An Unusual Angle

by Greg Egan

Chapter 13

  HOCKEY

  If I am facing in exactly the right direction, then there is not a single living person in my field of view. Absolutely nobody. I can see only grass, punctuated by patches of naked yellow sand, a few dry and dying brown-leaved bushes, the upper halves of drably painted asbestos houses, and, above all of this, the vivid blue sky populated by a dozen jolly white statues of obese giants going for leisurely strolls along the horizon.

  If the wind is strong enough, and comes from exactly the right direction, then the sound that reaches my ears does not betray my conviction that I am alone. It is a confused roar not unlike the noise of waves collapsing on water after trying with breakneck speed to reach the beach. With only a little imagination I can place myself just above the high-tide line, looking into the edge of a seaside suburb. The houses look a bit too plebian to be beachside residences, and the salty acridity of the air is missing, but otherwise the illusion is immaculate.

  I could stand here indefinitely; there is nothing to interrupt me, nothing to concern me, or so it seems. The wind falls just a little, and I begin to make out individual voices: there is one high-pitched, enthusiastic tone, mumbling a kind of pleading encouragement, and a deeper, irritable sound with aspects suggesting the bored rectification by smug authority. But stop concentrating, stop increasing resolution by accumulated attention. True, now I can hear screaming and shouting instead of ambiguous rumbling, but while my head is turned this way I am free to imagine whatever suits me: I decide to stick with the seaside (thus avoiding too wide a credibility gap) and give the yells and ululations to noisy children playing on the beach. Perfectly feasible.

  But once conscious of what I am doing, my deception is defined by dwelling too long on its mechanism, an irritable feeling of falseness spreads through my mind, and I know that I cannot just stand here and pretend.

  If you’re going to collapse a fantasy, you might as well do it in the lumpiest way imaginable. Which is what I do.

  I create a viewpoint, but I keep it null, that is, not transmitting. I place it at the back of my head. Then I create an active viewpoint about a metre in front of my face, and look through that.

  Viewpoints are remarkable things. Their optical systems are solely psionic in nature, and are hence capable of feats far beyond those of any mere glass lenses.

  Over a period of about three quarters of a second, I expand the field of vision of this viewpoint from the normal one hundred and twenty degrees up to two hundred and forty. Just as the field is about to include me in it, I switch on the second viewpoint, and, using an extension to my brain only eight months old, I patch the images from the two viewpoints together to give a complete sphere of vision which does not include me in it anywhere. Then I do a reverse-iris wipe of the first viewpoint (creating a black disc in the centre of the field which grows until it engulfs it completely), which leaves me with only the normal one-hundred-and-twenty-degree picture from the second viewpoint.

  I have just turned my head one hundred and eighty degrees around an infinite number of axes, simultaneously.

  How’s that?

  Then still looking only through the second viewpoint I actually turn around. Then I quickly destroy both viewpoints and look through my eyes.

  Feeling just a little dizzy.

  Halfway across the field from me, a halo of hockey players is trying desperately to close in on an elusive red sphere a few centimetres in diameter. Four or five metres away, a particularly obnoxious phys ed teacher named McArnold is yelling advice mingled with obscenities at them. He seems upset that everyone on the field has left their appointed positions to join a kind of moving scrum following the ball back and forth across the oval. Responding to his crude comments, a few detach themselves sheepishly and trudge reluctantly away from the excitement.

  The ball starts to approach the goal of the team currently in his disfavour, so he arbitrarily calls half-time. The scrum explodes into tiny fragments which are blown in the direction of the taps.

  I’m not in the least bit thirsty, and I dislike the faint tang of urine that predominates in all school water, but I move with the masses in the general direction of the taps.

  —Nobody can say I’m a nonconformist

  I whisper hopefully. No results.

  —What was that?

  McArnold is looking at me suspiciously. He likes everything to be cleanly shouted out loud so everyone can hear it.

  —Nothing

  I say instinctively, looking genuinely surprised. He translates it (correctly) to ‘Nothing that’s any business of yours’, begins to look mean, then says:

  —If you have any comments to make about my umpiring, I’d prefer you to come right out and say them to my face instead of muttering them under your breath.

  He has a one-track mind.

  He walks off quickly, Just In Case I do come right out and criticise his umpiring.

  Short cut-away to fantasy sequence: I call out loudly:

  —Hey, McArnold!

  He freezes, turns slowly, his right hand hovering near his gun.

  —I’d say you’re just about the worst goddamn hockey umpire this country has seen for a long time. Not that I give a damn about the halfwit’s game—I just thought I’d let you know what I thought of your umpiring, just to give you something to think about on all those long, lonely nights of yours.

  He reaches, but before he’s halfway I’ve cut his holster off his gunbelt with a perfectly positioned bullet.

  Actually, I wait until he’s well out of range, then I whisper:

  —Nobody can say I don’t hate your stinking guts.

  No results. Ho hum.

  Then he starts yelling himself hoarse:

  —You stupid little fucking idiots! Cut that out before I shove your sticks up your arses!

  The situation seems to demand that he breaks into a run towards the taps. Phys ed teachers never run. He walks slowly, taking steps which are obviously consciously reduced, nurturing his anger so that it will be full-grown, at its peak, by the time he arrives.

