Star Shot Read Online Free Page B

Ah, name? Optional, of course. Miss?
    Jones, says Myra, unexpectedly.
    Marvellous, said Luke. That’s marvellous. Miss Jones. Ah, OK, age range? He shows her the categories. Optional also, of course.
    She glances sideways at the screen. 30-35, she said.
    Marvellous. Thank you. Profession?
    Copy-editor.
    Interesting. And, ah, how often do you come to sit on this particular bench? More than three times a week; once-a-week; once-a-fortnight; once-a-month. Less; more?
    Once a week, says Myra firmly. If that. Less.
    OK, thank you, says Luke, who knows that is nonsense. She wouldn’t have shown up on their Scoping Exercise if her visits were that infrequent. They were starting with the heavy-use subjects, after all. It occurs to him to wonder, with a slightly sinking heart, if she really is called Jones. But he soldiers on.
    And ah, finally, if you don’t mind me asking that is, Miss Jones, ah, why do you come to sit on this particular bench?
    To eat my lunch, says Myra.
    Marvellous, thank you. And, ah, do you have any other favourite benches in the city?
    No, says Myra.
    Well, thank you, Miss. I’ll leave you in peace now, if you could just sign this form here to say that you don’t mind us using your answers in our database and maps?
    She thinks about this for a few seconds, then leans over and scribbles on the paper.
    How does it become a map? she asks.
    The data is geo-referenced, he says.
    It becomes a map of benches?
    Mm. And of the connections between them, the ah, pathways people take through the city to get to them. Oh yes: where is your office again?
    He looks around vaguely.
    Just over there, says Myra, gesturing towards town.
    OK. Well the benches are like nodes, he says. I’ve got a prototype here, look, I’ll show you.
    It looks like a net or a web, but with no symmetry. Random thin black lines criss-crossing, heading in and out of the dark spots she assumes are the benches.
    It doesn’t look like anywhere, she says. How do you know where they are?
    He taps, and there is a ghostly background, a map of the centre with the park and the river, the castle, all the civic buildings, her building.
    You can change what happens in the background by playing with the data, he says. He makes it turn blue and green.
    I quite like the pure one, the empty one, she says. Show me again.
    The lines reach out in delicate curves between the nodes. Like molecules in a chemistry text book, she thinks. Or those maps you get of constellations, that look nothing like their names.
    Why are some of them broken? she asks.
    There were tiny hairline cracks in several threads, white lines, as if a child had taken one of those disappearing-ink pens and scribbled over the top. Luke flushes. It’s a software problem, he says. They’re not supposed to do that. We’re working on it right now.
    She fishes in her bag for her phone and checks the time. I have to go back to work, she says.
    Of course, says Luke, getting up and dropping his piece of paper, getting flustered as he picks it up. Thanks again for your time.
    Good luck with your project, she says. And then, as she was about to go, remembers the black guy with the plastic bags. Does anyone else use this bench regularly?
    Ah, I’m not sure, says Luke, suddenly unable to remember what the policy is on sharing data directly with subjects. But I can let you know.
    15.
    The bus is packed. He has an aisle seat towards the back and has been obliged to fold his long legs into his body as the people standing force themselves further and further in. Mostly students; he can see no one who seems to need his seat more than he does, and sinks deep into his mind to escape. He thinks of his trees in bud. Then of the tiny fish he believes are circling deep in the centre of the pond, of the promise of the first flash of a sighting once this bitter March cold breaks. Of the heron he had surprised early one morning in the reed-bed, peering inscrutably into grey water.