“It goes way back. Lars knew that I imagine words as designs. That is, if I hear a poem, it makes a pattern for me—” he paused trying to guess from their expressions whether they understood. Somehow it didn’t sound very sensible, now.
Kordov pulled his lower lip away from his yellowish teeth and allowed it to snap back. “Hmm—semantics are not my field. But I believe that I can follow what you mean. Demonstrate!”
Feeling foolish, Dard recited Dessie’s jingle, marking out the pattern on the page.
“Eesee, Osee, Icksie, Ann; Fullson, Follson, Orson, Cann.”
He underlined, accented, and overlined, as he had that evening on the farm and Dessie’s kicking legs came into being again.
“Lars saw me do this. He was quite excited about it. And then he gave me another two lines, which for me do not make the same pattern. But he insisted that this pattern be fitted over his lines.”
“And those other lines?” demanded Tas.
Dard repeated the words aloud as be jotted them down.
“Seven, nine, four and ten; twenty, sixty and seven again.”
Carefully he fitted the lines through and about the numbers and handed the result to Kordov. To him it made no possible sense, and if it didn’t to the First Scientist, then he would not have had Lars’ precious secret at all. When Tas continued to frown down at the page, Dard lost the small flicker of confidence he had had.