  The crowd around the taps explodes in a familiar manner, but this time two boys are left behind. There is something faintly repugnant about the crowd’s sincere eagerness to detach themselves from those two, to dissociate themselves from the outcasts, assuring that they are completely physically alone as they receive their Just Punishment.

  McArnold arrives. He has taken too long for them to stand there in frozen terror: it just cannot last forever. And so one of them is grinning nervously.

  McArnold grabs him by the hair, moves behind him, then tugs, forcing his head to tilt backwards at a sharply unnatural angle.

  —You little turd! You’re fifteen fucking years old and here you are squirting each other with water! If I catch you fucking around again I’ll put you both on detention for a month. Understand?

  Not a rhetorical question. He has to answer ‘Yes, sir’ while his hair is being pulled out at the roots. He realises this, he knows the rules of the game. Don’t argue with the umpire.

  The boy’s face is turning crimson. He is struggling not to struggle, knowing that that is the worst thing he could possibly do. He is struggling not to scream out ‘Get your hands off me, you filthy bastard!’, knowing that that would be inviting more pain. He is struggling not to cry, terrified by the potential humiliation. And he is struggling to direct all his consciousness to ignore the pain and form those words: ‘Yes, sir.’

  Short cut-away to fantasy sequence: In a single, flowing movement he reaches back with his hands, grabs McArnold around the throat, and throws him over his shoulder to lie broken on the grass.

  Actually, he succeeds in whispering:

  —Yes, sir.

  McArnold is not satisfied.

  —What was that, son? I didn’t hear you.

  I shiver at the word son. Castrate the obscenity now. No child deserves that nightmare.

  It’s easier the second time, but you mustn’t let any of the pain or the impatience or the lo
athing creep into your voice.

  —YES, SIR

  he says loudly and clearly in a voice absolutely devoid of anything that could cause provocation. It must have taken a great deal of effort to manage that. I feel like giving him a medal. Honestly.

  Knowing he can only go so far, McArnold lets go. The boy joins the crowd for safety. There is a tangible uneasiness for a few seconds, then McArnold turns around casually and begins to walk back towards the field. With a perfectly even pace. Nothing unusual has happened.

  The crowd waits at the taps for a while. It’s not safe to follow too closely. Now that it’s all over, the isolation ends, they joke with the boy (in low voices), they get as much out of it for themselves as possible. Now that there’s no danger for them.

  McArnold arrives back at the field, yells:

  —Would you kids hurry up and get over here! We haven’t got all bloody day, you know! You should all be in position by now!

  They break into a run.

  He is happy. This is his role in life.

  The second half is less peaceful than the first. Three times, the ball comes very close to me, as much as three quarters of the way into the region where, technically, I am supposed to deal with it. But each time it is safe to ignore it, because, running, panting, sweating, screaming, a few metres behind the ball there is an Enthusiastic Imbecile. For the duration of the game, his whole life is dedicated to making his team win by the greatest possible amount, with as many goals as possible scored, in as dramatic and spectacular fashion as possible, by himself.

  With an EI on the trail of the ball, the best thing to do is to simply get out of the way and leave him to his idea of glory. Nobody would ever question that. Indeed, many would frown upon any interference.

  So EIs have their uses to me.

  I am standing at the edge of the field, looking up at the sky, planning the script for a computer-animated science-fiction epic (I currently have only very limited facilities in that area, but I feel sure that if I dwell upon the benefits of automated animation for long enough, my brain will get the message and grow an appropriate extension).

  And then I notice that the nasty little red sphere has rolled up next to me, and stopped just a few centimetres from my feet. I quickly stretch subjective time to give myself a chance to think about the situation.

  There is no EI for quite some distance.

  The ball is very, vvvvery close to me—too close, so that even an EI would now recognise it as being in my exclusive domain. So I can’t just stand here.

  There is nobody close enough to justify my stepping back away from the ball, leaving it alone, dissociating myself from it. In their eyes, it is definitely now my responsibility. And there is nobody around to take away that responsibility.

  Short cut-away to fantasy sequence: I look down at the ball, and address it in a very polite voice:

  —Well, it’s your decision. You make up your mind where you want to go. I’m not going to impose my will, I’m not going to force you into going anywhere.

  Actually, it looks like that is my only alternative. There seems to be a wide, jagged semicircle of people, with me at the centre, who are all calling out wildly ambiguous suggestions full of superlatives and obscenities. The general idea is that every one of them wants me to hit the ball so that it travels towards him. The idea of making a choice, of actually deciding to try to make that ball travel towards one particular deranged paranoid psychotic out of that whole crowd of deranged paranoid psychotics is repugnant to all my personal philosophy (not to mention the prohibitively complex dynamic calculations required to achieve such an aim; the necessity of measuring co-efficients of friction, air pressure, and humidity, et cetera, and, beyond all of that, the possibility allowed for by quantum mechanics that when I strike the ball it will tunnel right out of the solar system’s gravitational well and end up in interstellar space), so I squint (closing my eyes would be dangerously obvious) to avoid bias, and hit the ball with a pseudo-random force in a pseudo-random direction.

