Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  ‘We have only one computer. All these machines are connected together by intricate wiring under the floor, and technically, you didn’t beat it. The computer was playing black.’

  ‘So I helped the computer beat young Mr Brownlee. I call that a win.’

  Fowler waved for Campion to follow him and walked over the spotless tile floor to the large metal bin near the printing machine. He delved into it and emerged with an armful of green paper with perforated edges folded at regular intervals along its length, the resultant pile being at least a foot thick.

  ‘The computer was suggesting the black queen’s move when you pre-empted it and it went on to predict checkmate in two moves. It’s all here in the printout.’

  Campion gazed in wonder at the stack of paper Fowler was holding as delicately as if it was a newborn baby. ‘Goodness, and to think a tree had to die just for that.’

  ‘I can see you are determined not to be impressed,’ said Fowler.

  ‘Oh, I am willing to be impressed. It is just that I start from a very low base. At school I had a mad maths teacher. Well, they’re all mad, aren’t they? And he would insist that algebra was a language and made us put full stops at the end of quadratic equations, like sentences. For a while it seemed to make sense, but then something shiny must have caught my eye, for it suddenly all slipped away … as did calculus. A bit of geometry did come in useful later in life, I admit, as did arithmetic, which is invaluable when scoring at darts, but on the whole, I was a bit of a dunce when it came to mathematics.’

  Charles Fowler inflated his cheeks like a frog and exhaled through pursed lips. Campion resisted the urge to tell him that was exactly the same exasperated expression he had produced from his mad maths master at Rugby all those years ago; and he too had worn a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

  ‘Let me rephrase my question, Mr Campion. How much do you need – or would like – to know about computers?’

  Campion smiled. ‘I need to know about Professor Perez-Catalan’s work with your computers. As to how much I want to know about computers, I am too long in the tooth to appreciate anything more than a simple – a very simple – explanation of what they do.’

  Mr Fowler returned the smile. ‘Good. To be honest, I’m fed up with explaining things to new students who seem to think the computers are here to do their coursework for them and will respond to voice commands, because they’ve all seen far too many science-fiction films. So can I give you the idiots’ version?’

  ‘The more idiotic the better; preferably small words delivered in a slow monotone.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Mr Fowler waved an arm at the humming metal boxes which surrounded them. ‘You are now standing in the middle of an electronic brain which stores data and makes calculations many times faster than any human.’

  ‘While playing chess,’ said Campion slyly.

  ‘Yes, well, you caught it at a very busy moment. If you give it time, it can beat any above-average player, but that is really just a flippant add-on to its main function, at least at the moment. I can foresee a time when you’ll be able to play a computer at lots of games.’

  ‘Good lord, I hope that’s science fiction,’ said Campion. ‘What if your electronic brain turns out to be a bad loser?’

  Mr Fowler was not distracted and moved to one of the cabinets which had an open metal drawer at hip height. From it he plucked a thick wedge of cards the size of postcards and held one up for Campion to see the holes punched through it.

  ‘It looks as if someone’s been using them for target practice with a twelve-bore.’

  ‘Not quite. These punch cards are how we put information in. The computer crunches the numbers and prints out the answers on those green sheets.’

  ‘Number crunching,’ Campion said airily. ‘I like that, though it conjures up an image of rows of poorly paid clerks wearing armbands and eyeshades, working rhythmically at a battery of adding machines.’

  ‘Those days are long gone; the future is computing.’

  ‘I am sure you are right, but forgive me if I do not rush to embrace it. I take it that Professor Perez-Catalan was an enthusiast.’

  ‘You can say that again; he thought he owned the place. His work took up to seventy per cent or more of our capacity at times, which didn’t go down well with the rest of the university.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Campion. ‘The professor must have had a lot of numbers to crunch.’

  ‘He did,’ Mr Fowler agreed. ‘He would get seismic recordings and geological data, vast amounts of it, from all over the world.’

