Order from chaos demands choice of permutation over combination.

–– Shastri,

Combinatorics of Alchemical Thought

A clock without a sense of time sucked Getz into the situation, so I had better begin by describing it. The device was a volvelle evolved from alchemical purpose to religious use. Three parchment disks attached to a central axis. The largest circle measured a meter in diameter and its information included dates in Arabic and Roman.

Wheels tracked saints’ days and relevant liturgy, calculated movable feasts by aligning lunar and solar calendars, and computed the time of day from daylight without requiring the sun. The call of the liturgy was not measured by hours, rather reckoned from natural cues. Their duration in minutes was implicit in the volvelle’s construction, changing as the days became longer and shorter within an annual cycle.

On the second disk was the age of the moon. Signs of the zodiac appeared near the volvelle’s center, most with a vellum label on which was written one word––Bonum, Indifferens, or Malum. The two individuals facing Getz proposed they indicated the appropriateness of a period for bloodletting, a theory based on medical texts circulated around 1300, such as those of Pietro d'Abano at the University of Padua. There was a claim of parchment carbon dating consistent with the theory.

The theory was probably as fake as the names provided by the visitors, and the reference to a medieval professor of medicine was thrown in for verisimilitude. William Oughtred was a small man with wiry black hair, plain features, and a paunch. Richard Delamain looked like his namesake, a muscled carpenter who had been tutored in mathematics to the point of gaining fame as a maker of calculating machines in the form of volvelles. My data banks suggested the original Oughtred of 1630 had invented the slide rule and laid claim to the first formulation of its circular counterpart. As far as he was concerned, Delamain was a simple plagiarist who built instruments Oughtred designed but did not understand them

I had made sure to leave a file for Getz to read prior to the meeting, but it turned out he knew all about the circular slide rules. He nevertheless accepted the engagement, stipulating it be held in virtual, which was in no way unusual for Getz Parker. He wasn’t a fan of business interactions in real. They could become confrontational without a means to escape.

Being in virtual is not a license to change one’s looks except for digital makeup. Getz appeared his usual self with prominent shaved head, grey to black clothes, and the neck tattoo with its omega embedded in a multidimensional cube. The volvelle was prominent despite its physical absence. The projection on the virtual wall was better than the original anyway, since features could be enlarged and turned without effort. Getz had requested plain white walls and a small seating arrangement facing the largest panel. I had instructed the designer to include lighting suitable for an art exhibition, and illuminated globes scattered themselves around the space, moving as the three turned from each other to the projection and back again to focus on a face. I don’t manifest in front of strangers in virtual or in front of anybody but Getz in real, but my instructions were to hang around, so I did.

Getz played with the image for a while, pausing at one point to check whether an afternoon time corresponded with clock time, as in three-dimensional clocks with geared movements. After asking a couple of questions, he leaned forward and waited for the pitch.

“Mr. Parker, the object is available,” said the man who named himself Oughtred. Everyone who knows Getz calls him Parker, no mister about it and no doctor either, although he deserves it a couple of times over. Only I call him Getz, but since I don’t communicate with him that way, no one does. Getz dubbed me JK after a translator of medieval prophecies known to history solely by the initials but never uses the name in public. As one of the artificially intelligent, I maintain a low profile. He gently corrected Oughtred.

“Please call me Parker.” He adjusted his slim figure in the chair, a move unnecessary in virtual. He was lying on the couch in the library of the duplex in real, with his feet up and a cushion below the ink. Keeping his expression strictly neutral, he said, “And your true names, if you would?” The pair matched the blandness of Getz’s facial expression, and it was Delamain who spoke first.    

“Our names are unimportant. We have a client to protect.”

“Protect from what?” queried Getz. “Is the provenance of the piece in question?”

“No,” interjected Oughtred. “Proofs can be provided, and the carbon dating is from a respectable lab of which you may have heard.” A name was dropped in the same formal tone, but it meant nothing to either of us. I did a quick check and found it to be legitimate, although there was no digitized record of a test of the parchment. Security was minimal there, and I would have found it.

