After that threatening offer, the rest of the day continued uneventfully after that with no further talk about plans for upending the system, and I was able to continue checking the math. One of the trickier aspects to deal with was converting currencies. In one particular instance, there was a deal exchanging two pieces of eight for eight pieces of two. While the amount sounded the same, there were vast differences in the trade.
I implemented little tricks to make the process go faster. Simplifying addition by grouping common factors together. For instance, adding 90 to 95. Seems tricky to do in your head, right? But if you remove the missing number from 100, it becomes much easier.
90 (100-10) + 95 (100-5)
(200-15)
(185)
Or say you have to add 169 to 144. Rather than try to combine the two disparate figures, I simply take away 31 from 144, for a nice round number of 200, then add the remainder up.
(169+33) + (144-31)
(200 + 113)
(313)
For the larger numbers, it was a simple matter of transferring digits, taking 16 from one, and adding it to 84 of another for a neat round number. In this way, I could…
Wait, that figure couldn’t be right. I went back and discovered that there was a highlighted notch in the circled number. What I thought was a 7 was really a 1. An easy distinction to make. By the time I realized my mistake, the colours changed again, and I was looking at a new set of figures. The Arabic ٢ looked like a backwards 7, while the Arabic ٦ was actually a six. It took some effort, since Purplish-Brown gave me a headache, but I was gradually being able to piece together certain patterns, and tell the numbers apart.
Completing the forms took longer than expected, and the Accountant didn’t show up until at least two colours had passed. He examined the pile of completed papers. I showed him the papers set aside I had serious misgivings about. “I’m sorry, but these figures simply aren’t right.”
The Accountant leaned in closer, his face suddenly taking a mask of seriousness. “Are you absolutely sure?”
I hesitantly confirmed my suspicions. Taking my cue from the last dyslexic sample, I showed how some numbers had been written backwards and slipped in with palidromic equations to escape detection.
He nodded. “I thought so too. These kinds of calculations can be tricky if you don’t know what you’re looking for. You’re more capable than your replacement. Do you know he used to be a warhorse? Very clever, though for the longest time, I suspected he was only telling us what we wanted to hear. It wasn’t until later that I found out why the last guy was having so much trouble - he was colour blind.”
Horses aren’t normally colour blind, so this segue into flawed equine linage otherwise, I asked the question lingering on my mind. “Why would a horse want to be an Accountant?”
“Family pressure. He didn’t want to, but was forced into it. Sad, really. In his time, he was terribly bloodthirsty, but with no more conquest left, was regulated to making calculations. In the old days, leaders were chosen via their charismatic ability of drawing swords from lakes or stones. Nowadays, we have our rulers chosen for us. Duly unelected Ambassador Wurms acting as our representatives is a flawed system, but all the other ones are worse.”
“So, the Wurms rode the horses?”
“Why would a lowly Wurm ride a horse? The horses rode the Wurms!”
“Of course, how silly of me.”
That amusing aside aside, my work continued in that vein until I was forcibly brought back to my room. I placed the times charts on the table. There were notes written on the back to look at later. I’d been getting a lot of inspiration while working, and took the opportunity to jot down potential story ideas whenever I got. I was looking forward to a good night’s rest, but barely an hour had passed before I experienced the familiar sensation of having a bag placed over my head. I’d never been called twice in the same day, and figured it must be for something important.
“Hello again! My brain is open! Go ahead, ask me anything you want!”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Red-Green-ish time. C’mon, ask me a hard one.”
I stifled a yawn. “Don’t you get tired?”
“Who can rest when there’s so many numbers about?”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Ooh, going for a toughie, huh? Well, let’see, it would’ve been somewhere around mid-Indigo/Fuchsia and it’s now… awhile I confess.”
I no longer bothered to hide my yawning, hoping he’d get the hint as I slumped down on the table to get some shut-eye. “Is there a point to this meeting?”
“I said I’d summon you anytime, and this is one of those times.”
I barely glanced through my bleary weary eyes. “Look, it’s been a long day. I’m not in the mood for riddles. Just tell me what you want.”
“You’ve noticed, haven’t you?” the Accountant said with a conspirational whisper. “That the world is not the way it’s supposed to be.”
My attention perked up despite my fatigue. There were things that felt notoriously out of place. But it couldn’t be pinpointed to any one thing. There were so many contributing factors it was hard to narrow them down. “How IS the world supposed to be?”
“I don’t know, but it has to be better than this. I’m in charge of handling large finances for powerful institutions who absolutely refuse to handle money, because its too dirty for their delicate fingies to touch as most paper currency gets stuffed up people’s noses. So its up to us Accountants to deal with it in their stead. We indulge plenty of wheeling/dealing to manage their finances into ways that would manage a profit. And when we make TOO MUCH MONEY? They decide to take it away from us, and keep it all to themselves instead. So much for being germaphobic about dirty money.”
There was a pause to let this sink in as he resumed:
“Accountants have been thrown out or banished for the flimsiest of reasons. Any debts accrued to our clients could be waived, since we weren’t respectable citizens for dealing with numbers. Numbers could mean anything, and who could be trusted in describing ephemeral things? Nevermind that it was our way of handling numbers that was such a big deal and why we were hired in the first place.”
He said all this smiling widely the whole while.
“Yes, well - ” I interjected, but apparently, the Accountant wasn’t quite done yet.
“We’re saddled with the unenviable task of doing the jobs no one else wants. Then, we’re resented for doing our jobs TOO WELL. Everybody craves what they don’t have, and if they can’t have it, they’ll put down those who are capable. That’s the way it’s always been.”
There were about five pages of additional material that in my beleaguered sleep-deprived state I mostly forgot, but I’ll spare you the rant and skip to the tail end of the good stuff when the Accountant was getting around to making his point.
“…we’re also hated because of how we came to figuring math out, which reminds them of their unsightly past. It’s not as glamourous as they remember. One of the most prominent mathematicians of our time brought forth a revolutionary theory that came about thanks to paying attention to the number of his farts.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. But you’re not going to forget that story anytime soon.”
I had to suppress a laugh. “You remind me very much of a friend of mine.”
“Is he an Accountant too?”
“No, he was very opinionated, but fell into a bad spell recently.”
“That’s too bad. How’s he doing?”
“He’s… better now,” I replied not wanting to get into it.
“If you get the chance, share my findings with him.”
“He’s still in a bad place emotionally.”
“I’d still like to hear his side of things.”
“He’s not exactly in a condition to leave.”
“I’m not offering him a position. Just relay my thoughts his way and see what he has to say. If he notices something that doesn’t belong, don’t be shy in letting me know.”
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