A Doubter's Almanac (21 page)

“And what might that be, Knudson?”

“It happens to be a prototype of the most powerful programming language the world has ever seen, Milo. They’re calling it C++.”

“Sounds like the grades I give around here.”

Hay chuckled perfunctorily. “Listen, Milo—once I get it down, I’ll be able to run any simulation I can think of.” He looked sideways over his glasses. “And soon, I might add, so will any other mathematician.” He smiled now—victoriously, it seemed. “And if you’re not worried about
that,
my friend—well, you damn well ought to be.”

“I’m not a fool, Knudson. I know these things have potential.”

“
Potential?
Are you kidding me? All of us need to get a jump on this
right now,
before we’re lost in action. Before our whole sorry generation is a casualty of a little box of silicon.”

Andret ran his hand over the dull plastic of the case. “They’re curiosities, Knudson, I’ll give you that much. But I can assure you that there are plenty of things they won’t ever be able to do. And fortunately for our
whole sorry generation,
abstract mathematics is one of them. Frankly, I prefer the old way.”

Hay glanced at him. Then he opened a cabinet under the counter, from where the chipped-gear clicking grew louder. “Come on, Andret. Stop sounding so goddamn arrogant. Step over here.”

Behind the door was some kind of printer: a pen plotter. A roll of paper was creeping forward, pausing for a pair of styluses that darted in from the sides, depositing ink. From the outfeed slot, a long, multicolored graph was inching its way along the shelf. A trapezoidal plane in red crossing a second-degree algebraic curve in blue, the intersection of the two shapes highlighted in a perfect wet-brown hyperbola that was drying to purple where it curled from the roller.

“Welcome to the future, Milo.”

Andret straightened. “I didn’t realize—I hadn’t known they’d actually gotten this far.” He drew himself to his full height, which slightly exceeded Hay’s. “But for the record, Knudson, I’m still not worried in the least.”

Order of Operations

H
E’D LOST CRUCIAL
time.

He sent one of the secretaries to the library, but all the manuals on Pascal had already been checked out; so he had her call the publisher and order one directly. Three days later, he tore the package from the mailbox and hurried down the hall to his office. At the desk he poured coffee into his bourbon and turned on all the lights. Then he closed the shades.

By morning he’d deduced that the actual technique was elementary. Remarkably so. Programming was both highly logical and perfectly systematic. In other words: trivial. Shortly after daylight, when the cathode-ray terminals opened in the School of Engineering, he hastened over in a chilly rain, and by the next day he’d raced through the entire book. The engineering terminals were crude appliances, several times the size of Hay’s TI-99, and every one of them was marred by dead spots on the screen or keys that stuck; but the mother computer to which they were tethered—he could see it looming behind the mirrored glass like a sinister cop—was monstrously powerful: a glimpse of the approaching giant. That night, he didn’t rise from his chair until the janitor tapped him on the shoulder.

The next morning, he went to the library himself, where he was able to find books on Fortran and Simula and C. He needed to pick a language, and he needed to pick one fast. Each hour was an hour he’d fallen behind. He began spending every day in the computing lab. When it was time for him to teach, one of the secretaries called another secretary, who walked over and laid a note at the edge of his carrel. Back in Fine Hall, he stood before his classes, blinking. In his mind, tape spools jigged back and forth.

By now his rivals were months ahead. Years, even. Of this he was dreadfully aware. All the endless hours he’d been holed up alone, misguided by his intractable obsession.

Back in his office, the stacked boxes of drawings mocked him. He abandoned Fine Hall and returned to the computers, typing furiously into the glow, teaching himself about the new machine.

Somebody, he was certain, somewhere, was already pen-plotting the Abendroth.

—

“I
ASSUME YOU
saw this,” said Hay, handing him a preprint.

“What?” said Andret. “No. I haven’t. What is it?”

“It’s been accepted at the
Annals
.”

Andret scanned it, then raced through the pages. An unfamiliar name: Seth Kopter. “Commonalities of CW-Complexes and Hong Simplicial Complexes in Abendroth Precursors.” It was due to be published in a few weeks.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“You know I prefer doing things in person.”

Andret stepped to the window to read. Within a few seconds, he’d understood: Seth Kopter had elucidated a pivotal point. “Jesus,” he said. “Of
course.
” He flipped back to the front page. “Who is he?”

