Life After Genius (27 page)

“You sound ungrateful, Fegley. I was only trying to help because I know how eager you are to get to Bell Labs. But if you want me to turn around and take you back, I’ll do it. Right now. Just say the word and we can catch the next flight to Chicago. It’s up to you.” And as he is talking, he pulls the car back over into the slow lane and signals as if to get off at the next exit.

He’s grandstanding, of course. Acting like a spoiled brat. Punishing Mead for calling him out on his imbecilic behavior. “Very amusing, Weinstein. You’ve made your point.”

“What point? I’m serious. The last thing I want to do is offend your sense of right and wrong. I think we should go back. I really do.” And he exits off the highway.

He isn’t serious. He can’t be. What would be the point of flying Mead all the way out here only to turn around and take him right back? It doesn’t make sense. Even for someone as rich as Herman. Mead gets the feeling, however, that he isn’t bluffing. That, if Mead were to indeed ask, Herman would take him directly back to the airport. No questions asked. Which Mead finds baffling. Utterly confounding. But then very little about Herman makes sense to Mead.

“So what’s it going to be, Fegley? Do you want to blow off this opportunity? Stick to your high moral ground? It’s totally up to you. Just tell me what to do. Your wish is my command.”

But Mead doesn’t want to go back. He can’t go back empty-handed. He has to get to that computer, otherwise he won’t have a paper to present to the dean.

“So? Speak up now, Fegley, or forever hold your peace.”

Shit. Why is Herman being such a prick? Mead isn’t the one who just broke the law. Twice. Herman is. How dare he try to bring Mead down to his level. There is nothing immoral about what Mead is doing, nothing at all. He’s not breaking any laws. This wasn’t even his idea; it was Herman’s! Mead crosses his arms over his chest. He should have set the record straight with Mr. Weinstein last night when he had the chance. Came up with it on his own. Bullshit! There is no doubt in Mead’s mind that Herman told his father that they were working on the Riemann Hypothesis together. Not one ounce. Mead is so mad at himself right now he could spit.

“Come on, Fegley. Show me what you’re made of. Yes? No? It’s your call.”

“Fuck you,” Mead says.

Herman cups his hand over his ear. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up and get back on the highway.”

Herman circles the car around and accelerates back onto the interstate. “I would have done it, you know,” he says. “I would have taken you back. I want you to remember that. I really would have.”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

M
EAD RECOGNIZES HIM RIGHT AWAY
. The other man in the portrait, the more handsome one standing behind Mrs. Weinstein. The name on his desk reads G
ERALD
W
EINSTEIN
but Herman just calls him Jerry. As in Uncle Jerry.

Uncle Jerry throws his arms around Herman and gives him a bear hug, the kind of hug one athlete bestows upon another after a goal is scored or a basket is made. A hug that is more congratulatory than nurturing. Herman does his best to return the gesture but looks uncomfortable at best. Uncle Jerry then shakes Mead’s hand —a vigorous up-and-down shake —and says, “Good morning, good morning, you’re here bright and early.” He glances at his watch. “It isn’t even nine yet. I like that. You must be a good influence on our Herman. I’ve rarely known him to be up before noon.” And he laughs, as if he has just told a joke. At least he isn’t as mean as the other Mr. Weinstein.

Uncle Jerry is a president here at Bell Labs. Not
the
president, but one of many presidents who oversee various divisions. A tall, slender man who does not look like Herman exactly but has a manner about him that reminds Mead of Herman. The way he cocks his head, just slightly to the right, so that even when he is looking directly at you he does not quite make eye contact. “So you’re the young genius who’s going to give our Cray X-MP a run for her money,” Jerry says. “Herman tells me that you only have a few days, so why don’t we get you downstairs and get you started.” And he leads them back down the hall toward the elevator.

Uncle Jerry takes them down to the basement, better known here at Bell Labs as the Lower Level, and introduces Mead to Earl Bellisfield, the tech guy. Then Jerry vigorously shakes Mead’s hand again, wishes him luck, and says, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mead. At first, I was quite disappointed when Herman told me he was standing me up, that he didn’t want to go skiing with his dear old uncle over spring break as usual. I thought he must have met a girl and fallen in love. Then he told me what the real reason was and, I have to say, I couldn’t be more pleased.” Jerry steps back into the elevator. “Stop by my office at the end of the day. I’d like to take you both out to dinner this evening.” Then the doors close.

Mead turns to Herman. “And what exactly did you tell him?”

“What do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know what to think.”

