Weir Annadetcall
Weir stepped off a wayward qi-che into the chill of pre-dawn and plodded toward Ammaerln
House-row.
The sky pearled to the east. The house-row stretched away from it into the darkness abating, eight
houses shouldering each other. Long Thin Houses — snippets of the pattern played in Weir's mind
— "place houses along pedestrian paths" — in such small houses "Natural Light on Two Sides is
almost automatically solved ... string out the house's rooms one after another ... allowing other
patterns, Positive Outdoor Space, Intimacy Gradient, and so on, to work." These houses supported
each other with gardens in back, flowers and shrubs precise at first though overgrown now, amid a
single rectangle of yard sprawling with natural grasses.
Two days ago, sunset grainy and orangish behind it, the house-row had seemed promising. Yesterday,
he'd trumped inertia bureaucratic with a Customer Override and contracted with Skeinswift
Neighborhood to rent the place. And last night, he'd spent midnight seconds in his room gong-she,
studying its plans, fanned out across his holoscreen.
He'd traded sleep for preparation ... once again. After all, he couldn't fail to lead his own team
to work on their own clinic, just like he expected Ford and the other team-leaders to do, even if
he was responsible for the whole combine and they weren't. He and Günter had agreed that he should
work both roles, to keep him, as combine tactician, aware of team challenges. Weir would not abuse
such trust and confidence. Even if he had to steal his own energy to do it.
Especially after taking a whole day off just to make a real-estate deal.
As a result — along with his loggy arms and legs, stomach complaining because it was empty too
long, and achy head — he knew the house-row to be a perfect candidate for Repair.
Repair rivaled Construction as one of the most important moments in the use of Patterns. Don't
just sweep aside what exists. Preserve the most precious, beautiful, comfortable, and healthy.
Improve on the broken, the prosaic, the sickly.
But Repair relied upon understanding "what exists." Unfortunately, Ammaerln House-row didn't make
that easy. Well, no' all that hard really. Considering the few kilo-seconds he'd actually been
working on it. It's just this one little thing. One little thing that twanged upon his sense of
completion, of readiness, of control. He just had to find out what it was.
Weir slipped open the frontdoor of the third house and pushed inside. He spied the archway that
would take him further into the house, but ... the brightening day dumped through windows in the
backwall, just eight meters away. Its streaming presence, teeming with motes, reminded him of the
room-for-gathering at home. That, and its warmth, drew him aside from his quest. He paused by the
glass, squinted out at the new day, and bathed in its embrace soothing.
The window looked out on the backyard verged by an outdoor room jutting from the house. After a
few moments of sunshine, Weir turned to study that room. Its wall consisted of — not earth,
hyper-compressed, rigid, typical — but leaves, broad and maple-green and restless in the morning's
breeze. Those leaves drew him to the room, through a glass door sliding out of the way into the
backwall.
A single, majestic vine enveloped the square room, empty except for two benches. Weir fingered its
trunk, gnarled and testifying to age, hidden behind a froth of leaves, heavy and gloating over its
life renewed again for this season. Still vital, the vine had made itself part of the house.
A treasure not caused by a maverick pattern, Weir realized, but encouraged, hoped for.
Yeibichai explained the Climbing-Plants Pattern in this way, "A building finally becomes a part of
its surroundings when the plants grow over parts of it as freely as they grow along the ground.
Therefore: on sunny walls, train climbing plants to grow up 'round the openings in the wall — the
windows, doors, porches, arcades, and trellises."
Skeinswift had changed the pattern slightly to say, "On sunny walls, train vines to grow up 'round
the openings in the wall — the windows, doors, porches, arcades — but create trellises out of the
woody plants themselves. In time, you will live among them."
Weir didn't like Skeinswift's other revisions in patterns as much as this one, but then again, the
others didn't have a spokesman as grand as this vine. He buried his face in its torrent of
leaves. They lent character to the air with a scent of sun-drenched earth. They stroked his face
with caring incidental. He relaxed with their blessing.
Home. The word floated into his mind. He stood in the first real home he'd entered since arriving
in Ganj Dareh, since entering the Continent Popovich. So far away from his home current on
Grissom, even further (not in distance, but time in his life) from the home he grew up in. Also so
far away in the concepts of his life, like local choices made in Patterns: no private vehicles,
for instance. On top of that, Byukan-Hamil dominated this land, making it foreign to him by dint
of competition as well as BH's confounding of basic Patterns of Business. So strange, so alien.
