The Turing Option

“It’s not simple to explain, not unless you know a lot about this country and how things work here. What it comes down to is that it is all a matter of politics. We have laws in the United States about research money, research projects at the universities, who can and cannot invest. A lot of our big corporations felt we were falling behind Japan, where government and industry cooperate, share money and research. They couldn’t change the laws — so they bent them a little bit. Here, outside the continental three-mile limit, we are theoretically exempt from state and federal law. This university, built on old oil rigs and dredged land, is ruthlessly product-orientated. They have spared no expense at headhunting teachers and students.”

“Headhunters live in New Guinea and kill people and cut off their heads and smoke them and shrink them. You got them here too?”

Paddy smiled at the boy’s worried look and reached out to ruffle his hair; Brian pulled away.

“Different kind of headhunters. That’s slang for offering someone a lot of money to leave their old job. Or giving big grants to get the best students.”

Brian digested this new information, squinting out at the glare of the sun upon the water. “Then if you was headhunted here, then you must be something special?”

Paddy smiled, liking the way Brian’s brain worked. “Well, yes, I suppose I must be if I am here.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a mathematician.”

“Twelve and seven is nineteen like in school?”

“You start there and then it gets more complicated and more interesting.”

“Like what f’rinstance?”

“Like after arithmetic there’s geometry. And after that comes algebra — and then calculus. There is also number theory, which is sort of out of the mainstream of mathematics.’’

“What’s number theory?”

Paddy smiled at the serious expression on the little boy’s face and started to dismiss the question. Then thought twice about it. Brian seemed to be always surprising him with odd bits of information. He appeared to be a bright lad who believed that everything could be understood if you asked the right questions. But how could he possibly begin to explain higher mathematics to an eight-year-old? Well, one step at a time.

“Do you know about multiplying?”

“Sure — it’s fun. Like 14 times 15 is 210 because so is 6 times 35 and 5 times 42.”

“Are you positive?”

“Ain’t no mistake. Because they’re both as 2 times 3 times 5 times 7. I like 210 because it’s made up of four. different chunky numbers.”

“Chunky numbers? Is that an Irish term?”

“Nope. Made it up myself,” the boy said proudly. “Chunkies are numbers with no parts. Like 5 and 7. And big ones like 821 and 823. Or 1721 and 1723. A lot of the big ones come in pairs like that.”

Chunky numbers was Brian’s term for prime numbers, Paddy realized. Should eight-year-olds know about primes? Were they taught at this age? — He couldn’t remember.

It was after eleven that night when Dolly turned off the television. She found Paddy in the kitchen. His pipe had gone out and he was staring, unseeing, out into the darkness.

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

“Do you now what Brian seems to have done? All by himself. At the age of eight. He has discovered prime numbers. Not only that — he seems to have worked out some pretty efficient ways to find primes.”

“He’s a very serious little boy. Never smiles.”

“You’re not listening. He’s very bright. More than that — he has a basic understanding of mathematics, something almost all of my students are lacking.”

“If you think so then have them do an I.Q. test in school. I’m tired. We can talk about it in the morning.”

“I.Q. tests are too culturally orientated. Later maybe, when he has been here a while. I’ll talk to his teachers about it when I take him to school.”

“Not the very first day you won’t! He has to get used to things first, settle in. And it’s about time you thought about your own classes, research. I’ll take him to school tomorrow. You’ll see, it’s going to work out fine.”

Brian hated the school. From the very first moment he arrived. Hated the big fat black headmaster. He was called a principal here. Everything was different. Strange. And they laughed at him, from the very beginning. It was the teacher who started it.

“That will be your class seat,” she said, pointing not too precisely at the row of desks.

“The terd one?”

“The third one, yes. But you must say it correctly. Third.” She waited, smiling insincerely at his silence. “Say third, Brian.”

“Terd.”

“Not turd, that is a different word. Third.”

That was when the children laughed, whispered “Turd!” at him as soon as the teacher’s back was turned. When the bell rang and the class ended he went into the hall with the others, but kept going right out of the school, away from them all.

“And that was the very first day in school,” Dolly said. “Ran away after his very first class. The principal phoned and I was worried sick. It was after dark before the police found him and brought him home.”

“Did he tell you why?” Snaresbrook asked.