The Faculty Club Part 32

-1 x +1 x -1 = +1!

It was kind of like a cartoon. Both their eyes drifted upward as they each worked it through. It clicked for Sarah first.

"Yes!" she said. She smiled. "How did you think of that so fast?"

"It's just logic," I said.

"Impressive," she replied. I felt all warm and goose-b.u.mpy.

"Yeah, it's great," Miles said. "Except for one thing. THEY'RE f.u.c.kING STATUES! You can't ask them anything. You just push a b.u.t.ton and they move. Jesus Christ, and I'm the professional academic?"

s.h.i.+t.

I felt the air go out of my balloon. He was right, of course. I'd been so excited about the logic that I'd forgotten the reality of the situation. Still, the answer was so clever, so pure, so . . . V&D. It had to be right. I couldn't see any other way.

The b.u.t.ton. The gears and chains inside. That was the statue's guts--gears and chains, not blood and viscera. The joint at the elbow, hidden in the seams of his robe . . .

I walked over to the statue on the left and grabbed his head. I traced my finger over the line between his neck and his robes . . . could it be?

We hadn't come this far to give up or turn around.

I closed my eyes and twisted. Nothing, at first, and then I felt a gritty giving-way, as if the twisting was pulverizing the bits of dust filling the groove, and then the king's head turned. It rotated to my right under my hands, the sound of a mechanism clacking and trucking inside the statue, until his head wouldn't turn anymore. I opened my eyes and looked. The statue's head was now rotated to the right, and his lips fit perfectly against the opening of his brother's ear.

I looked at Miles and Sarah and gave them a wide smile.

"You see?" I sounded like a giddy idiot. But it was awesome!

I stepped in front of the second brother, the one who was now receiving instructions, metaphorically speaking, from the lips of his brother nestled in his right ear.

"Ask one statue what his brother would say," Sarah whispered.

She came over and put her hand on top of mine, and together we pressed down on the b.u.t.ton in front of the second statue. His hand was already pointing to his right, from our previous attempt. There was a clicking--higher-pitched this time--and the arm ticked all the way to his left.

"YES!!" Miles shouted. He pumped his arms in victory. "You did it, by G.o.d, Jeremy, you really did it!" He ran and jumped toward the left-hand door and put his hand on the k.n.o.b.

"MILES!" we both screamed at once. "MILES, NO!!" Were we seconds from death? By what means? Would the room start hissing with gas? Or maybe the opposite: the air would suck out until we were gasping on the floor, a couple of heartbeats away from the penal fire . . .

Would it be quick? Would it hurt?

Miles turned around, grinning.

"Just kidding," he said. "Ask one statue what his brother would say"--here he winked--"and do the opposite."

Miles walked to the right-hand door and, without looking back at us, turned the k.n.o.b.

There was a release of air, a quiet hissing, and then the door opened inward.

34.

We pa.s.sed into a small room, a library with a nautical theme. There were paintings of lighthouses and schooners on the walls. A globe in one corner, an astrolabe in another. The ceiling was painted with a nighttime mural: stars and a moon.

But what was truly notable about the room was the split that ran across it lengthwise, cutting everything in half: the far wall, a painting, the green carpet, even a chair in its path. The chair was silk: green, gold, and blue; its two halves sat on either side of the rift. You could see the yellow stuffing, but the split was perfect; the stuffing didn't bulge or spill out from the halves.

There was an archway on the far wall, with a bar across the door. Miles walked over and gave it a good shove.

"Locked."

I knelt down and looked at the split in the floor. The edges were sharp. I tried to see into it. It seemed like the bottom, far below, was moving.

Sarah held out a coin and let go.

A few seconds later, we heard a faint splash.

"It's water," she said.

She put a hand on both sides and leaned in. Her head disappeared.

"Be careful."

She ignored me.

"I think there's a current."

She was right: when I looked closely, the water was moving toward the far wall.

To my right was a giant mirror in a gold frame. Below it, a gla.s.s bowl sat on a table, filled with small planks of wood.

"Very cute," Miles said.

He was suddenly next to me, with that self-satisfied look on his face. He leaned forward, resting his hands on a wooden chair.

"What?"

"The moon above. The water below. It's the cla.s.sic triad. They're practically shouting it at us."

"Huh?"

Miles shook his head patiently.

"The moon. Water. What is the one thing that symbolizes both in nearly every culture?"

Suddenly, Miles grabbed the chair and shouted with glee: "MIRRORS!"

He swung the chair with all his force into the colossal mirror on the wall.

There was a tremendous explosion. Gla.s.s flew everywhere.

"A-HA!" Miles shouted victoriously.

He was holding the remains of the chair in midair.

Behind the mirror, there was a plain wall.

The last pieces fell with a jangle.

"Oh," Miles said. He looked at us. "Oops."

Sarah and I exchanged glances.

"Oops?"

"Oops."

"You just killed the mirror."

"I said oops."

Sarah scrunched her face into a perfect Miles impression. "It's the cla.s.sic triad," she lectured, pretending to push a pair of gla.s.ses up the bridge of her nose.

"p.i.s.s off," Miles said.

Sarah and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"It would've been cool," Miles mumbled. His face was turning bright red. "Come on--if there was a tunnel or something behind the mirror? That would have been awesome. What the h.e.l.l do you know anyway . . . think you're some kind of genius, just 'cause you played with dolls in the other room . . ."

He stomped off to the far corner of the room and plopped in a chair, sulking.

We nearly doubled over, laughing.

Finally, I wiped my eyes and walked the room.

On the bookshelf, I found a model s.h.i.+p, the kind you'd see inside a gla.s.s bottle, but larger.

"Hey Miles," I said. "Mind if I look at this, or did you want to smash it first?"

"Screw you."

I took the s.h.i.+p off its base and turned it over.

"Weird."

On both sides, several planks were missing, like the smile of a very bad boxer.

I grinned.

I took the boat to the table under the broken mirror. I grabbed a plank of wood from the gla.s.s bowl and held it up to the boat. It was a perfect fit.

Sarah clapped.

Every plank snapped into place, not one to spare. The boat looked whole again, except that the old s.h.i.+p was made of pale balsa wood; the new pieces were cherry brown. But the problem was cosmetic--the boat felt perfect, balanced and new.

"Cool."

"I want to put it in the water," Sarah said.

"Well obviously," Miles mumbled from his corner. He still wasn't making eye contact.

"Let's do it," I said.

"You would," Miles muttered.

"Could you grow up, please?" Sarah said. "If you know something, say it."

"It's the s.h.i.+p of Theseus, clearly," Miles said.

"The s.h.i.+p of what?"

"Theseus. It's a paradox. An ancient puzzle."

"Oh for G.o.d's sake. Enlighten us."

"The s.h.i.+p of Theseus was getting worn out, right? But they kept it going by replacing planks. Take an old plank out, put a new one in. So the question is, when does it stop being the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?"

"I don't get it."

"If you replace one plank, is it still the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?"

"Of course."

"What if you replace half the planks? Is it still the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?"

"Yes."

"What if you replace all the planks?"

"Sure."

"Okay, now say someone picks up all the discarded planks and builds a second boat. Which one is the s.h.i.+p of Theseus?"

Sarah and I answered at the same time.