Yet, in a home — in this home — where strangers had spent so many important moments of their
lives — the patterns that expressed the human psyche held true. Here was the essence of all
Pattern Languages, a place where people took comfort basic, could relax, be themselves, enjoy
others. Oh, sure, decorations changed, figurines and pictures, colors and motifs, but under it
all, there were always some patterns that came out of being human, that all people could share and
take comfort from. Ways in which they were alike. All people.
With that, Weir felt energized again. Founded in commonality, he could pursue differences. He
filled his lungs with the room's warm air, his mind with the vine's earthy scent, then turned back
into the house. Besides, time's running out. The team will arrive soon and I must be ready for
them.
He moved through an archway, then another, down the string of rooms that made up this Long Thin
House. Yet, there was no movement similar along the Intimacy Gradient. The rooms did not get more
private as he moved away from the entrance, a place public where strangers could enter the house.
No doors shut away any room so that people could retreat from the world. It's like the whole house
belonged to the community.
In the last room, Weir marched directly to the far wall. A wallpaper, clinging by self-generated
static, with a narrow-bamboo design, covered the wall waist-high. Above that, the wall's normal
earth-tone seemed barren, as though missing something valuable that had once blessed it. Such
decorations did not show on the house's plans — and he hadn't come to see decorations.
No, he had arrived early especially to check out an anomaly on those plans: an opening low down in
the wall of packed-earth insulating, a box really, unlabeled, patternless.
Weir squatted beside the wall and rubbed his hand over the spot indicated by the plans. The
wallpaper buckled slightly, yielding an outline rectangular. He fumbled for the edge of the
wallpaper strip, caught it with a fingernail, lifted it free, and unveiled the puzzling box.
It looked like a port/Em-Deh, where a family would plug in their private entrance to the
Mirnaya Direvnya. Every house on Yeibichai had one, supporting the Community-Connection Pattern.
This particular house already had a port/Em-Deh, obvious on the plans, out in the entrance room.
An unusual place, true, for a tool typically used for family business, learning, chatting, paying
bills, but a place not impossible, not forbidden, or even discouraged by the Pattern Language.
Yet, none of the other seven houses kept their ports out in the open like that. And no Pattern he
was familiar with called for two Community Connections.
He lifted his llevar from his hip and aimed it at the port. On its foilscreen, its
agent-for-connection opened a panel rarely seen. So this must be some kind of port, generating a
signal. Otherwise, the agent wouldn't try to connect.
Weir next expected the agent to quickly indicate that it was foregoing its connection
through-the-air for this link newly available via the house's cisco. He'd seen that often enough
at home or office.
Instead, in a series of textlines, the agent blazed a trail of its effort: "Extending an open hand
of connection... Receiving unrecognized handshake message. Trying again with packet-based
protocol... unrecognized response. Trying again with token-based protocol... unrecognized
response. Trying again with Gë-ISO protocol... no response. Trying again... no response.
Trying again... no response. Time-out. No connection possible. Failing back to wireless
connection to Mirnaya Direvnya."
Something is there ... was there ... had been there. Weir
fumbled after some sense of the agent's terse messages. It's gone now, but there had been some
other form of connection. Something other than the Em-Deh. But what?
His knees complained about the squat, so Weir stood up. Concentration broken, he noticed sounds
outside. Engine sounds? The team arriving?
So soon?
Panic grated his bowels. He had to figure this out before the team arrived with equipment
for building. He had to be ready to set the direction and pace of their work.
So that he could maintain their respect and support. So that he could finish his clinic, then open
it. So that he could scurry about, connecting and supporting the other teams. So that his combine
could reach out to all of Ganj Dareh and beckon for its business. So that they'd win the contract
and beat Byukan-Hamil. So that he wouldn't let Günter down. So that Günter wouldn't have to step
in and take over the project. So that Weir wouldn't be sent back to headquarters and lose out on
the most exciting work he'd ever done. So that —
Choke up on the axe handle, boy, and slow down! Weir could almost hear the advice in Pa's own
voice. Panic's diatribe halted.
