“Edison was not the only one who has tried to accomplish something. But nowadays there are ‘rules.’ And in some industries, it is worse than in others.
“In the case of a clinical trial for cancer, hundreds of distinct steps are mandated to take things from initial concept to activation, many of which add no real measure of safety.
“These procedures are insurmountable for academic researchers and small biotechnology firms as they require one to navigate through the combined regulatory provisions of review boards, institutional contract offices, clinical trial sponsors, clinical research organizations, the Food and Drug Administration, Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, Patent Office, the Office of Human Research Protection, Center for Medicare and Medicaid Services, Office of the Inspector General, National Cancer Institute, Clinical Laboratory Improvement Amendments, Internal Revenue Service, and the courts.” Aratta smiled with obvious irony. “How things have changed from the days Oliver Evans constructed an amphibious vehicle powered by an experimental high-pressure steam engine, drove it without a permit down a road in Philadelphia and into the Schuylkill River, and then into history books.
“Your Graces, risk-aversion culture coupled with all-pervasive regulations throttle bold innovations and technological transformations. It is unlikely insulin, general anesthesia, or flight would have been pioneered in today’s cultural climate.
“Nowhere is this malady more pronounced than in government bureaucracies.
“Colorado’s compilation of legal statutes contains over twenty-seven thousand pages. From above, it is further buttressed by regulatory statutes of the respective counties. From below, it is layered by the many tens of thousands of pages of federal regulatory statutes.
“There are rules and regulations on everything and for everything, taking the place of discretion and judgment. Their sweep is one the Soviet central-planners of old could have only dreamed of.
“In practice, government officials of today cannot lay out a transcontinental superconducting electrical grid even if they wanted to; the regulatory thicket renders plans of any magnitude unfeasible. After all, just elevating the deck of the existing Bayonne Bridge in New Jersey to allow taller ships through took years and years of an approval process. It necessitated thousands of pages of environmental assessment and additional thousands of pages related to various regulations and permits.
“There are no longer public servants who can attack a problem or resolve an issue armed with acumen. In their stead, there are legions of worker drones who dutifully execute some or any of the millions of regulations that legions of lawmakers keep piling on. No one knows what they all say; typically, older statutes just slowly submerge under the sheer weight of newer ones.
“This brings us to the way things are: regulations impervious to context and nuance, statutes that are one-size-fits-all, and rules that encase and mold every aspect of living.
“Your Graces, a culture supporting the human capacity to initiate and use sound judgment has been replaced with a clockwork one: regulatory gearwheels, liability insurance gearboxes, corporate locks, and no thoughtful human anywhere in sight.”
Chapter 51
The Western End of Madagascar Island, off the Coast of Africa, Qataria
Morning breeze stirred her hair, awakening Lee’chelle. She opened her eyes to find a small rodent sniffing close by.
“What are you looking at?!” she growled, but it had already dashed away.
Lee’chelle stretched luxuriously, pushing hard and shuddering against the straw mat. Good morning, world. She got up and slid open the translucent paper screens. Brightness everywhere. She squinted at far-off, pearl-white clouds sailing in a sky of light blue and enjoyed the feel of the wind over her nude body. It was going to be another gorgeous day of early summer.
She didn’t need to go over to the main house to see whether Aldabara, her adoptive father, had left earlier. He always had done so at the break of dawn. Lee’chelle, on the other hand, preferred to start late and work into the night. On some days, she would make it to the business district around noon.
Since she arrived some weeks ago, she had caught a few rides with one of the few dozen airships that sailed to-and-fro the village hub during sweltering days. The operator would activate a winch and lower one of the vacant mesh cocoons—which the passenger would wrap himself with and thus sail the air. The rides never failed to rouse her. However, she loved trotting to the town center even more. Especially on a glorious morning like today!
The terra-cotta brick road ran about one hundred paces from their place of residence. Not that one could see it through the tall vegetation. The savanna grass reigned supreme. Soon, she disappeared amid the flaxen-colored grass.