  ‘And he would feed it into your machinery and the end result would be his algorithm?’

  Mr Fowler raised a quizzical eyebrow, much as the young Campion’s maths master had. ‘You know about his algorithm?’

  ‘Only what the professor told me, and I admit not all of it sank in. I wouldn’t recognize it if it ran up and bit me in the leg. Does it come out of your machines on a stream of green paper?’

  ‘No, his workings might, but the algorithm is his own personal brainchild. As I understand it, he was writing a paper for publication and peer review which would announce his algorithm to the world.’

  ‘But I was under the impression that his algorithm was a formula which could be of great value in commercial terms.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I’m happy to say it’s not my problem. All I do is make sure the numbers get crunched and the academics don’t kill each other over the allocation of computing time.’

  Mr Fowler stopped himself and dropped his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Campion gently, ‘we’re all thinking it.’

  TEN

  Staff Appraisals

  On entering what Mr Fowler had described as the professor’s ‘inner sanctum’ – a tiny, windowless office, its door sandwiched between two humming green cabinets – Campion recalled how he had often remonstrated with his contemporaries who claimed that because of the fashion for long hair ‘you couldn’t tell the boys from the girls these days’. Now he found himself guilty of a similar, but reverse, ridiculous simplification, for when the two figures working at a tiny metal desk turned to see who had entered, one of the faces to greet him was female.

  ‘We were told someone would be coming to check up on us,’ said Nigel Honeycutt. ‘Thought it might be the coppers again. This is Tabitha King, one of our geologists.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ said Campion with a short bow. ‘In fact, we’re neighbours.’

  ‘We are?’

  Tabitha King’s brown trouser suit and short-back-and-sides haircut had momentarily fooled Campion, and when she and Honeycutt rose from their plastic chairs and stood side by side, he noticed that even wearing sensible shoes she towered over her fellow scientist.

  ‘Sort of. I am temporarily housed in one of the pyramids, but further down the Valley of the Kings in Durkheim. Convenient for the library, but miles away from the pleasure beach and donkey rides.’

  He edged his way into the cramped space, carefully placing his feet between the piles of green computer printouts, until he could get a good view of the desk which was covered in loose sheets of white paper to a depth of three or four inches. Some of the sheets were handwritten, some typed, and Campion thought that in the middle of that snowstorm of paper he could just make out the outline of a portable typewriter. The shelves above the desk were equally frosted with loose papers, but also textbooks, badly folded maps and various rock samples ranging from ping-pong to rugby ball in size, several of them balanced rather precariously.

  ‘And I am not here to check up on you,’ he continued, ‘rather I wanted to make sure that the professor’s magic algorithm was safe and secure, though to be honest I wouldn’t recognize it if it jumped up and bit me in the leg.’

  Tabitha King took a half-pace back and turned sideways to give Campion a better view of the desktop. ‘Well, there it is. Help yourself.’

  ‘Really? I�
�ve seen neater burglaries. What exactly am I looking at?’

  ‘Pascual’s rough notes and first drafts of a paper explaining his algorithm,’ said Honeycutt. ‘We’re trying to make sense of it, so we can submit it for publication and peer review.’

  ‘So you’re writing a posthumous scientific paper.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking!’ snapped Tabitha.

  ‘I’m rather glad someone does,’ Campion said disarmingly.

  ‘You think we’re stealing the professor’s work. We most categorically are not. If anything, we’re protecting his legacy.’

  Honeycutt waded in to Tabitha’s defence, not that, to Campion, the woman needed defending.

  ‘The paper will be in Pascual’s name which, being honest, carries far more weight than either of ours. We will take credit only as editors, along with the translator.’

  ‘Translator?’

  The pair shuffled uneasily, like guilty schoolchildren, in front of Mr Campion.

  ‘It was Pascual’s wish that his paper be first published in Chile through the University of Santiago,’ said Honeycutt, ‘although publication in an English journal would be almost simultaneous.’

