Mathematicians in Love

by Rudy Rucker

  Maybe I was actually wrong? I took a deep breath, then an­other, and then I left. Leni almost looked disappointed. She’d expected me to go ahead and make an even bigger ass of myself. The only way through the rest of this week was to play it cool.

  I stopped by Ratvale to shower and change clothes. It was terribly empty in my apartment; I hated the way the sounds echoed and bounced around. I went out and spent the day hik­ing the trails of Tillman Park, poking around a creek, watching the shadows of the water’s eddies on the sandy bottom, think­ing about math, forgetting the vlog ring. It was good to get back to the stuff that mattered. I still had that scrap of paper with my codec comic strip solution on it, and I lay in a meadow studying it for awhile, trying to reconstruct the mental states the alien mirror cockroaches had prodded me into. I could al­most see the argument, but not quite. The tide had collapsed the sand castle. I’d lost that final fifth frame: the punchline.

  Again and again I thought of Alma. It would have been nice to share this beautiful day in the woods with her, to be moni­toring her expressions instead of the color-shades of a vlog ring. Was Leni right? Was I a loser? One good thought came to mind. I could use some of the money Leni had given me to re­new the lease on my Ratvale room for another month. That could help my chances of getting Alma back.

  Thinking about the paracomputational codec problem reminded me of a certain journal article on six-dimensional sheaves, so when I got back onto campus, I went into the li­brary and did research for a few hours. My ring band turned about as blue as it could get, indicating utter boredom and dis­interest on the part of the viewing audience. So what.

  Night fell as I returned to my apartment. It felt a little creepy in there. Just to prove my courage to myself, I got out my silver guitar and started playing again. The upside of wear­ing the vlog ring was that if I did see the cockroaches, I could check and see if they showed up in the vlog, too. Then I’d know whether or not they were a hallucination.

  But I didn’t see any aliens this time. I played for about forty minutes, thinking some more about starting a band. I could tell people were digging my music. My vlog ring was bright red.

  The bass player and the drummer of my Santa Cruz group, E To The I Pi, had long since gotten married to each other and moved to Seattle. But I liked the idea of Naz being my drum­mer, assuming he could rock on a real drum kit. It could be very commercial to have a young skater in the band. For bass, maybe I could ask Rico, the guy I’d seen the other night. He’d been pretty friendly. As for a vocalist—right about then I heard a knock. I set down my axe and hurried to the door. I was imagining that Alma had come back to me.

  But no, it was Leroy, a street person who hung around our block. He always carried a silvered plastic ball that he liked star­ing into, a discarded Christmas ornament. Often he’d sleep in the Ratvale courtyard, filling it with the smell of goat. Paul talked to Leroy sometimes.

  “Bela,” said Leroy, wearing a sly grin inside his dirty beard. “I followed your sound.”

  “Um, you like it?” I said, wondering what he wanted. I my­self had never spoken to him before.

  “Funky," said Leroy, nodding his head. “Outstanding. I been watching you.”

  “How do you mean?” Surely he didn’t have a—

  “Wireless dingbot,” said Leroy, fishing a little device from a cranny in his layers of clothes. “My fourth eye.” He tapped the tiny computer against his shiny, careworn forehead. “Social ser­vices give ’em to us. Final solution to the cyberhomeless prob­lem, know what I mean?”

  Yes, I recalled hearing something about this. Low income people in the Bay Area were being issued palmtop computers with paid-up wireless connectivity, thanks to grants from a couple of the big companies. Some kind of tax write-off to clear out their inventories.

  “You saw my show, huh?” I said without enthusiasm. Today was Sunday evening. That meant five more days I was going to be wearing the vlog ring. Five days was a long time to have even the bums in the street watching my every move, including my showers and my trips to the toilet.

  “You got a lot of space in here,” said Leroy, peering into my apartment as if he were in search of something in particular. “I just wanna check if—” He squeezed past me and sidled into my bedroom. “There they are.” He’d found the half-full pack of cigarettes I’d bought the other day. Apparently he’d noticed them on the Web. “Lend me one?”

  “Take them all. I don’t normally smoke. But, um, we’re not really supposed to light up inside.”