Half an hour later, Lee’chelle walked into the downtown area. Warm wind swept through the streets. And honey-like scent wafted from nearby balsam poplars. Per her habit in recent days, she popped in at a few shops, learning what’s new, helping to unload heavy cargoes, and conversing with some people.
Like always, she stopped by Terno’s bakery.
As she entered, Lee’chelle was greeted by the smell of baking bread and fresh cheese. A meaty slab of Camembert laid on the wood counter. It was covered in the ever-present damp cloth, and all she could make out was a golden-flecked rind on the sides. From a supporting pillar hung wooden boards stacked with mozzarella dripping whey. A large reed basket glistened with black olives and rested on a low stone ledge.
Terno must have been by the oven, baking. Pity. Lee’chelle wanted to say hi. She pulled out one buffalo mozzarella ball, wrapped it in wax paper, and tucked under her arm a loaf of sourdough bread with a golden-brown crust. Then she left. She smiled to herself, thinking she could get used to the moneyless economy on Qataria.
It had become a ritual of sort for the past two weeks. After picking Campari tomatoes from a vegetable garden close by, Lee’chelle would head out to her place of work. There, she tore the warm bread, spread pesto over it, and wolf it all down in big chunks, savoring the taste of mozzarella mixed with the deep-red tomatoes and freshly-made bread.
The overall shape of her adoptive dad’s work studio resembled a see-thru dovecote. As she came in, stray sun rays reflected off the iron of the old proof press. Manuals and type specimen books were scattered about. And in the center of the shop stood two tall swivel chairs and three bronze desks. The ceiling functioned like light-sensitive sunglasses, turning black when the sun reached its zenith, returning to transparency during the evenings.
She went over to her adoptive father’s office and kissed him on the head. Aldabara looked up from his work, she leaned over again, and he kissed her on the cheek. “Had breakfast?” he asked.
“Brought it with me.”
“Darr will be here soon. I would like you to be in on the meeting. Actually, I would like you to take the lead.”
She was thrilled. “Really?”
He nodded. “Since you’ve arrived you have worked diligently and produced pleasing work. You’ve earned it, Lee’chelle.”
She gave him a mock salute, excused herself, and went over to the small low table overlooking the quiet street below. She ate, occasionally eyeing with serenity the tall canopies of the majestic baobab trees outside. Breakfast finished, she cleaned up. Then closed her eyes and meditated.
“Lee’chelle,” Aldabara called softly. At the sound of his voice, she opened her eyes and turned.
A man stood at the doorway with a faint smile on his face. Aldabara walked over, shook the man’s hand, and clapped him on the shoulder, leading him in. “Darr, may I introduce my adopted daughter, Lee’chelle? Lee’chelle, this is Darr O’haera.”
She got up.
Darr came over and hand-kissed her. “Viorette Lee’chelle,” he acknowledged formally. “It’s an honor.” He straightened and for a moment frankly regarded the pretty young woman with lon
g dark hair, animated face, and bright green eyes.
He had heard what was common knowledge. She’d arrived a few weeks earlier in the dead of night at the heart of the storm. Aldabara found her nude and wet and unconscious by his door. It was said her parents had died in an accident two years prior. This happened somewhere else. She’d made a long trek on her own to Madagascar. That was it. No one but possibly Aldabara seemed to know any more.
She bowed deeply. “The pleasure is all mine.” The young woman wore a cornsilk-white summer dress with a fitted waist. Her flared skirt swayed gently as she led him to one of the studio spaces. The three took their seats on bamboo legless chairs around a low table stacked with technical drawings and specimen books.
For many years, the community had known about the effort of Darr to put his vision in writing. Aldabara had wanted to do the honors for a long while. Now the opportunity had finally presented itself. They were going to typeset his book.
