Sid sat in front of the mechanical terminal and typed a question. He had typed many questions on many terminals to be answered by people or programs. It was his particular skill that he could tell which one he was conversing with with more speed and accuracy than any competitor, software or human. Much had been said about his ability. He had said little himself and understood less. It worked.
The hypnotically complex cogs that covered every square inch of the walls seemed to shimmer as they whirred their computations. The terminal printed an answer. The conversation wasn't meant to be a test of Sid's skill. He had been told that nothing but the sophisticated but still dizzyingly primitive mechanical computer was connected to the terminal. His unexplainable instinct confirmed it, and it was true.
Sid replied to the words printed on the terminal. There was a sound closer to a sigh than to an engine as the response was computed and then printed in a matter-of-fact staccato. His gift kept probing where he already knew the answer, his words tirelessly patient like a fisherman casting a line into a bone-dry river bed.
Question and answer. Answer and question. Sid listened with practiced care for a Self on the other side, anywhere. Nothing but the whirring of cogs.
Answer and question. Question and answer. Sid typed a final one question. His gift stood perfectly still in a brand-new certainty of discovery his mind was a second behind. The terminal printed a single, invisible character and in that instant Sid was enlightened.
(Originally posted on my blog.)