THERE WAS A clear dividing line between rumour and mathematics.
The one was like a stinging jellyfish difficult to grasp firmly whereas the other was a precision tool which could be fine-tuned to the nth degree, whatever that might be.
'No,' Stane Mallix said to himself, throwing down his pen in frustration. 'The nth degree has a role to play here, a precise and definable role.'
'What's that dear?' his mother said, overhearing his mumblings. 'Eat up. Your breakfast's getting cold.'
'It was cold to start with mum, being cereal and all.'
'Such a dreamy lad, our Stane,' his father muttered with a chuckle from his corner of the breakfast table.
'Yes, and it looks like he's just dreamed a lot of squiggles on my table cloth,' his mother said, leaning forward over her triple egg meal and frowning with disapproval.
'Sorry mum,' the boy apologised. 'Just trying to work out an arc of destination along the Great Dividing Line.'
'And where's that when it's at home? No, don't tell me,' his mother stopped the boy as he grasped his pen again and moved his cereal bowl to one side as if about to draw a diagram.
'Late for the Academy son,' his father then reminded the lad, glancing at the dancing clock on the wall above his head. It was one of those ghost clocks projected from a special on-grid device attuned to World Face Time. Every now and again it would ripple as some energy surge from a device elsewhere in the house adjusted its settings to suit whatever duty it was expected to perform, like adjusting the air conditioning to block out Cherryball Flats aromas according to prevailing winds.
Being late for the Academy of Circling the Square was a source of no apprehension for those who attended its classes. Especially Stane Mallix, who had begun a slow paced, seven year study some time ago and which already seemed a lifetime to an imaginative and talented lad eager to use his already acquired knowledge in the field.
It had been a dream come true when Teasal Marchmont, not much older than himself, crossed paths with him in Orangey Park as he carved triangulation data on a bench with a chisel. Here had been an opportunity to apply practical theory to the world at large, with the knowing precisely how large the world actually was being an essential requisite to such a dream.
Now matters seemed more in the realm of nightmares. It was something Teasal had said which gave something of a clue to the mystery during one of their fruitless thrashing out sessions.
'I hope you are not going over the Edge,' the entrepreneur had said with jovial malice born of disappointment. 'Calculations too much for you perhaps?'
'Pure maths,' Stane replied. 'Kindergarten stuff.'
'Point me to the nearest baby school and I shall conduct interviews,' came a sarcastic response.
The engineering student huffed at the time, frustrated by failure.
'The world is shaped thus,' he said, palm flat and uppermost. 'Gradation tables are set for specific adjustments according to location so they can be factored in with any flitter or projectile flight. See how the numbers follow a curved sequence from low towards the Edge and rising gradually towards the Centre. That's why the Great Central Ocean has such a curious bulge to it. Gravitational anomalies affect everything in flight and all fluids. Why even the Poldorama canals are affected by it to a degree.'
'That's interesting,' the man had said in a sort of sleepy way and it seemed they were no closer to finding a solution to the problem. In spite of all Stane's best efforts and intense concentration every single one of his mailshot projectiles departed on flights into unknown space.
They were intended to land in precise locations in Frangea, all ten of them, not disappear out of reality for all eternity.
After Teasal Marchmont's repeated jibes Stane could not help but make his own investigations. He visited various sites, even the one on the outskirts of Wandering Stream where farming communities lived quiet and peaceful lives very much not in need of an impact crater containing good news about a new batch of disease-resistent seeds that only required five waterings a season.
'Sounds labour-intensive,' one farmer observed when Stane asked him about such possibilities. Indeed there was almost a sense that the mailshot if it had succeeded would have been more of a problem than a solution to the intended recipient's needs. With the possible exception of the famous ice cream purveyor extolling the joys of minty bits. No knowing now who had been blessed with that piece of welcome knowledge.
'My calculations were precise,' Stane said to himself as he reviewed his worksheets and plans. 'Why then did it go wrong?'
Then he remembered Teasal's comment about going over the Edge. He stared hard at that anomalous zero on the printouts and his face twitched nervously again. What might that actually, really mean?
There had been rumours from some lands across the Face of the World about meteorite strikes causing damage, startling wildlife and even creating a sense of doom among some folk for it seemed as if the sky was falling in.
Rumours.
They did not sit well with the lad who viewed engineering as precise and predictable. Theory made real. Applied mathematics as opposed to the visionary tricks of the higher branch where the inside of things was proved to be infinitely larger than that which contained it. Quantum fairies were a figment of the imagination. Bloody Tinkers and their tricks again.
Had his work been tampered with by a higher power for some unseen and perhaps unknowable purpose? The thought made him shiver for it undermined the very bedrock of engineering principles.
Why plan a bridge with load and span calculations that were infallible only to find some bearded menace dancing across it and altering the shear coefficients with some power staff it was said all Tinkers wielded? No. That was just silly stories to keep children awake at night.