It is the product of five primes: one for development, one for Portuguese, one for Hegemony, one for Central, and one for Africa. ”
“Ah, so it’s not a monad at all, but a composite.”
“Yes.”
“It’s difficult to tell when the cards are helter-skelter. Don’t you think you should organize them?”
“According to what scheme?” Waterhouse asks shrewdly.
“Oh, no, I’ll not be tricked into that discussion.”
“No linear indexing system is adequate to express the multi-dimensionality of knowledge,” Dr. Waterhouse reminds him. “But if each one is assigned a unique number—prime numbers for monads, and products of primes for composites—then organizing them is simply a matter of performing computations… Mr. Root. ”
“Dr. Waterhouse. Pardon the interruption.”
“Not at all.” He sits back down, finally, and goes back to what he was doing before: running a long file back and forth over a chunk of metal with tremendous sneezing noises. “It is a welcome diversion to have you appear before me, so unlooked-for, so implausibly well-preserved, ” he shouts over the keening of the warm tool and the ringing of the work-piece.
“Durability is preferable to the alternative—but not always convenient. Less hale persons are forever sending me off on errands.”
“Lengthy and tedious ones at that.”
“The journey’s dangers, discomforts, and tedium are more than compensated for by the sight of you, so productively occupied, andin such good health.” Or something like that. This is the polite part of the conversation, which is not likely to last much longer. If he had returned the compliment, Daniel would have scoffed, because no one would say he’s well preserved in the sense that Enoch is. He looks as old as he ought to. But he’s wiry, with clear, sky-blue eyes, no tremors in his jaw or his hands, no hesitation in his speech once he’s over the shock of seeing Enoch (or, perhaps, anyone ) in his Institute. Daniel Waterhouse is almost completely bald, with a fringe of white hair clamping the back of his head like wind-hammered snow on a tree-trunk. He makes no apologies for being uncovered and does not reach for a wig—indeed, appears not to own one. His eyes are large, wide and staring in a way that probably does nothing to improve his reputation. Those orbs flank a hawkish nose that nearly conceals the slot-like mouth of a miser biting down on a suspect coin. His ears are elongated and have grown a radiant fringe of lanugo. The imbalance between his organs of input and output seems to say that he sees and knows more than he’ll say.
“Are you a colonist now, or—”
“I’m here to see you.”
The eyes stare back, knowing and calm. “So it is a social visit! That is heroic—when a simple exchange of letters is so much less fraught with seasickness, pirates, scurvy, mass drownings—”
“Speaking of letters—I’ve one here,” Enoch says, taking it out.
“Great big magnificent seal. Someone dreadfully important must’ve written it. Can’t say how impressed I am.”
“Personal friend of Dr. Leibniz.”
“The Electress Sophie?”
“No, the other one.”
“Ah. What does Princess Caroline want of me? Must be something appalling, or else she wouldn’t’ve sent you to chivvy me along.”
Dr. Waterhouse is embarrassed at having been so startled earlier and is making up for it with peevishness. But it’s fine, because it seems to Enoch that the thirty-year-old Waterhouse hidden inside the old man is
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