“Relax, Fegley. I just told him that I wanted to do a favor for a friend.”

E
ARL BELLISFIELD IS A NERVOUS CHARACTER
whose shirt won’t stay tucked in and he doesn’t care. “She’s right in here,” he says and opens a set of double doors into a room that is literally filled with computer. Wall-to-wall. Floor-to-ceiling. Mead has never seen anything like it. He wishes Dr. Alexander were here to see it with him. If he was, surely he would take that outmoded mechanical computing device he has languishing in his basement and set it out on the curb for the garbage man. Mead’s fingers are tingling, as are his toes. He is short of breath. Light-headed. Afraid that if he does not sit down right now he is going to faint. That’s how excited he is. How amazed he is to be standing here. In this room. In front of this gigantic supercomputer. It’s the same way Dr. Alexander must have felt as he sat in that lecture hall at King’s College fifty-odd years ago and listened to Alan Turing talk about his vision of a mechanical computing machine.

“Here,” Earl says and offers Mead a sweatshirt. “You might want to put this on. We have to keep it cool in here for the Cray X-MP. She gets temperamental when she gets overheated.” But Mead waves it away. “I’m used to the cold,” he says. “My father is an undertaker.”

So Earl gets right down to business. He sits Mead in front of the keyboard and proceeds to teach him the language of the computer. It’s like trying to learn Russian. In one day. Mead stares at a stream of letters and symbols that have no meaning to him whatsoever. It is frustrating, repetitive, demanding, and boring all at once. And Mead loves it.

Herman taps him on the shoulder and offers him a sandwich. “Not now,” Mead says. “I’m busy. I’ll eat later.”

“It is later,” Herman says. “It’s almost five.”

“Five o’clock?” Mead cannot believe it. He just sat down. Almost a whole day went by just like that. “This is taking too long, Earl,” he says. “I only have a limited amount of time. Can’t I just tell you what I want the computer to do and have you type it in for me?”

“Sure,” Earl says and gets up out of his chair. “But it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’ve gotta take off. The wife doesn’t like it when I get home late. It’s just about now that the kids start driving her nuts. I’ll be back in the morning, though. First thing. I’ll key it in for you then.”

“Yeah, come on, Fegley,” Herman says. “Screw the sandwich. I say we call it a day. There’s this great steakhouse in town. Best T-bones north of the Mason-Dixon line. It’ll be Uncle Jerry’s treat. You can relax and start fresh in the morning.”

“You go,” Mead says. “I’m staying.”

“Don’t be crazy, Fegley. You’ve been going at this for eight hours straight.”

“And I’ll go at it for eight more if that’s what it takes.”

Mead turns back to the keyboard and types in more code. He refuses to look up. At either Earl or Herman. If they want to leave, fine, but he’s staying. They will have to have him bodily removed because he won’t go voluntarily. He’s got only five days left and over a million zeros to compute.

“Two hours, Fegley,” Herman says. “Give my uncle two hours of your time and I promise, I’ll fix it so you can stay the whole night. Twenty-four hours a day all week. But you’ve got to give me something to work with. Please.”

It almost sounds as if he’s begging. But that is not why Mead gives in. He gives in because he needs the twenty-four-hour days. And because he trusts that Herman will get him back within the promised two-hour limit, the way he did after the concert with Dr. Kustrup. “Okay,” Mead says. “But just tonight.”

U
NCLE JERRY ISN’T ALONE
. Sitting at the table with him is a young woman. A pretty young thing who pops up out of her chair when she sees Herman, throws her arms around his neck, and plants a big old kiss on his lips. He must have one every place he goes. A different girlfriend in each city. Princeton, Chicago, Paris, Zurich. This one is prettier than Cynthia in Chicago. Or at least she works harder at it, with streaked hair, lots of eye shadow, and a plunging neckline. Mead wonders where Herman met her —if they went to high school together or met at a fund-raiser —but not enough to actually ask. He might mention it to Cynthia, though, next time he runs into her on campus. You know, that he met Herman’s other girlfriend. Just so she has all the facts.

“Herman,” the pretty young thing says. “You look sexier than ever. I guess Chicago agrees with you. Or somebody in Chicago.” And she winks at Mead. As if he might tell her. Later. After they’ve all had a few too many drinks. Shit. Why did Mead agree to do this?

