The Coin

Night is falling on the lower port. Two lanes climb toward the high wharves, and they look alike. Whoever has been following me since the landing stage has not slowed down.

I have no time to choose well. I take the coin from my breast pocket. Heads, I go left, toward the lanterns and the crowd; tails, right, into the dark and by the shortest way.

I toss it.

◆ The oracle of closed questions

The coin is the simplest of oracles. It answers a closed question, a question with two ends. It never says I succeed or I fail; it says only the world is this way, or it is otherwise.

The convention is simple:

• Heads, the first pole, is favorable;
• Tails, the second, is unfavorable.

One question, one toss, one truth. Then you carry on, one truth after another, until you see the world take shape.

Never ask the same question twice for the same situation. Asking again until you pry loose the yes you were hoping for is no longer consulting an oracle; it is badgering the world.

The apprenticeship of the coin lies in asking questions that give something back. A good question is one whose two answers both create world, and whose answer changes more than one thing.

Is the café on a great avenue, or at the far end of an alley? passes twice over: both answers give you a café, and each one settles the foot traffic, the noise, who can see me walk in. Is there anyone interesting here? fails twice over: one answer in two gives you nothing, and it is not your character asking it, it is your position as a player.

◈ Ask with your character’s eyes

Facing the coin, the author is lost: they can ask anything, and so they know nothing to ask. That is the blank page. Climb back down into your character. He does not see everything: he is somewhere, he does not know, he fears, he wants. And whoever does not know always knows what he would like to know. Do not look for the interesting question; ask what, in his place, blind, you would be burning to find out: is it in me, or outside? here, or elsewhere? in the city, or in my guild? You are not creating the world, you are guessing it. And guessing, when you are blind, is never invented out of nothing: it is desired.

◆ The two poles — let tails live as much as heads

A coin can only say yes or no, but nothing obliges the no to be flat. When a question inspires you, set down the possible first: what you would like to see rise up on heads. Then, if you feel like it, stretch its far opposite for tails, which is not the dry negation but a reversal that invents in its turn.

“Am I being watched?” On heads: a man at the back does not take his eyes off me. On tails: nobody is watching me. I am being waited for. The opposite is not “nobody is looking at me”; that gives you nothing: if I am being waited for, then somebody knew I was coming. And because both truths existed before the toss, you can no longer write toward the one you were hoping for.

The other way is to stretch two worlds of equal force: “is the shop below, or above?” The coin decides between your two hypotheses.

◆ The single pole — for moving fast

Stretching two worlds takes a moment of invention, and not every question is worth it. Most often you simply ask is there…, you toss, and you read what comes up.

Often the opposite works itself out. Is the café packed? No: it is empty, and an empty café plays just as well as a full one. Is the shop open? No, and a closed door can be questioned in its turn: since when, why, who has the key. The single pole is then only a two-pole contracted: the reverse went without saying, you had no need to write it.

On a detail, do not trouble yourself. Is there a canal running along this street? A no blocks nothing: the street still exists. Ask, take what falls, move on.

On what counts, know what the no will cost you. Is there a plant shop in this town? The yes sets you moving; the no leaves you the work on your hands — where, then? who else sells them? It is sometimes the right calculation when you want to move fast, but feel the weight coming: a single pole can hand you back a question instead of a world. Return then to the two poles: is it on my way, or must I go down and find it in the lower port?

◆ What to ask a coin

You can ask the coin anything. But some questions almost always give something back.

◆ Populate — who is there, and how he is

Does the server come of his own accord, or must he be hailed? Is he jovial, or rushed and curt? Is the tableTable (the)the surface in front of you: the cards drawn stay in view on it for the length of the scene.parts 2, 7 at the back taken? Two poles each time, and ask without counting: none of this undoes your plans, and all of it folds in within a second.

◆ A place, along four axes

For a place, four axes work everywhere and almost always suffice. Exposure: is it in plain sight, or set apart? Density: crowded, or deserted? Welcome: am I expected here, tolerated here, ignored here? Age: new, or worn by hands? Four answers, and the place exists.

A café. In plain sight, or set apart? On a busy avenue, so I will be seen here. Crowded, or deserted? Almost empty at this hour, so I will be heard here. Am I expected, or ignored? The owner does not look up: so I am nobody here. New, or worn? The tables are marked, the zinc hollowed — so this is a place of regulars, and I am not one of them. Four coins, and I already know how to play the sceneScenethe unit of play: you open it, you play it, you close it.part 3.

The deckDecka single pack of 78 cards, majors and minors mixed, reshuffled at the opening of every scene.part 2 of a starship. In plain sight, or set apart? Set apart, right at the stern, so nobody comes through. Crowded, or deserted? Three men on watch, so never alone. Am I expected, or ignored? They greet me by rank: so I have a place here, and duties. New, or worn? The consoles are new, the smell of paint still there — so this vessel has no history, and that ought to worry me. The same four questions, another world.

◆ Play your first questions

Take your coin. Before you even know where you are going, put two or three closed questions to the world, and watch it take shape, heads after tails.

Climb down into your character: ask what, in his place, you are burning to know: am I really alone here? When a question weighs, stretch it its two poles before you toss. And do not stop at the answer that fell: ask straight away who, why so easily, what it will cost, and start again one notch further on.