  “You did. I saw.” I noticed something odd about Leroy’s feet. Although at first glance it looked as if were wearing dark slip­pers, he was in fact barefoot. A crust of filth running across the tops of his feet covered the gaps between his toes.

  “Come on, Leroy, let’s take this party outside. And I’ll give you a half-bottle of wine from the fridge, too.”

  “Righteous,” said Leroy. “I got something to communicate, know what I mean?”

  “Fine,” I said. Except for the goat smell, I was glad for the company.

  So we settled onto a bench in front of Ratvale, Leroy con­tentedly smoking and drinking the wine, admiring himself both in his little silver Christmas ball and in the screen of his palm­top, which was of course tuned to The Crazy Mathematician.

  “What it is,” said Leroy presently. “I seen how the fire started at the YWCA on election day.”

  “No way.”

  “These few blocks are my kingdom, man. Leroyland. Noth­ing escapes the ruler’s eye. I was layin’ back of the Y gettin’ baked, watching the clouds in my magic ball. And I seen this thing like a big seashell. Yeah. A shell with triangles all over it, orange and white, flying around the yard. At first I thought it was a giant bumblebee. But, naw, it’s ten feet long. With a slimy sucker-thing hangin’ outta the shell. And I see this shell as a re­flection in the mirror ball, but not in the actual air, know what I mean? I’m thinkin I’m smokin’ some good shit.”

  “A cone shell?” I said. “Are you making this up?”

  “I might still have some of that same dope,” said Leroy, be­ginning to feel around in his pockets.

  “I don’t want any,” I said. “Finish telling me about the fire.” “Yeah. So this, um, alien snail the size of a motorcycle, it’s flyin’ around in the mirror world, sniffin’ something out, know what I mean, and I’m sittin’ real still, and then I see it go up near the shed with the fuse box.”

  “You saw it by the fuse box on the back of the YWCA?” I said.

  “Saw it reflected in my Christmas ball, know what I mean, it’s like hidden in the workadaddy world.”

  “And this is behind the building where the voting is?” I pressed.

  “Yep. Citizens in and outta there all day, but they’re not botherin’ me in the backyard, I might as well be a pile of garbage.” Leroy barked a bitter, coughing laugh. “Camouflaged. They don’t know that Leroy means The King.” He finished the wine, and put the empty bottle under the bench, then sighed and rubbed his finger on the palmtop screen. “Look at me in there. King Leroy, yeah. Coulda been a star.”

  “And the fire?”

  “The snail shot a tendril at me. I was the only one seen it, but it was real. I could feel, like, a little dart hitting my skull. I’m Moby Dick, I’m beating my flukes, but the cone shell reels me over to the fuse box and then zzzzzi. Danger zone. Move the wires and the short circuit lights off the Y. But don’t say it was me that did it.”

  “Thanks, Leroy,” I said, getting to my feet. “That’s an inter­esting story.” I glanced down at my vlog ring and adopted a newscaster’s barking tone. “Late-breaking news on the YWCA polling-place fire that swept Van Veeter into office! Suspicions that Heritagist operatives set the fire have been contradicted by the testimony of Humelocke’s King Leroy! Leroy reports the fire was masterminded by an invisible flying cone shell!”

  “What it is,” concluded Leroy.

  I didn’t know what to think anymore. Had Leroy started t
he fire? Had a cone shell told him to? Or had he invented all this simply because he overheard me talking about aliens on my vlog? I went and got some Om Mane Padme Yum ice cream alone, and then I went to bed.

  Late the next morning, Monday, I got a call from Professor Kitchner. He wanted me to come to his office. So, okay, it was back to dear old Pearce Hall.

  It was funny, walking in there, to think that now I was a Ph.D. All done. I didn’t have to scuttle around anymore. My papers were all in order. What had I been so tense about?

  “Good morning, Bela,” said Kitchner, a quizzical expression on his heavy lips. “I’ve been reading about you. That thing on your finger, that’s the notorious—what are you calling it?”

  “Vlog ring,” I said. “Yeah, it’s webcasting this conversation. I want you to be clear on that.”

  “Crystal clear,” said Kitchner, running his hand across his bald head. “I’ll make this quite brief."

  He fell silent for so long that finally I spoke up. “This is about the—trouble at Bulkington?”

  “Ooooh yeah,” he said. “You were very much the topic at my meeting with the chancellor and the provost this morning. Our crazy mathematician.”