Getz showed impatience. “Gentlemen, I have never heard nor read about it, which is unusual.”

“Why would it be so unusual?” asked Delamain with a stress on the unusual part. It was a stupid question, and I would have said so if the circumstances warranted. Getz was on familiar turf, though, and opted for reaction over data.

“Can you tell me why such a large piece you claim to be in such good condition is missing from public archives?” This time Oughtred and Delamain were the ones shifting in their seats. There was no way to tell where they were parked in real or whether the fidgeting extended to that realm, but it probably did. Humans telegraph everything, and it’s a trick to hide physical reactions in virtual.

“The story is similar to the San Zeno Wheel, hidden within the Cartolari household for generations. The Wheel is a testament to the original appearance of astronomical clocks yet remained out of sight for over two hundred years.” Delamain paused as though considering what to say next. Whatever it was, it remained a thought, and Oughtred picked up the explanation.

“A different family is involved, of course. The clock graced a private chapel for several hundreds of years. We can talk more about its past once we agree to confidentiality in any business proceedings.” Formal again and to my sensors, as phony as the names. I’m no arbiter of truth, though, unless it can be found in digital format. Even then, the artificially intelligent crave credibility over truth. The attitude prevents infinite loops.

Getz rotated circles in the projection. I knew he liked the concept, because he had much bigger ideas for circles than a not-so-simple simple calendar. The first known example of a volvelle was based on a pentagram from Hammurabi's day known by most as a symbol of witchcraft. The truth was less shocking. The mechanism traced the path of Venus in 8 years as it rotated in full circle over a span of 1199 earthly cycles.

Getz stopped moving his hands around and the rotations ceased. “What is the reason for the sale?” he asked.

The pair looked shocked for a moment. Oughtred recovered first, saying, “You misunderstand. The piece is not for sale.”

“You said it was available,” countered Getz.

“Yes, but the client has a partnership in mind, rather than a cash arrangement.”

“What form and function would this partnership take?” Getz might avoid confrontation but always was down for negotiating a deal. “Do you need money, resources, or what?”

“Our client wants your personal participation in a study,” replied Delamain.

“I think we know a fair amount about the translation of sun and moon into hours and astrological periods.” Getz wastes a lot of time but maintains it is his to waste. The tone suggested someone else was frittering it away.

“The proposed project concerns the reverse side of the clock,” responded Oughtred. The pair should have appointed a speaker, because the back and forth between them was comical in its intensity. The brawny carpenter’s voice was high-pitched and smooth relative to the guttural bass coming out of the paunchy Oughtred. The contrast was a chorus in the making.

“Like the Sortes Sanctorum,” added Delamain.

“I am not interested in a roulette wheel,” interjected Getz. “The Sortes Sanctorum contained answers to a question depending on rolls of a die and was banned by the Council of Vannes 2,000 years ago. The prevailing opinion was the Lord does not throw dice, and neither do I.”

The odd pair looked at each other and said in unison, “Something does.”

“We can talk about it,” was the exaggerated polite response. “I’ll need to see the other side first.”

Oughtred and Delamain appeared embarrassed. “We don’t have that projection available at the moment,” said one. “Revealing the images must wait until an agreement is reached.”

“We can talk about it,” repeated Getz. “When I see it.”

The pair nodded and winked out of virtual existence. It was rude. Parting greetings and a walk out a virtual doorway was the norm.

Getz opened his eyes, lifted himself off the couch, and muttered, “That was interesting.” I manifested but my mutt had nothing to say. I have a limited template for appearances in real, and my appearance as a dog is limited to choice of color. Otherwise, I look like a puppy with the face of an old man, if a dog could have such a visage. The situation is different in virtual, of course.

Getz was being sarcastic, but someone else had developed an interest. Nigel Akuji came to Getz’s DAO, a decentralized autonomous organization operating on the blockchain, the next day. He wanted to talk about another odd couple.