  ‘So his algorithm is to be made freely available to the scientific world?’

  ‘And so it should.’

  ‘Ethically, I am sure you are right, but I was under the impression that the algorithm, to put it crudely, was a formula for finding deposits of valuable minerals; a positive treasure map for mining companies and, indeed, many a government.’ Campion paused and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for the photostat he had been given at Black Dudley. ‘According to a recent article in the Socialist Worker, which therefore must be true, the professor’s work was attracting interest, perhaps even funding, from certain non-academic sources such as the CIA; and in my limited experience, where the CIA are involved, the Russians will not be far behind.’

  ‘You idiot,’ said Tabitha under her breath, and Campion was glad to see that her displeasure was aimed at her colleague. ‘You just couldn’t resist, could you?’

  ‘I stand by what I wrote!’ Honeycutt was far from cowed, almost pugnacious. ‘Pascual wanted the poorer countries of South America to benefit from his work, but are the imperialist Americans going to let that happen? Not likely! Not if there are deposits of heavy metals in their own back yard for the taking. They’ve already tried to interfere in the elections in Chile, and a socialist government with access to resources such as gold, silver, tungsten, thorium …’

  ‘And uranium,’ Campion inserted.

  ‘Well, the capitalists are just not going to let that happen, are they?’

  ‘Do you have any proof of this?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘But it stands to reason! The CIA have probably infiltrated agents into the university already. I tried to warn Pascual, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Warn him about what exactly?’

  ‘That he could be intimidated, a target even. That his research could be stolen.’

  ‘And has it?’

  ‘Not as far as we can tell,’ said Tabitha, ‘but there is a problem.’

  ‘I can think of several,’ said Campion, ‘but which one exercises you most?’

  ‘Pascual wrote large chunks of the first draft of his paper in Spanish.’

  Campion waited for further details but none were forthcoming.

  ‘I cannot see that as a problem in a university which has a dedicated, top-notch language department, or so I’m told; I haven’t seen it myself yet. The vice chancellor himself is a Hispanist of some distinction. Why not ask him to translate?’

  ‘Couldn’t do that,’ said Honeycutt with relish. ‘Downes would be seen as trying to take credit for another academic’s work, one that he appointed to the chair of Earth Sciences, and it was a controversial appointment at the time. Pascual was a foreigner for a start, and little known outside South America.’

  ‘I can see how that could be embarrassing in certain circles,’ Campion conceded, ‘but what about Dr Downes’s wife Dolores? She’s Spanish.’

  ‘No, that would not be a good idea.’ Campion noticed that any trace of relish or smugness had gone from Honeycutt’s voice. ‘She’s not a scientist, not an academic of any sort, and that would look like nepotism.’

  ‘Is there nobody in Earth Sciences who speaks and reads Spanish?’

  Campion’s question was answered by a pair of shaking heads.

  ‘But there are in other parts of the university. What about Stephanie Silva in Linguistics? I was drinking with some of her students last night.’

  ‘No!’ Tabitha spoke far too sharply, but quickly retracted her claws. ‘She had issues with Pascual over the allocation of computing time.’

  And perhaps other things, but Campion kept that thought to himself.

  Mr Campion would have liked to pose one or two questions to Tabitha King in private, but she and Honeycutt were adamant that they needed to work on the professor’s papers before the tiresome demands of having to teach students intervened. Campion had the distinct feeling that neither totally trusted the other alone, either with the work or to talk to him about Perez-Catalan. Realizing that he could not help them and was probably taking up valuable oxygen in that tiny room, he wished them ‘happy hunting’ and took his leave.

  As he walked out via the mainframe, trying not to think he was actually strolling through a brain, he formulated half a plan for the rest of his day’s itinerary. It was only half a plan, but it was still too early for lunch and he needed to know the position of various people on the campus before his expedition to White Dudley armed with the key Appleyard would provide to the professor’s house.