  “I didn’t pick that name.”

  “The name picked you,” said Kitchner steepling his fingers. “A bit of good news. The university has made the aggrieved neighbor a generous settlement offer. And in return he’s not pressing charges and he’s signing a release. You’re off the hook, as they say.”

  “Oh, thank you. That’s great. And another thing. We were going to talk about me finding a—”

  “No we’re not,” said Kitchner, shaking his head. “That’s your bad news.” And then he saw me out of his office.

  Outside it was another beautiful Humelocke day, with the light dancing off the San Francisco Bay. I was relieved to know my legal worries were over. But it sounded like Kitchner wasn’t going to help me find a job at all. I sighed, beginning to absorb the fact that, more than likely, I’d never ever get a job as a math professor. I almost felt tears forming in my eyes. So long a road I’d traveled, and for so little reward.

  This Buzz gig had loaded me with more baggage than I’d an­ticipated. But maybe that was the wrong way to think about it. I didn’t have to be passive. I needed to be working this gig for my own purposes. I had some cash now. And I could use my Web exposure to help get me a career outside of teaching. To hell with academic politics.

  To start with, I went by University Housing and renewed my lease. That way I’d have a love-nest for my little sparrow— as well as a rehearsal space for my new band. Yes, I was going to start a band.

  I’d begin by recruiting Naz. If Mr. Vitelloni was dropping charges, then Naz and his crew would be getting sprung. I hur­ried down to the jail and, as fate would have it, Naz, Thuggee, and K-Jen were just walking out the door, squinting at the sun­light, throwing down their skateboards.

  “Doctor Frankenstein!” said Naz. “Still wanna jam?”

  “You guys can come up to my apartment. I’ve got it for five more weeks."

  “I’m down with that,” said Naz. “You got a car? We can pick up my drum kit. Right now is a good time, my folks are work­ing. Maybe they won’t notice.”

  “I can’t be doing this,” said Thuggee rolling his muscular shoulders like he had a sore neck. “I must face the parents.”

  “I’ll come with you, Bela,” said K-Jen, flashing a rare smile. “I have a lot to sing after—that.” She jerked her head towards the concrete building behind us. “Jail raga.”

  Pimply and disheveled as K-Jen was, she had a star quality about her, so much so that I found her a little intimidating. She seemed outside the circle of ordinary society. But Naz wasn’t shy with her at all.

  Naz and K-Jen skated along with me towards my car, crouch­ing, zigzagging, doing jumps. And then I drove them down Uni­versity Avenue to the flat part of Humelocke.

  As it turned out, Naz’s family lived upstairs from a little In­dian grocery that they ran. And as soon as Naz started carrying out his drums, his mother did notice us, and she came out into the street. She wore a wrapped sheath of blue silk, and she had a red dot on her forehead. Sari and bindi.

  “Behold the jailbird,” said Naz’s mother in a sarcastic tone. She frowned and adjusted her thick black ponytail. “Everyone was looking at that horrible video of you and the filthy Thuggee.” She noticed me now. “The crazy mathematician!”

  “I’m not crazy,” I said. “I have a Ph.D. I was hoping Naz could help me start a raga-rock band.”

  “Naz has to go to school immediately. And his hooligan hussy friend should be attending her classes as well. This is the last week before graduation, Naz!”

  “You’re in high school?” I asked K-Jen, a little taken aback. “How old are you two?”

  “We’re seniors,” said K-Jen. “Eighteen. The last week of class doesn’t matter for shit. They want Naz and me to graduate, you bet.” She walked around and stood on the other side of my Bel Paese squinty whale, not wanting to get embroiled with Naz’s mother.

  “What if I call your father out here to beat you?” said Naz’s mother to him. I noticed a slender bespectacled man watching us from the store’s dark door.

  “Just chill, Mom,” said Naz. “Today it’s too late to go to school. I promise I’ll make the other classes this week. Now let me go and practice with Bela. It’s my big chance to be in a suc­cessful band.”

  “You should wash yourself. You will have gotten lice in jail.” “I have lice from K-Jen already,” said Naz, just to torment his mother. “And crabs.” He ran up the back stairs to the family’s apartment. He was back a minute later with his cymbals and drum-sticks. “That’s everything. Gotta go.”