Weir knew the routine from here. First, see if I really face an emergency. He stepped to a front
window. No vehicles turned down the path to the house-row. The sounds must have come from another
place, unseen. No emergency, then. Panic evaporated out from under its standstill.
But I do need to wring some resolution out of this puzzle. With some urgency!
Out of habit, Weir turned to his llevar. On its foilscreen, he took a bypass to the house-row's
plans. Start with a familiar path, he counseled himself as he glanced down the table of contents.
List of Patterns caught his eye. I do know how to do Patterns. His heart
beat a little more freely. He brought that hyper-link to life with a tap. And nothing else for
right now. He flicked open a set of customization choices and suppressed all links supplemental or
indirect. Just focus on Patterns
The Pattern Language for a single building and its surroundings occupied the lowest level in a
nesting of Languages that associated local with global. In this way, every structure on the planet
inherited suggestions collective and enabled diversity local. Typically, each of a building's
Patterns consisted of a link external that pointed into the Mirnaya Direvnya — where it was
satisfied by the Pattern Language established for the neighborhood, Skeinswift in this case —
unless that pattern offered a link to the community (Ar-Kansas) — which often pointed to the
direvnya (Ganj Dareh) — thence to the continent (Popovich) and finally, Planet Yeibichai's Pattern
Language, root of them all.
Weir wanted to see differences, so he called up a well-used agent-for-indirection to eliminate
Patterns that conformed to the rest of the globe's cultures. Eighty-four percent of Ammaerln's
list faded away: an unusually low number; many builders accepted Yeibichai's preferences,
asserting themselves only in Patterns like Columns at the Corners, Different Chairs, Floor Surface,
and Things from Your Life. Even small differences greatly affected result. After all, humans and
chimpanzees shared ninety-seven percent of their DNA.
His scalp tingled as his curiosity flared. Where did this List go astray? He felt Byukan-Hamil's
influence at work. Surely, Popovich makes the most changes.
He reformulated the agent to color the Patterns according to the source of divergence. Of the
seventy-one names left showing, five turned ivy to signal a change by the Continental Collective;
the rest showed kelly, blaming the Neighborhood. Skeinswift, in fact, was the culprit.
Two reactions wrinkled his surprise. A blend of wonder and reverence that Byukan-Hamil could
dominate a continent's business with processes that were ossified and hierarchical and yet not
impact its architecture more. But then, he would have to pick such a maverick
neighborhood. He doubted that any other in Ganj Dareh had taken the trouble to rethink so many
Patterns.
Weir used a sigh to brush away that touch of bitterness and focused his thoughts. So how does this
analysis help me?
The cascade of greens spiraled him down the hierarchy of Pattern Languages. It implied another
step. Another Pattern Lang —
This time, the sounds interrupting came clearer, more demanding. He heard motors, stately and
ponderous, and voices, chirping in competition with morning birds. He glanced out the window.
Three containers, self-propelled, boxy and white, fat tires spinning, turned from the parallel road
that had brought them into the neighborhood from a cross-town ring road. Pietz rode high on the
first one, Sier beside him.
Weir jerked his eyes back to the foilscreen. He fumbled after a hook to hang his progress on, so
he could come back to it easily.
Another Pattern Language? A secret one? Private, undocumented? That he'd
remember.
His lower abdomen surged, not out, but in, like it was filling with hot mud. A reaction familiar,
but not welcome. When demands threatened to overwhelm him, when what he needed to do expanded past
what he knew how to do and/or had time to do, his gut balked as though it too had been asked to
process too much. A long time had passed since he'd felt this way, but here it was again, all
because of this neighborhood he had chosen.
On top of that, endemic, ironic, driving a vicious circle, he had to wait on all this ... this
extra ... because his team had arrived, and he had to go out and lead them.
He drove himself toward that focus. Am I ready? The past five hecto-seconds unfolded in his
mind: pursuit of a minor inconsistency in patterns had blossomed into a question, intriguing,
maddening even, about Skeinswift. Enough to prevent the clinic?
No.
Weir shut down his llevar and headed toward the frontdoor. Inertia provided the answer as much as
conviction. But no force had arisen strong enough to deflect it. Just a little box in a wall in
one house out of eight. No threat, no longer even an anomaly, but in a whole new category of
knowledge: a mystery, to be pursued later. His gut eased off, its panic set aside as well.
