Ethan Canin - A Doubter's Almanac

HE’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.”

—

TREAD 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.