Gentlemen, he said, I invite you to go and measure that kiosk. You will see that the
length of the counter is one hundred and forty-nine centimetersin other words, one
hundred-billionth of the distance between the earth and the sun. The height at the
rear, one hundred and seventy-six centimeters, divided by the width of the window,
fifty-six centimeters, is 3.14. The height at the front is nineteen decimeters, equal,
in other words, to the number of years of the Greek lunar cycle. The sum of the
heights of the two front corners and the two rear corners is one hundred and ninety
times two plus one hundred and seventy-six times two, which equals seven hundred
and thirty-two, the date of the victory at Poitiers. The thickness of the counter is
3.10 centimeters, and the width of the cornice of the window is 8.8 centimeters.
Replacing the numbers before the decimals by the corresponding letters of the
alphabet, we obtain C for ten and H for eight, or C10H8, which is the formula for
naphthalene.
Fantastic, I said. You did all these measurements? No, Aglie said. They were
done on another kiosk, by a certain Jean-Pierre Adam. But I would assume that all
lottery kiosks have more or less the same dimensions. With numbers you can do
anything you like. Suppose I have the sacred number 9 and I want to get the number
1314, date of the execution of Jacques de Molaya date dear to anyone who, like me,
professes devotion to the Templar tradition of knighthood. What do I do? I multiply
nine by one hundred and forty-six, the fateful day of the destruction of Carthage.
How did I arrive at this? I divided thirteen hundred and fourteen by two, by three,
et cetera, until I found a satisfying date. I could also have divided thirteen hundred
and fourteen by 6.28, the double of 3.14, and I would have got two hundred and nine.
That is the year in which Attalus I, king of Pergamon, joined the anti-Macedonian
League. You see?
From Umberto Eco's "Foucault's Pendulum", all rights reserved, copyrighted, so on and so forth.