  And it’s all finally over.

  But the Cruel Joke can’t resist the pettiest opportunity.

  One minor complication: The ball travels directly and without any fuss right in front of one of the biggest EIs on the ‘other’ team. He elatedly takes control of the ball, dribbles it a few metres, then scores a goal. Which breaks the tie seconds before the end of the game. For some reason, everyone on the ‘other’ team seems wildly happy, and everyone on ‘my’ team seems almost to resent me because of it.

  Well you can’t please everybody. I don’t bother trying to explain to them that it wasn’t my fault, that I just left it all to chance. I don’t mention the Cruel Joke. I don’t bother trying to explain to them that Fate guided that ball to its destination, not me. They’d never understand. They have absolutely no concept of fair play.

  As we walk off the field, McArnold approaches me.

  He says, very solemnly:

  —You know, I sometimes really wonder if you’re taking Physical Education seriously. I really do wonder.

  And that’s all. He walks away looking very smug and very serious, as if he has just achieved a penetrating insight, insulted me terribly, and been brilliantly witty.

  I can’t help but:

  Stand up! For the Great McArnold!

  He teaches us many things!

  He teaches us how to handle balls

  And run around in rings!

  Though some may say it’s pointless he

  Ignores his critics’ cries!

  For he’s only doing what he does

  To keep us salubrified!

  I have to bite my tongue to stop myself bursting into hysterical laughter. He actually thinks that I’m worried because he doubts my …

  It’s too much. I start to chuckle, then I bend over clutching my stomach. I lose balance and fall over, and I lie there on the grass, shaking with uncontrollable laughter, tears streaming down my face.

  Fortunately, McArnold is now too far away to notice.

  Somebody prods me with the end of their foot.

  —You OK?

  His head is gashed down the side and is dripping blood onto his shoulder. I look up at his serious concerned face. The crowd is screaming:

  —Johnathon! Johnathon! Johnathon!

  I collapse into laughter again. It really is funny.

  —Fucking disgusting

  he says and walks off. I must agree with him … there is something intrinsically disgusting about laughter.

  I lie there laughing until it starts to hurt, then I struggle to my feet and walk to the change rooms.

  I would dearly love to film the destruction of those change rooms. By implosion: I’d like to cover them with ten miles of water and watch what happened from the inside.

  I’d like to see the concrete roof snap inwards with a shower of grey splinters. I’d like to see the walls fold in, the benches buckle, the showers and associated plumbing twist then tear like licorice.

  And that sort of thing.

  How about:

  A tidal wave hits the school. One hundred thousand tonnes of churning, crushing water.

  Water, bending the barbed-wire fence around the swimming pool into a warped, twisted sculpture of violence!

  Water, crashing through the steel-plated ceiling of the hall, smashing the polished pine floor into firewood!

  Water, spraying around the edges of those double-bolted doors, finally tearing them from their hinges in the ultimate act of liberation!

  Water, bending brick walls like plasticine, snapping solid oak doors like plywood!

  The camera stays just a few metres above as the force of the wave rushes down the length of the school, mashing the canteen into a swirling suspension of concrete chips, beating lockers into tinplate, and finally smashing into the foyer of the administration offices. Then it turns right, past the remains of the receptionist’s desk, into that room.

  Where the weight of the water is squeezing his body into pure, c
lean, organic pulp.

  The sick yellow light is extinguished.

  Cut to an aerial view of the last traces of the buildings collapsing and vanishing below the frothing white surface.

  Who needs a plot with scenes like that?

  Irwin Allen was smart.

  I look around unhappily at the change room walls. They simply stand there, refusing even to tremble.

  —Please

  I whine.

  Nothing. I walk over to a wall, kick it sharply.

  Not a sound.

  Chapter 14

  ASSEMBLY

  Somebody is obsessed with structure.

  And this is not amusing.

  I can only speculate on the exact nature of the thoughts wandering through that somebody’s demented mind, but here is my speculation:

  It would be just awful if, when we held an assembly, everyone just casually walked into the hall and sat down without any kind of arrangement. No, it would be so much nicer if the whole thing was properly co-ordinated. And a hierarchical structure just seems to cry out to be used. Just consider it. First, we divide the hall into four sections, one for each house. Then each quarter is divided into five bands, one for each year. Every band is divided into three narrow strips for individual tutorial groups, and each strip is cut in half lengthwise, one half for boys, one half for girls. Finally, in each half-strip, students are arranged in alphabetical order. It’s all so elegant. So neat.

  (What difference does it make? What is the point of arranging us, cataloguing us, setting us out in a nice, regular array? There must be a reason!)

  —Aquarius tutorial groups line up at the south-west entrance to the hall. Leo tutorial groups line up at the south-east entrance to the hall. Gemini tutorial groups line up at the north-west entrance to the hall. Scorpio tutorial groups line up at the north-east entrance to the hall. I’ll just repeat that.

  Which he did.

  (To accept that there is no reason, that we are doing this merely to satisfy the perverted urges of some demented administrator, would be to accept the possibility that the entire educational system is of a similar nature …)