“And you, Michelle,” Herman says, “look as luscious as ever.” And he kisses her back. On the neck. One arm curled possessively around her tiny waist. Then he turns to Mead and says, “Excuse me, where are my manners? Fegley, I’d like you to meet Michelle, my Uncle Jerry’s lovely wife. Number four, I believe she is. Or is it number five?” He directs this question at his uncle, who rises to his feet, shakes Mead’s hand, and says, “I’m so glad you could join us for supper, Mead. Please, have a seat. Relax. Order whatever you want. Enjoy yourself.”

But the next two hours are about as relaxing as sitting in a dry forest next to a boy playing with matches. Uncle Jerry fills the evening with one anecdotal story after another, all of them centered around skiing in the Alps with Herman. Apparently it’s something they have been doing together for years. Ever since Herman strapped on his first pair of skis, according to Uncle Jerry. Or, as Herman tells it, “That was when Uncle Jerry was married to Suzanne, wife number two.” Uncle Jerry also talks about a skiing trip where Herman broke his leg. Or, as Herman puts it, “The winter Uncle Jerry divorced Elaine; she was wife number three.” The verbal sparring wears Mead out and, by the time they leave the restaurant, his head is pounding. He could care less about going back to Bell Labs, he just wants to crawl into bed —any bed —and sleep. But Herman holds true to his word and two sleeping bags materialize as if by magic from the trunk of his car. Herman rolls them out on the floor in front of the Cray X-MP and says, “I prefer to sleep on the right.” Then he crawls into one of the bags, pulls out a copy of
Vanity Fair
, and starts to read.

Mead looks at Herman, lying in the sleeping bag, head bent over the glossy magazine, and realizes that his presence at dinner tonight was not, in fact, a prerequisite for getting permission to spend the night at Bell Labs. That those sleeping bags were already in the trunk of Herman’s car, the agreement already made. That Herman’s sole purpose for inviting Mead to supper tonight was for moral support. That his relationship with his uncle appears to be only marginally better than the one with his father. That Herman was, indeed, begging.

“Thanks for dragging me out to dinner tonight,” Mead says.

Herman glances up. And Mead can tell, from the look in his eyes, that Herman knows that Mead knows why he was there. “No problem, you crazy fuck,” Herman says. “Now get back to work.”

B
Y THE TIME EARL BELLISFIELD RETURNS
the next morning, Mead doesn’t need him anymore. Somewhere in the twilight hours of dawn, he began communicating fluently with the supercomputer, then taught the Cray X-MP a thing or two of his own. And one of the things he taught her was the Riemann-Siegel formula. Right away, the Cray X-MP started spitting out results, computing one zeta zero after the other. “Look at this,” Mead says to Earl and shows him a stack of printouts. “Just look at it. She can compute a thousand zeros in the time it takes me to generate just one.” Mead shivers and Earl hands him a sweater. Mead waves it away. “No, thank you. I’m not cold, Earl; I’m in awe.”
HERMAN DISAPPEARS FOR
LONG PERIODS of time to god knows where. But when he returns, he brings food. Hot food. Upon which Mead descends as if he has not eaten in days. And for all he knows, he hasn’t. Because Mead has lost all track of time. He has no idea what day it is. Whether it is morning or night. Day 2 or Day 4. And he doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to know. He just wants to generate as many zeros as possible in whatever amount of time he has left before he has to leave.

As the Cray X-MP computes, Mead looks over her printouts. All he has to find is one zero off the critical line. That’s all. Just one will be enough to disprove the Riemann Hypothesis. The 130-year-old question answered. But as more and more zeta zeros spit out, each one of them calculated to the eighth decimal point, evidence starts to stack up, quite literally, in favor of the hypothesis being true. It isn’t definitive proof. It is merely statistics. But it is enough to assure Mead that he will not be wasting the next god-knows-how-many-years of his life trying to definitively prove the theorem. The only question left is how. What leap of the imagination did Bernhard Riemann make that the rest of mathematical mankind is missing? Some basic step in logic is being overlooked. Mead needs to take his thinking to another level. Possibly in another direction. But which one? If only he could figure that out.

H
E AWAKES WITH A JOLT
, thinking he has heard a crash. Heart racing, Mead crawls out of his sleeping bag and over to the Cray X-MP, to make sure nothing has gone wrong. That she has not collapsed from exhaustion. But the supercomputer is fine, humming along as she calculates more and more zeta zeros. He glances at his wristwatch. It’s 2:02. But whether it is the middle of the afternoon or the middle of the night Mead has no idea. Herman is asleep on the floor beside him. And Earl is nowhere in sight. So it must be nighttime. Mead crawls back into his bag and tries to fall back asleep but remains uneasy as if something terrible has happened.