Hexing With Decimals Part 1

part 1, part 2, part 3

The following story was related to me by a close friend, whom I shall call Samuel Ritter, in order to guard his dignity and reputation in this year 10 A.G. (after Google). Mr. Ritter, like me, labors to keep the bits flowing in orderly fashion at an anonymous technology firm in the San Francisco Bay area. My longstanding friendship with him allows me to vouch for his veracity, but for the more skeptical reader I offer as evidence my own examination of some of the materials described herein, though my role in the tale is but a slight one.

There is little reason to scrutinize Mr. Ritter’s genealogy or other antecedents. We discover him on a fine Saturday in October driving down a certain street in Atherton, on his way to procure his expensive morning victuals at a favored bagel shop. Mr. Ritter makes it a habit to take different routes through this city in order to take in the sights. For those unfamiliar with Atherton, it is one of those small suburbs, common to all large conurbations, which by virtue of its proximity to a prestigious university, or perhaps some concentration of wealth, invites destruction of its humble dwellings in favor of more expansive ones. The “sights” in this case are the elegant domiciles of the newly enriched, for which property a figure of at least seven and quite possibly eight digits is required on the check.

In the course of this tour, Mr. Ritter encountered something so out of the ordinary, that he nearly stopped his vehicle mid-street. A small sign on the boulevard advertised an estate sale. Estate sales are no uncommon thing in most places, but Atherton processes the deaths of its citizens in a more dignified and private manner than that which calls forth an Estate Sale. This particular one was quite possibly poorly advertised, as the street was not choked with vehicles. One would expect throngs made up from San Mateo County’s curiosity-seekers and bargain hunters, but such was not the case. Thus Mr. Ritter was able to find a parking spot within a block of the sale.

Mr. Ritter did not provide me an exhaustive description of the house, but it was apparently executed in a modern style, replete with severe angles and harsh metal trim. It sat behind a high wall straddling at least two lots. The front door was open so that prospective bidders could examine the larger objects for sale, scattered throughout the house. As he cruised the building, Mr. Ritter noted the distinct lack of the feminine touch in the decorating. The furnishings were as Spartan as the exterior. Certain rooms also retained the traces of a person with distinctly unfastidious habits. The kitchen bore trace of ineradicable coffee and food stains; an office’s ruined white carpet was streaked with the tell-tale ochre of Doritos and henna of Coca Cola.

As there was little of interest in the house proper, aside from a vintage electronic arcade game (Galaga, if my memory serves), Mr. Ritter made his way to the capacious garage, hidden from the street. Utility tables were piled with boxes of portable possessions, such as books, lamps, electronic appliances and the like. A quick glance told my friend that the house had contained at least one person who shared with him an interest or avocation of the computery kind. There were two tables piled high with computers ancient and modern, along with accessories and the requisite snake-boil of cabling. His expert eye required no more than five minutes to dismiss most of it as essentially worthless. There was a box, however, containing dozens of compact discs, mostly out-of-date computer games. Mr. Ritter had a mind to purchase it, as one could occasionally find an inexplicably popular out-of-print title that would fetch half a hundred dollars on ebay.

Mr. Ritter moved on to a table with a few piles of books, whose chief ornament was a young woman who stood perusing them. As he looked over the titles, mostly fantasy and science fiction, the woman commented on the paucity of value in the sale. My friend made some appropriate rejoinder, and the two struck up a conversation. The woman (I’ll call her Heather Pulch) had spoken an agent of the estate auctioneers and had learned the deceased was by no means superannuated, but had not yet completed four decades. His name (for the purposes of this narrative) was Ryan Poultern, but she had discovered little else about him. Miss Pulch made two or three witty remarks regarding the man’s literary tastes, and Mr. Ritter replied in like manner. As is often the case when two strangers laugh together, a bond, however shallow, may form quite suddenly. Without invitation, Mr. Ritter accompanied the young lady on her peregrinations through the house, as she had not yet surveyed it.

Upon encountering the arcade console, Miss Pulch remarked sarcastically upon the predictable enthusiasms of computer mechanicians. I believe she may have even employed the term “geek.” In any case, Mr. Ritter stammered a protest at this slander of the profession he shared with the dead man. A girlish blush betrayed her embarrassment and she rushed to qualify her criticism. After finishing with the house, the pair paused to assess their intentions. Mr. Ritter expressed his desire to purchase the box with the discs. Miss Pulch indicated that nothing had caught her fancy with the possible exception of a curio she had uncovered in the bottom of a box of technical manuals in the garage. The two returned to the garage in order to acquaint Mr. Ritter with the object.

It was a ball, approximately eight inches in diameter, nearly pitch black. Upon closer inspection, it proved to lack the uniformity required of a true sphere. Its surface was made up of many flat facets. Mr. Ritter observed that it was some sort of irregular polyhedron, though the number of sides was difficult to determine. The object appeared to be composed of a dense and dark wood. Reflecting on the ball for a moment, he questioned the lady on her interest in it. She replied that it might serve as a conversation piece, though she would not pay a premium for the thing.

As he rotated the ball in his hand, he felt some irregularities in the surfaces. As he held it up to the light he exclaimed. Each facet displayed a shallow carving. Miss Pulch noted that the carvings appeared to be letters, though of a type unfamiliar to her. Mr. Ritter agreed, and pronounced them Sanskrit, or something very near. Though one might question his possession of such an esoteric knowledge, the explanation is quite simple. My friend had helped to implement South Asian writing systems in an operating system project early in his career. The fanciful (to our eyes) squiggles came back to him, ka, kha, ga, gha, and so on.

As each had decided on their purchases, they settled with the clerk on duty and made their way to their respective automobiles. As they passed through the yard without speaking, my friend formed a plan to continue his acquaintance with the young lady. Though she was attractive enough to discourage him from thinking she was free from attachment, he saw no harm in making the attempt. He finally settled on offering his e-mail address, so that she might write him in the event she wished to know more about the lettering on the ball. One of colleagues was a Tamil speaker and might be able to decipher them. Miss Pulch graciously accepted his card, and they parted with only a minimum of awkwardness.

part 1, part 2, part 3