On the stoop, Weir paused to contemplate his team's arrival. The containers had settled
themselves, with wheels retracted, on the path in front of the house-row. Their sides had rolled
back to reveal supplies and machines. Lotche and Melha were already off-loading the
epox-plasterer. He joined them. Panic had slunk away, leaving his body and mind free and glad —
and his belly still hungry.
Lotche said, "You wouldn't believe the construction combines around here. We had to go to five
different depots to find these Building kits, and then we had to stock two of them ourselves."
"Room for improvement then in these combines local. That's good for us," Weir said. "Did you
bring food?"
"Good morning to you, too, boss," Melha answered and took his hand. She led him away down the
brief train.
Weir turned a face pulled in comic complaint to Lotche and said, "What did I do to deserve this?"
Around the backside of the last box, Weir rediscovered Sier and Pietz, hands full of mugs, with
qahwah or chai — from-Roossija chai, by the familiar smell — and muffins or beygls. Almost as
one, they lifted cups, steaming in the nip of the morning, in front of grinning faces. When he had
his hands full also, he grinned back.
#
They walked the layout as a group, Weir guiding but taking any and all feedback. He started with
the overgrown lawn, puddled with bind-spurrey, where it straggled around the house-row's head:
definitely a sickly spot to improve on, fortunately because, by Pattern, the clinic's Common Areas
at the Heart belonged there. At the same time, they worked to preserve a lone hard-puff tree,
cousin to the line nearby that fronted the drome's imposing berm. It would act as Something
Roughly in the Middle of a Courtyard Which Lives at the center of those Common Areas.
They moved onto the houses individual. Where necessary, they overruled Patterns existing; where
possible, they nodded acceptance and moved on. Weir claimed the third house for his combine
office, before showing them the vine. Their admiration echoed his, accompanied by only the mildest
form of envy.
Of course, he didn't mention the box patternless, hidden once again behind wallpaper. He did eye
the spot, framed by four successive archways, and promise himself satisfaction. Then he hurried to
catch up with the others.
As they made decisions on-the-spot, Sier installed Pattern Guides, thick-headed electronic
mushrooms whacked into the ground or suctioned to floor or wall, and Weir filled their memories
primitive with orders for construction. The morning was over-filled with sun when they finished.
But the hard work was behind them; the machines just had to fill in the blanks.
His stomach rumbling again, Weir called, "Mealtime."
"Aw, Weir," moaned Lotche. "Let's build something first."
The others chorused agreement and streamed out of the last backyard in unison. Weir's nod really
wasn't necessary. When he followed, Lotche was pointing the epox-plasterer at the first Pattern
Guide. An outline of Guides defined the clinic's entrance-room, as lead-in to the Common Areas at
the Heart.
"Standard walls?"
"Standard walls," Weir agreed.
"No compensation for Red Winter?"
Good question. "What's that ... four years away?"
"Oes, four."
Ride optimism like the spirited steed it is! "We'll be here. We'll need it. By all means,
compensate for Red Winter."
Lotche tapped the adjustment into the machine's keyboard, followed by the start-sequence. "Sic
'em, boy!" he shouted.
Squat and long, the plasterer surged forward, like an ur-gator quick-waddling toward a galipu
caught in the mud. It inhaled the first Guide, downloaded its instructions, sighted on the next
one, then settled down to its work. Edging along, it sucked up grass, weeds, and soil in a swath
appropriate for a foundation, analyzing as it digested, adjusting width and depth as it analyzed,
wider and deeper because of Red Winter with its storms and temblors. Then it mixed these materials
raw with others from its larder riding piggyback and extruded them as footings still viscous.
Materials it didn't need were bundled and dropped off the side in packets.
Arriving at the next Pattern Guide, it brought that device on board, correlated its download with
the previous guide's, then after a pause to let the foundation harden, reversed itself. To finish
this section of wall, it made twenty passes, each time laying another vertical half-meter of
compacted-earth bound with epoxy-plaster. It allowed conduits for ciscos and romexes. It left
holes for windows. It seated bolts for the rafters. When it was done, it moved on to the next
section.
By then, the team was sitting down to their mid-day meal.
