Three horses cantered across the plain - a grey Arabian, a Palomino and a Roan. The dust from their hooves rose up from the ground and dispersed around them. Their riders wore spacesuits, the kind used in the Apollo missions of the 1960's. But this was not the moon.
 
The horses and their riders were headed toward the old farmstead that had been repurposed. Twenty-four sensors, mounted on poles, looked out towards the plain. No agricultural labour had happened here for generations.
 
Inside the building, in a quiet room with southern exposure, a few people sat in chairs that had been arranged to face away from each other - a design of communal privacy. Each one of them was immersed in a book. The wires from the electrodes on their temples were neatly twisted and disappeared through a hole in the floor. Enough slack was provided to permit movement. A small dog ran around the room, largely ignored by the other occupants.
 
Outside on the verandah a woman held binoculars to her eyes. They were powerful ornithological binoculars. She trained them on the approaching riders, seeing the sky reflected in their visors, beautifully distorted in the curved surfaces. The reflections looked so vivid. Stratocumulus clouds filled her vision.
 
As the riders approached she was able to see them with her naked eye, taking in reflection and subject simultaneously, as if looking at a painting of a painting. With their spacesuits glaring white in the sun, they passed her by at a gallop and quickly receded into the distance.
 
The woman sighed and picked up the binoculars again from the railing where she had left them. She scanned the horizon, wistfully hoping she would see a thylacine and knowing it would be very unlikely. She had not yet managed to climb out from under the destructive weight of an early morning argument. The clouds had helped and a thylacine would put her completely at ease. But there were no thylacines, not even one. There had been reports of sightings, as of yet unsubstantiated, but this was the wrong continent.
 
Accepting that her disappointment was inevitable, she set down the binoculars again and went inside, through the kitchen to the South Room where the readers, two men and one woman, were engrossed in novels. She knew what they were reading. There was no telegnosis involved. She had made the selections herself: A Glastonbury Romance by John Cowper Powys, The Hearing Trumpet by Leonora Carrington, and My Life in the Bush of Ghosts by Amos Tutola.
 
Enough time had now lapsed for her to check on the effect of this reading. To allow time to pass was the reason she had stepped out on the verandah in the first place. She made her way quietly through the room so as not to disturb the readers, fondled the little dog's ears, and opened the door at the far end with the demure confidence of a professional.
 
The opened door revealed a staircase that led down to the basement. She closed it with barely a click. The basement was not part of the original structure. It was an addition. She passed through the section where the vintage electronic instruments were stored. They were all in impeccable condition.
 
There was a display cabinet containing Moog synthesizers. There was a Minimoog, a Moog Satellite, a Sonic Six, a Micromoog, a Polymoog and a Moog Taurus.
 
Another cabinet contained Arps - ARP Little Brother, ARP Odyssey, ARP 2600 and an ARP Explorer. There was also an RCA MkII and three Theremins.
 
The instrument collection had a gravitas. It felt like walking through a chapel. There was a nobility in the latent possibilities of yesterday's analog technologies and her respect was genuine. She paused among the cabinets, feeling an affinity for these instruments that were never played and rarely looked at. They caused her to wonder about the meaning of collections. That meaning must lie in numbers greater than zero or one, because a collection of one thing seemed extremely unlikely, and a collection of nothing could not be considered a collection. This led her to consider numbers less than zero. They would imply a negative collection, such as an art collector with no paintings. There might be a catalogue of all the pictures he did not own, some of them yet to be painted.
 
It occurred to her that these instruments in their dusty cabinets mirrored the negative collection that was not upstairs. In so doing, they were a perfect representation of meaninglessness.
 
She suddenly made an effort to cease this speculation. It was a direction, that was all. A direction that might lead anywhere, and not necessarily where she wanted to go. These were not the questions she should answer, even if she could.
 
She moved away from the synthesizers to yet another door. Winter was officially over and Pater would probably be awake. This meant that things were going to get difficult.
 
When she opened the door, Pater was standing in the frame, blocking her way. He was old and obdurate.
 
"Women are generally not admitted into this area."
 
"Oh come on. Don't be ridiculous."
 
"Well, you'll have to prove you have clearance. I must ask you the questions if you don't mind."
 
"Go ahead."
 
"What is the correct time?"
 
"Time upon a once."
 
"What happened to the coiled rope?"
 
"It was forgotten by a sailor."
 
"From whence came the news?"
 
"It was delivered by a fly."
 
"How many totems are necessary?"
 
"Four and twenty."
 
"What is to be done with the sum of all things?"
 
"It is to be divided by seven cries of delight."
 
The old man begrudgingly stood back.
 
"Okay. You can come in."
 
 
© Tom Newton 2017