  When we got to my apartment Naz and K-Jen took a long, noisy shower together, complete with thumps and moans. My vlog ring was loving it. Everyone but me was getting laid. Eventually K-Jen and Naz were ready to jam.

  “If this works, then all we’ll need is a bass player,” I said.

  It didn’t take too long to find a groove. Thinking about raga, I put my guitar on open tuning, and began sliding some long elec­tric notes up and down. Naz was indeed a good drummer, and we worked out a kinky way to interface his drum vest with con­tact mikes on the sides of his drums. The vest’s electronics were a Taj Mahal of sonic mirrors, mixing in that boingy tabla sound.

  K-Jen used a microphone I’d found in my supplies. Steadily she revealed more surprises: she could declaim spontaneous poetry in a tasty, precise style that had me hanging on every word, warp it into a chant, stutter that into a gravelly dreg roar, thin the blur into a songbird harmony, and return to poetry, the topics running from stories about her daily life to the in­justices of society to the eternal mysteries of existence. K-Jen may not have been much of a talker, but boy could she sing.

  “We sound good,” I said, pausing for breath after maybe an hour. “We’re really starting a band.”

  “And I’m the singer?” said K-Jen, not quite believing this. “I can write and sing about, like, politics and UFOs?”

  “You rule,” I said. “We’ll do this on fast forward. With me on Buzz, we can get famous in a week. And then I can get my girl­friend back.”

  “You’re not after me?” said K-Jen, just a little suspicious. “This isn’t some ill scam?”

  “I’m not attracted to you that way. Pimples and nose rings— never mind.”

  K-Jen smiled an inward smile, looking around my living- room with an almost proprietary expression. “Naz and I can hang here.”

  “What’s the K stand for?”

  “Eleven.” Jen made a complex gesture with her hands. “There are ten other Jens at my high school—that I know of— so I thought it made sense. K-Jen being superior to A-Jen through J-Jen, you understand.”

  “Sounds like math. My bag. I just got my Ph.D. Do you like math?”

  “No,” said K-Jen, unengaged by the topic. “What’s the band called?”


  I’d been thinking about this and I had my answer ready. “Washer Drop!”

  “Sweet,” said Naz.

  “If that’s our name, we should do a song about it,” said K-Jen and chanted a trial verse.

  Wash out the dirt, machine bomb a jerk.

  Rooftop skater bop, oil pig washer drop.

  “Not bad,” I said, repeating the words to myself and picking out a rhythm on my guitar. “Try it again.”

  “Get us some beer first,” said K-Jen. “I sing better when I’m drunk.”

  “I’m not buying beer for you,” I said. “Not on camera. You’re underage.”

  “Naz and me can scam some,” said K-Jen. “We’ll be back af­ter we tank up.”

  “Up to you.”

  While they were gone, I phoned Rico from the band last night to ask him he would play bass in my new group. But he didn’t want to. He was doing fine as things stood. So then I called my old bass player Tad at Microsoft in Seattle. But I just got some bullshit smart answering-machine program.

  I hit a little lull then, a pocket of doubt. Shouldn’t I be do­ing math? If not for a professorship, then for publication and for consulting gigs? Paul and I had proved the big Morphic Classification Theorem, yes, and we’d found a number of inter­estingly equivalent systems, but without a codec for any of the natural systems, carrying out detailed simulations was impossi­ble. Although the four drawings I’d made were suggestive of the codec for a vibrating membrane, without the concluding image, they were inconclusive. All the more reason to get back to work!

  But I was utterly burnt-out on math for now and, come to think of it, pushing so hard on the math was what had led me to start thinking I was seeing aliens. Not a place I wanted to be. Music was the cure. But I needed a bass player.

  There was a knock on the door. Alma? No. Naz and K-Jen? Not yet.

  "Hi Bela,” said the dark-haired woman standing there. I’d never seen her before. “I’m Cammy Vendt.” She was carrying a bass guitar in its case in one hand. “I’m here to try out for Washer Drop.” She looked calm, an impression enhanced by the fact that her eyebrows were so long and level. Her teeth stuck forward a bit, pushing her lips out, making her look like a pirate. In old-school rocker style, she was wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt, black jeans, and low-cut black boots.