Damon Knight - Orbit 16

Only then could he relax and let his mind sink back to the complex but ordered patterns of proof which were its true medium. And that order had form quite as real as the world of elevator buttons and social ineptitude, of old men and young men and publishing deadlines and hiring policies. There was an intricate structure made entirely of straight lines in a plane that intersected in named points and formed identifiable triangles, all related to one another by a carefully chosen pattern of congruences, similarities, and equal sides and angles.

This structure had been built very carefully to its present state by a process of repetitive partial construction. All the way along the freeway he had occupied himself with the task of mentally rebuilding the structure which he had spent almost the whole night examining. He would begin each time at the same starting point, building one line at a time, noting each label, each equality and similarity, until the structure reached a degree of complexity, as it did each time, that exceeded his ability to assimilate new information and which became manifest in the sudden complete loss of a necessary fact. At this point the only possibility was to begin again at the foundation. Each time, he got a little farther in the proof, and while it might seem at first a most inefficient method of construction, it would eventually result, not only in a completed proof, but also, and more importantly, in a complete intuitive familiarity with that proof, both in its overall conception and in all its particulars.

It was a learning method that Dr. Lucus could remember having employed successfully for over forty years, and even his loss of mental agility resulted only in a longer amount of time spent with any one proof and not in any loss of total comprehension once the process was completed.

He had taken temporary comfortable refuge in the beauty and symmetry of this proof, which he could do now, shutting out all thought of the threat, the horror of its ultimate implications. The four cups of coffee kept him awake and uncomfortably numb to the eventual attack on his one sure foothold on reality. He stepped into the elevator and forcibly turned his thoughts from what he must do in the next few hours. For he was not certain what he must, could, or wanted to do. Too many roads were open to him, and they all seemed to lead to eventual dead ends. But that was only, as Hans used to tell him, his own lack of imagination, his lack of initiative to build his own road. So be it. As he began once more to piece together his elusive triangles, he was aware more than anything of the face of the secretary of Genetics, frozen in the last narrow inch between the closing elevator doors, smiling at an old, absentminded man who held in his mind the cursed flame of destruction of this whole temple of reason.

If Ruth was aware of the worn, drugged look of his eyes and face when he entered the Math office, she did not betray this. She turned from her typing, pulled her glasses down on her nose, and regarded him with what she supposed was a friendly smile, as she always did. After the obligatory good-mornings, he paused, trying to force efficiency into his reflexes, confused over what were to be his instructions to her.

“Uh, Ruth,” he began at length, “Ruth, would you get the Director on the line for me?”

“The Director, sir?”

She was not, in fact, asking for confirmation, only registering surprise. Dr. Lucus seldom had any contact with the Director, except at executive board meetings. When he did contact the Director, it was always through interoffice memo, and Ruth had shown her surprise at this breach of tradition before she had a chance to check herself. One telephoned subordinates and colleagues. One wrote to superiors.

“Uh, yes, Ruth, it’s rather important.”

Was there something else to say to Ruth? He had to call Publications, but that could wait until after he got the go-ahead from the Director.

“Oh, uh, Ruth, is the mail in yet?”

“No, sir, but there was a telegram. It’s on your desk.” She was impatient to get back to her typing, impatient with his slow talk and his hesitation. But she would not return to work until he left the room. Office etiquette was her one comfort in this job.

“Oh, uh, thank you, Ruth.” He turned to his office. At the door he paused a moment, as she said, in accordance with custom, “Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee?”

He had anticipated the question, so his answer was immediate —in fact, clumsily abrupt. “No, thank you, Ruth.”

As the door swung shut, the steady patter of her machine resumed. She would type one page to allow him time to take off his coat and get settled. She would sip her own lukewarm cup of coffee, which she nursed for three hours every morning, and then turn to the telephone. Her wrinkled face would show no sign of the joy she felt at hearing her own crisp, stiff voice conducting business efficiently and properly.

His hand was strangely empty as he took off his coat. He had left his briefcase in the car.

“Damn,” he muttered. That meant he would have to go back for it during his lunch hour. He would definitely need to have the papers in it before he saw the Director. In fact, he had wanted to review Professor David’s paper this morning and to check the mental construction he had prepared in the car. In any case, he would need the paper itself before he could run a computer check on the validity of the proof.

All these trivial irritations made it even more difficult to see through the haze of a sleepless night that he was caught up in something historic, in something frightening. He was not made for scrapping a lifetime of firmly held beliefs in a day, as Hans was. He was not made to be forced suddenly and rudely into a crucial position of responsibility. Hans could handle that sort of thing; he could not. Hans could submerge himself in madness and come up smiling, happy and sane. But for Donald Lucus madness, if it came, would be the end. He rested a hand on Hans’s sculpture as he sat at the desk. In the outer office, the sound of typing stopped.

There was a thin wire human figure suspended inside a cage, which was formed by the edges of an irregular icosahedron, slightly skewed on its axis. Two edges of the polyhedron were broken, and the figure was falling, one hand stretched out vainly toward an edge, a bar of the cage. Its mouth was open.

“This,” the artist had said to him years before over a game of Go, “this is you, Don. Not now. This is you at sixty-five. This is you and your twenty-faced monster and your quintic equation. I want you to save it for your old age and then tell me if I’m right.”

He had clicked the cigarette holder between his teeth and grinned that diabolical smile that always dared you to guess whether he was joking or serious.

“Look at it, Don. And when you finally recognize yourself, write and let me know.”

The telegram was brief and clear.

DON.

HANS DIED OF A STROKE FRIDAY. BETH ASKED ME TO LET YOU KNOW. FUNERAL WEDNESDAY AT ONE ST. PAULS, CINCINNATI. WILL NOT BE THERE AS THINK THAT WOULD BE BETTER FOR BETH. HOPE YOU CAN THOUGH. MUCH LOVE.

MARY

“Dr. Lucus, I have the Director’s secretary on the line. The Director will not be in until ten this morning. His schedule is full today, but I can make an appointment for you Tuesday afternoon.”

Tuesday afternoon. He set the telegram down and covered his eyes to think. Tuesday afternoon. He could make an appointment for Tuesday afternoon, and that would give him another day to relax, another day before he really had to do anything about the situation. But no, that was impossible. He couldn’t put it off, and he couldn’t be put off. Of course, he must see the Director immediately.

“Dr. Lucus?”