Father and daughter faced the author who sat across from them. Darr was eyeing one of the type specimen books. Lee’chelle noted it was opened on Cerlio. “Beautiful,” the author said. She glanced at the giant letters and saw what he meant.
Aldabara smiled at her encouragingly, and she dug up some specimen sheets and spread them in front of Darr. “Every typeface has an effective size range,” she told him, then squatted next to him and pointed at some of the typed sentences. “Post Medival blossoms only at the very small sizes. Madrounnea can only look attractive at large sizes. And few, like Fatt Face, need to tower over one hundred points to acquire their full flavor.”
Darr studied the large sheets for a few moments and eventually looked up. Lee’chelle was faintly smiling at him.
Aldabara elaborated, “The typesetting community continuously works on broadening the effective size range of the fonts we use.”
“How do you mean?”
“The shapes of the letters need to be different at various sizes. A master image designed to look optimal at a standard text size will produce letters that are positively clogged in small sizes—as in footnotes.” Aldabara leafed through and handed a few sheets to Darr. “There is a need for a separate set of master letters designed specifically for usage at small sizes—with thinner stems, extended letterforms, and an increased white space within the characters.”
Lee’chelle smiled gaily. “This goes beyond adjusting for optimal readability. Take the Stones font. At smaller sizes, Stones font has…piquancy. However, magnify the master design, and the characters start to lose their zest. By adding these almost-undetectable quirks and irregularities to the outlines of the letters, Stones can maintain its sharp look and feel at large sizes.”
“Fascinating,” said Darr.
Aldabara turned to Lee’chelle. “Why don’t you show him what you’ve been working on during that past week?”
“Yes, Father,” she said. For a moment, they shared a private smile. It still sounded odd to be calling each other “father” and “daughter.” Lee’chelle went to the next room and momentarily came back with a stack of sheets. “This is a Gille Sans font.” She crouched next to Darr. “In this typeface, the letters ‘r’ ‘t’ ‘f’ and ‘y’ do not play well with others. And so I’ve been creating variant letters. Or look at this. See the question mark symbol? It’s useful; yet, there is also a need to have a question-mark variant that connotes a suggestion of exclamation, wonder, or urgency. In fact, there is a need to create a whole set of softer punctuation marks, for those times in which the Gille Sans is used in works of fiction.” She gazed at the author. “Darr, hundreds of supporting letters are called for in any given typeface.”
“And so you work on the Gille Sans.”
Lee’chelle laughed. “One among many and a novice one at that, but yes. I was told refining a typeface is a process that may span decades.”
She regarded Darr. The things she had mentioned were but the tip of the iceberg; she did not think he grasped the possible extent of it. The young woman thumbed through a book sitting nearby, then pointed. “Look at this sentence. What word grabs your attention? Don’t reflect over it; just tell me what’s the first word you noted.”
“Water.”
“Is it written using the same character set as the rest of the words?”
He studied the page. “Yes.”
“Actually it isn’t. In this word, I have used variant letters containing ever-so-slight added intensity. Hence, it caught your eye ever so slightly—as I meant it to.”
“But the letters of this word look precisely the same as the others!” Darr cried.
Lee’chelle winked. Then burst out laughing.
They chatted a bit longer with Darr, and at some point, saw him to the doorway. Lee’chelle bowed. Aldabara shook hands, and the author left.
“I am happy, Father,” said Lee’chelle.
“So am I,” he said and gave her a tender smile. “Tell me, do you still ponder your time before your arrival here?”
“Yes,” she replied. “At least, now and then.” Her eyes flickered with some emotions. “I remember most of the seventeen years of my life.” Or was it sixteen? Unsure, she went back and forth on that one. “I did a lot and traveled afar. To an astonishing degree, it seems. Yet, it has a fading sense of the real. I’ve begun to wonder in the last few days whether it was merely a nightmare I had, you know? Some aspects of it appear so…disconnected from reality. Maybe even implausible.”
