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A birth date cannot be re-dated; a name can be re-spelled — and that is the whole remedy this craft offers. Add or drop a letter, an initial, an honorific, and watch the sum above re-fold, until the name's number matches the birth number or one of its friends. Kings and film-stars have done exactly this.
Singles 1 · 3 · 6 are counted kindest, 9 forceful, 8 heavy with duty and delay, 4 a life of tests. Among compounds, 13 · 16 · 22 · 26 are set aside; 19 · 27 · 32 · 36 are prized.
The table is no arbitrary code. It descends from the old Semitic alphabets, where every letter was a number — aleph 1, beth 2, vau 6, zayin 7, cheth 8 — and teth, the 9, was left aside as sacred. Each Latin letter takes the value of the ancestral letter its sound traces back to, folded to a single digit: K is kaph, 20, so 2; R is resh, 200, so 2; O is ayin, 70, so 7; F and P both descend from pe, 80, so 8. Sound-cousins therefore share a number — U, V and W all carry 6 — and no letter carries 9, the number held complete in itself. Flip the instrument above to Kaṭapayādi to see India's own answer to the same idea.
No source reads fate through Kaṭapayādi, and neither do we. The tradition built it to store numbers in speakable words — the astronomers' sine tables and calendar constants, the 72 melakarta rāgas whose names carry their own catalogue numbers. It stands here beside the name-craft so the comparison is honest: the same intuition — that sounds carry numbers — bent by one civilisation toward destiny, and by the other toward memory.
The letter-values are the Chaldean table the palmist Cheiro carried into the modern West — older than the schoolbook A=1…Z=26: the values follow sound, not alphabet order, and no letter carries 9, the number held complete in itself.
Saṅkhyā-jyotiṣa reads the nine numbers as the grahas' second faces — and gives the two lights their shadows: 4 beside the Sun's 1, 7 beside the Moon's 2. In Arka's roster those shadows stand with the nodes, Rāhu and Ketu.