“He’s out on the West Coast.”

“Is that why I’ve never heard of him? Kopter?” He flipped to the end. “Stanford?”

“Palo Alto, Milo—good guess. But not Stanford.” Hay shot his cuffs.

“What, Knudson?”

“Sit down.”

“Goddamn you to hell.”

“I’m not sure you want to hear this.”

“Just tell me what you know.”

“He’s fourteen, Milo.”

“What?”

“Fourteen years old. A senior at Gunn High School.” Hay shook his head. “That’s in Palo Alto, I believe.”

When the lamp shattered, Hay looked wearily down at the floor. Fragments of blue and white ceramic were randomized across the rug.

“Who are you laughing at?” Andret shouted. He stepped over and pushed a stack of journals off the shelf, then kicked them across the floor.

“I’m not laughing, Milo.”

“Yes, you goddamn
are.
”

“My God,” Hay said. “No, I’m not at all. You just broke my lamp.”

“I need a computer, Knudson. Right now.”

“Pardon?”

“I need my own computer. Today.”

“Perhaps after you apologize.”

“I apologize.”

“Movingly put.”

“I need a goddamn computer.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a tall order.” Hay straightened his tie. “Nobody in this department has their own. Maybe in engineering, but not here. The one in engineering cost four million bucks, by the way.”

“
You
have one.”

“I’m the chair, Milo. And it’s on loan.”

“Well, I’m the Hyun Chair! I’m the Hyun fucking Chair. I’m the goddamn Hyun fucking goddamn Chair!”

Hay stood up. “Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

“May I ask then what’s wrong with the ones in engineering?”

“You don’t understand anything. I need to work on this twenty-four hours a day from now on. From
now on,
Knudson
.
Twenty-four hours a day! Don’t you get it? This son of a bitch from California just outflanked me. This fucking eighth grader!”

“Look, Milo.” Hay rose and took him by the elbow. “Have you called Dr. Brink?”

“Let go of me.”

“Have you called him?”

“Get your goddamn hands off me.”

“You’ll be fine, Milo. You incorporate this boy’s work into your own. Christ, man, there’s nobody on earth who can solve this problem faster than you. I’m fully confident of that. Milo, listen to me. And calm down.” Hay took his elbow again and steered him toward the door. On the way there, he paused and said, “I really do suggest you get in touch with Dr. Brink, Milo. If you want, I could get in touch with him myself. He could give you a call in the morning.”

Milo pulled back his arm. “Only a fucking moron would think I need a psychiatrist, Knudson. I don’t need a goddamn psychiatrist. I need a goddamn computer!”

“What did you just say?”

“I said I need a goddamn computer. A first-rate one.”

“Did you just call me a moron?”

“Look, I said I was sorry. Please just get me the fucking computer.”

“You did? You said you were sorry?” Hay opened the door and guided him through. “Well, I must have missed it.”

—

T
READ PICKED HIM
up in his ruined car. Andret didn’t like the arrangement, but Tread had insisted. When Andret pulled open the passenger door, a balled-up paper bag fell out onto the street. He picked it up and threw it back in with the others.

“You have the money?” Tread said.

Andret nodded. The inside of the car stank.

“May I see it?”

“What?”

“The money.”

Andret showed it to him. “Where are we getting this thing from, Dewey?”

“From a little mouse I happen to know.” Tread passed a flask across the seat, and Andret took a drink and passed it back. When they pulled away from the curb, the muffler dragged along the asphalt. Soon they turned north.

After a few miles, Andret said, “Okay, then how’d your little mouse get it?”

“My little mouse might have worked at a company. Or maybe one of his cousins did.” He took another drink.

A few exits before Elizabeth, they turned off and drove down a rutted strip. Tread kept the flask to himself now. Here, only trucks were on the road. Alongside the pavement ran a long corridor of warehouses with shuttered windows. After a time, Tread finally slowed, then turned through a gap in the fence and pulled in behind a pile of filthy snow. The warehouse in front of them was no different from any of the others. Colorless steel. Steep metal roof. Icicles hanging theatrically from the eaves. When Andret got out, Tread said, “Where you going, Professor?”

