The discussion began with an unexpected sound.
Mr Blottisham emptied his pockets onto the table.
Coins scattered.
A folded handkerchief appeared.
Several boiled sweets emerged.
Finally, with an air of triumph, he produced an impressive collection of keys.
"There," he said.
Professor Quillibrace regarded the assortment.
"You carry rather more keys than I had imagined."
"So does everyone."
"I don't."
"No?"
"I carry four."
Blottisham looked faintly disappointed.
"I appear to have eighteen."
Miss Stray smiled.
"Do you know what they all open?"
Blottisham hesitated.
"Not with complete confidence."
Quillibrace picked up the latest essay.
"Our anonymous author proposes that keys are not primarily mechanical devices."
Blottisham glanced at the heap of metal.
"They certainly jingle mechanically."
"They do."
"But that isn't their most interesting feature."
"What is?"
"They organise permission."
Blottisham frowned.
"I thought locks did that."
"A common misconception."
"No?"
"A lock prevents entry."
"And a key?"
"Decides when prevention ceases."
Blottisham looked at his keys.
"I've never realised they possessed such authority."
"They don't."
"They don't?"
"The authority belongs to the people."
"The key merely represents it."
Miss Stray picked up one of the older brass keys.
"Imagine this belonged to a house that has been demolished."
Blottisham nodded.
"It would be a melancholy souvenir."
"Could it still open the front door?"
"There isn't one."
"So what happened to the key?"
"Nothing."
"And yet it lost its purpose."
Blottisham looked thoughtful.
"I see."
"The metal remained."
"But the relationship disappeared."
Quillibrace smiled.
"Precisely."
After a moment Blottisham asked,
"So where was the power all along?"
The Professor looked pleased.
"An excellent question."
"I seem to be having rather a good afternoon."
"The power was never inside the brass."
"No?"
"It existed in the agreement."
Blottisham considered this.
"So if I secretly copied your office key..."
"You would possess a piece of metal."
"But?"
"Whether it remained a key would become an ethical rather than a mechanical question."
Miss Stray nodded.
"The metal can be copied."
"The permission cannot."
For a while nobody spoke.
Blottisham was turning one of the keys slowly between his fingers.
"I've just thought of something."
"What is it?"
"We speak about giving someone the keys."
"We do."
"But we're not really giving them metal."
"No."
"We're giving them trust."
Quillibrace smiled.
"Yes."
"The brass is merely the receipt."
Miss Stray laughed softly.
"I like that."
"So do I."
Blottisham looked increasingly pleased with himself.
"I've noticed another thing."
"Go on."
"My bank doesn't give me a brass key."
"No."
"My computer doesn't either."
"No."
"But people still talk about access."
"They do."
"So the key has vanished..."
"...while the permission has remained."
"Exactly."
Quillibrace folded the essay.
"It is curious how often civilisation keeps the invisible machine while changing the visible one."
"The machine survives."
"The mechanism evolves."
Blottisham looked suspiciously at his keyring.
"Does that mean these are becoming philosophical fossils?"
"Not yet."
"I'm rather fond of them."
"As are many people."
Miss Stray looked towards the old oak door.
"I wonder whether the deepest keys never fit locks at all."
Blottisham blinked.
"I'm afraid you've lost me."
"We speak of the key to understanding."
"The key to friendship."
"The key to forgiveness."
She smiled.
"No one expects those to be made of brass."
Blottisham nodded slowly.
"They're really conditions."
"Exactly."
"The right thing that allows something else to happen."
The Professor leaned back.
"I suspect we have been misled by the shape of keys."
"In what way?"
"We imagine they exist to open doors."
"Don't they?"
"They exist to organise access."
The room fell quiet.
After a while Blottisham gathered up his collection.
"I shall have to look after these more carefully."
"Because they're important?"
"No."
"Because they appear to be carrying considerably more philosophy than I had appreciated."
Miss Stray smiled into her teacup.
"Perhaps every keyring is really a small collection of trusted relationships."
Blottisham clipped the keys back onto their ring.
"I must admit..."
"Yes?"
"I've never before thought of my pockets as containing quite so much civilisation."
Quillibrace rose to refill the teapot.
"My dear Blottisham..."
"Yes?"
"The remarkable thing about keys is not that they open doors."
"No?"
"It's that they allow trust to have a shape."
For a moment the room was perfectly still.
Then Blottisham jingled his keys gently.
"I rather like that."
"So do I."
He slipped the keyring back into his pocket.
"It makes an unexpectedly reassuring sound."
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