“How does it feel like?” he asked, a concern in his voice.
She smiled ruefully. “Being in that…dream was like wading neck-deep in sludge. But you know how it is in a dream; everything feels perfectly natural when you’re in it.”
Aldabara studied her under bushy, gray eyebrows. Finally, he patted her on the shoulder, climbed to his feet, and returned to what he was working on.
After a moment of meditation, Lee’chelle opened her eyes and walked over to her large work desk.
It was time to get started.
She pulled out the few tools she typically used: a pencil, a point ruler, a razor blade, a highlighting marker, a translucent triangle, and a x15 magnifying glass.
Lee’chelle pondered a line of copy she’d begun working on the day before. The general look of the sky ride announcement had already been set by the designer. What Lee’chelle had to do was to…hone the text.
For a few minutes, she examined the arrayed letters. They had to come together as words. During the setting of type, one could not regard the characters as stand-alone components. A given word had to be considered as a unit—an agreeable interplay of black lines and white spaces. One of the startling implications of that was the need to create an uneven letter spacing.
A chain was as strong as its weakest link. And now Lee’chelle was ferreting out the least manageable character combinations in the heading. So far, she had spotted two areas of darkness, which would force the other parts of the word to adjust accordingly. But then she couldn’t really do that, as she’d a letter that entrapped a lot of white space and dictated an overall lighter appearance. Interesting…
She played with the letters on the screen as long as it was productive, made some notes, and pushed the steam keyboard aside. In the evening, she planned to have another go at it; she needed to give her subconscious some time.
Lee’chelle glanced up, surprised. The old papermaker was conversing with Aldabara. She must have been too immersed in her work to notice his coming. Aldabara waved her over then looked at his old friend. “Why don’t you share with her what you told me.”
“I wished to create craters in the paper,” the papermaker said to her. He sounded uncharacteristically gay. “For the last three days, I didn’t work on anything else. I’d to get those craters, and nothing worked.” He paused for effect. “Stones,” he said. His voice seemed to caress that word. “I put tiny stones in the pulp. The bumps are caused by ston
es entrapped in the paper, and the craters are the indents of stones that were initially embedded in and later dropped out.”
Aldabara grunted in appreciation and passed the firm cover stock to Lee’chelle. Fascinated, she touched the paper, feeling the tiny bumps, noting the minute craters. It was created for the cover of Darr’s book.
There was a knock. A messenger boy stood at the doorway. Lee’chelle walked over and thanked him, pleased. She just received the text and some samples for the upcoming community fire dance. She was to design some of the related announcements.
The evening was falling over the grassland; its red glow heating the sky.
Darr’s stories and the bumpy paper conjured themselves as Lee’chelle closed her eyes.
Which typeface to choose?
She reasoned typesetting is the highest form of art, or the lowest. But it surely was one of those. It was the art of invisibility. The typeface was a medium to carry the flavor, the weight of the text. If the font was too sterile and severe, it could not contain the quality of the story. If the font was overly ornate, it would be an overkill and detract from the story by giving attention to itself.
This was the truth, oversimplified. Clumsiness, beauty, grace, and dash clung to a typeface through associations and the context of an era.
Lee’chelle read again one of Darr’s stories, then another. She dropped the manuscript and opened the first in five ring binders. She thumbed through the thick volume, jotting down names of typefaces to try out.
Itaian Old Style’s main merit was in the fact there was nothing bad to say about it. Yet, the font held no exceptional attributes that could have reflected the spirit of the story. Goldenn Type was in a way the best candidate, but the font suffered from a real drawback: it was inherently dark and bore harsh overtones. Post Medival conveyed the appropriate storytelling quality: bookish and benevolent. But—and that was a big “but”—at text size, the flares and jaggies of the letters were too pronounced, making it appear cutesy and decorative. And then there was Dela Rubia, a trifle eccentric, but she thought that it just might be the typeface she would end up going with.
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