“Aren’t we going in?”

Tread held out his hands. “I’m afraid it’s only me, pal.”

It was the kind of thing you saw in the movies. In his pocket Andret ran his thumb over the wad of bills. He glanced around, then counted them out onto his friend’s palm.

When Tread disappeared around the back of the building, Andret got back into the car, rubbing his hands together for warmth. A few driveways down, a truck was being backed into a loading bay and a man in dark coveralls was passing boxes onto a conveyor. In the other direction, there was nothing but empty road. Before him, every one of the building’s windows was sealed with plywood.

On the way home, after they’d left the warehouse district, they turned up a side road into a neighborhood. On one of the smaller streets, they pulled over. Tread stayed in the driver’s seat, sipping from the flask, while Andret went around to the trunk.

The printer wasn’t what he cared about. It was a scratched-up old Centronics that they’d thrown in for nothing. He shoved it aside to get to the suitcase below it. With frigid fingers he clicked it open. In the center of the foam lining was a low-slung, futuristic-looking box made of gray plastic. The top cover was attached with mismatched screws. On the front, there was a rectangular hollow where the logo would eventually go. Andret figured he had maybe half a year, perhaps a little more. Then this thing would become available to the general public. Seth Kopter was probably only using a TRS-80 or a VIC-20. Maybe even a TI-99/4.

This was a prototype of the TI-120.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence. In front of Fine Hall, Tread kept the engine running, and Andret said halfheartedly, “You want to come in?”

“I look like I want to?”

At this hour, he might still bump into one of his colleagues in the elevator, so he took the stairs instead, running up as fast as he could with the printer and suitcase weighing down his arms. It was dark by now, and thankfully the hallway was empty. In his office, boxes covered the furniture, stacked three high. He threw the printer down on top of one. With the computer pressed against his side he elbowed clear the desk, the boxes breaking when they hit the floor. He kicked them away to make a path to the outlet.

Transire Suum Pectus

H
E DIDN’T EVEN
want to take the time off. That was the irony. By the end of the week, everything in his life would be different; he knew this, but he couldn’t even bring himself to give a damn. Three days that he wouldn’t be able to work on the Abendroth conjecture—that’s all it was to him now. The TI-120 was sitting idle in his office, and instead of learning to program it he was on a plane to Europe.

Warsaw, Poland. A cloudless morning. Industrial smoke at the horizon. From the airport, a black Trabant picked him up and drove him straight to the ceremony. Outside the lecture hall, scholars from every outpost of the mathematical world milled about in the high-ceilinged atrium. In deference to Hay, he made an effort to greet a few of them. But he’d arrived with almost no time to spare, and soon they were all in their chairs.

The hall went silent.

His name was the first to be announced. The applause rose, and he climbed the rostrum to stand next to the president of the International Mathematical Union. It was only then, as the dignified man leaned aside from the lectern, that he fully appreciated what had come to him. His vision blurred. For a moment he had to turn his head to the curtain. The citation was read carefully into the microphone: “To Milo Andret, of Princeton University, for his topological proof of Malosz’s conjecture, for developing a broad theory of high-dimensional branching structures, and for establishing novel connections between topology, algebra, and harmonic analysis.”

He straightened and proceeded to the judging table, where the elegant box was placed into his hands. Once more, the applause rose, then soon became an ovation.

At last.

He’d spent the entire flight over the Atlantic parsing the structural merits of Pascal versus Fortran versus C versus Simula, and up until a few moments ago he’d been imagining logical block sequences in his mind for an efficient entry point to his own algorithm. But now his thoughts unshackled. The applause moved over him like a wave; and then, like a wave, it lifted him. When he was set back down, he paused for a moment, then gathered himself and moved away to the side of the stage. Hands reached out to shake his.

Afterward, he went to only a single lecture, a sparsely attended talk on object-oriented programming, then found an abandoned room where he fell so deeply asleep he didn’t wake till evening. Fortunately, the Trabant was still waiting outside to bring him back to the hotel. There he downed a couple of glasses of something called Krupnik—it had been placed on his nightstand—took a long shower, and emerged feeling better than he had in years. He had to give his own talk tomorrow, but that caused him no worry. He had another glass of Krupnik and headed out with the group for a night on the town.