  He was, he thought, arranging his chess pieces on the board, but realized that perhaps that image had come to him because he was now out of the Computing Centre and standing on the edge of the outdoor chessboard, where the plywood pieces were swaying in the breeze and a new game was clearly under way.

  ‘Please don’t,’ said a voice behind him.

  Oliver Brownlee was leaning against a concrete pillar sheltering from the wind off the sea, a cigarette cupped in his right hand held close to his chest.

  ‘I promise not to interfere with your game, on condition you tell me where I can obtain a timetable for a member of staff.’

  ‘In Computing?’

  ‘No, Earth Sciences.’

  ‘In that case, you want the departmental secretary, Sheila Simcox, over in Piazza 3.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Sheila,’ Campion said slowly. ‘I know where her office is, thank you. Are you playing white again?’

  ‘No, I’m black this time.’

  Mr Campion took a moment to study the layout of the chessmen. ‘You are?’ he said. ‘Well, good luck then.’

  ‘And good luck with Sheila,’ said Oliver Brownlee to Campion’s back as he strode away.

  He knew he was unusually dressed and inappropriately aged for a modern university campus, but the trick in such fish-out-of-water situations, Campion decided, was to look as if you owned the place. With his fedora at the traditional jaunty angle and his back ramrod straight, Campion marched through the university precincts with the precision of a guardsman. Only a gnarled walking stick – or better, an RSM’s swagger stick – could have made the image more distinctive.

  By the time he topped the steps leading into Piazza 3, he still had only half a plan formed, now with the added problem of how to approach Sheila Simcox, on whom he had left a less than positive impression earlier that morning. The solution to that difficulty came unexpectedly in the form of divine intervention, although the university chaplain would have considered such a description heretical.

  ‘Campion! There you are!’ bellowed George Tinkler, loping across the piazza towards his prey.

  ‘We really can’t go on meeting like this,’ said Campion, as the smaller man, his face twisted to keep his pince-nez in place, came within range.

  ‘I
was hoping to catch you in the Computing Centre. Jack Szmodics told me you might be there.’

  ‘Let me guess; the bishop’s been on the phone again.’

  ‘Oh my, yes he has. He’s very anxious for a progress report.’

  ‘And I was just on my way to give him one.’ Mr Campion felt sure that Mr Tinkler’s spiritual boss would forgive a little white lie, even if his temporal one would not. ‘Do you know if Dr Szmodics is still in Earth Sciences? I was going to ask if I could use the telephone in the departmental office.’

  ‘No, I ran into Jack over in the Admin building; he was off to a meeting. But don’t worry, Sheila will help you.’

  ‘Sheila?’ Campion probed innocently.

  ‘The departmental secretary. If I had what you might call a congregation, Sheila would be the most loyal member of my flock. She’s a good Christian soul and a great admirer of the bishop. She corresponds with him regularly, often appealing for him to give moral guidance to the university, or just complaining about the lack of morals at the university. Simply mention you are on an errand for him and she’ll be delighted to help.’

  Campion had been prepared to deploy all of what he liked to think of as his ‘old-world charm’, but which Lugg, disparagingly, would call his ‘schoolboy smarm’, on Sheila Simcox but now the chaplain had provided a new plan of attack.

  ‘I fear we may have got off on the wrong foot earlier, Miss Simcox,’ said Mr Campion, holding his hat by the rim in front of his stomach, presenting himself as a true penitent. ‘I realize I should have introduced myself properly. I am here on campus as the special envoy of the Bishop of St Edmondsbury.’

  Miss Simcox’s eyes had been fixed in a stare which had unnervingly reminded Campion of tiny icebergs, but at the mention of the bishop, those icy crystals began to melt.

  ‘I believe you know the bishop.’

  ‘We have corresponded,’ said Miss Simcox pertly. ‘The bishop was kind enough to respond to some genuine concerns I had about the moral image that the university was projecting.’