The woman worked through some steps in her screen set. Rachel could see some requested retrievals, responses, content-integration assemblies…. Minutes passed. Then the woman said, “Ah! They have elements of the Sigma Structure damaged codes. Our methods have recovered these.” The woman used quick hand movements to carry information forward on the screens. “There! A servant Mind is transferring our best inference of what code can reunite with your Sigma Structure.”

Rachel shook her head, surprised. “This has been here how long?”

“Years. Quite a few. But we continually reshape such fragments, in light of new explorations. The labyrinth of Minds seethes”—the woman spread her arms as if to fly—“and evolves.”

“So now I can add it?”

“It awaits you in your pod.”

Rachel bid her thanks, and the woman nodded in appreciation. These Seekers of Script placed great importance on their sense of tradition, on the value of daily ritualistic routines, on the humanity in politeness and small gestures. Rachel knew their psych-type fit those of ancient priests and nuns, who felt connected to a larger Being by these duties. Bringing fresh life to damaged Minds was for them emotionally a form of worship. Of intelligence itself, in its many guises.

She pondered this as she strode through a sky corridor; cirrus clouds stirred above as they formed a chiffon scarf, before turning into a swan and, a few seconds later, a swarm of pale eels swimming in a cold blue stream. This simulation of a sky always calmed her, though of course such never occurred on Earth.

But while the skies soothed her, she wondered about the tap-in the medico nurse had described. A mistake? Wouldn’t she remember doing that? The whole point of the method was archaeological digs into recollections, after all.

The past was a jigsaw puzzle and you never had all the pieces.

The very shape of the Centrex encouraged collaboration and brainstorming. It had no dead-end corridors where introverted obsessives could hide out. Every office faced the central, circular forum. All staff were expected to spend time in the open areas, not close their office doors, show up for coffee and tea and stims. Writescreens and compu-pads were everywhere, even in the bathrooms and elevators.

Normally Rachel was as social as needed, since that was the lubricating oil of bureaucracies. She was an ambitious loner and had to fight it. But she felt odd now, not talkative. For the moment, at least, she didn’t want to see Kane. She did not know how she would react to him, or if she could control herself. She certainly hadn’t last night. The entire idea—control—struck her now as strange….

She sat herself down in her office and considered the layers of results from her pod. Focus!

Music as mathematical proof? Bizarre. And the big question Librarians pursued: the underlying structures of thought, whatever natural world it evolved to fit.

There was nothing more to gain from staring at data, so she climbed back into her pod. Its welcoming graces calmed her uneasiness. She trolled the background database and found human work on musical applications of set theory, abstract algebra, and number analysis. That made sense. Without the boundaries of rhythmic structure—a clean fundamental, equal, and regular arrangement of pulse repetition, accents, phrase, and duration—music would be impossible. Earth languages reflected that. In Old English the word rhyme derived from rhythm and became associated and confused with rim—an ancient word meaning “number.” Millennia before, Pythagoras had developed tuning based solely on the perfect consonances, the resonant octave, perfect fifth, and perfect fourth—all based on the consonant ratio 3:2. Rachel followed his lead.