mind when he felt the claustrophobia of his intelligence. The terror of discovery. Max knew how to deflect anyone.
On the other hand, Devon was not an infant, and this was a maths lecture after all. He didn’t need to play the utter fool.
“Well, I… could you repeat the question please?” He was only stalling, of course, and it seemed this teacher was not the droning idiot Devon mistook him for.
“I think not. Explain your answer, please, Mr. Heyworth.”
“Very well. For the regular tetrahedron, the formula for a solid angle at a vertex suspended by a face will, in my experience, produce steradians identical to those in the apex angles in excess of one radian. Hence, my answer was 4.735.”
The rest of the students in the class looked as though they had accidentally stepped into advanced Finno-Ugric when they had, in fact, signed up for basic Spanish.
Professor Millhaus picked up his stylus, seemingly unimpressed, and returned to his podium to continue his lesson.
Devon thought he had sounded acceptably fair to middling.
“Please see me in my office after class, Mr. Heyworth. Now, back to regular tetrahedrons…”
Millhaus continued in his dull monotone, hoping against hope that this Heyworth boy might actually have a brain. Perry Millhaus had spent the past fourteen years teaching first-year mathematics to the entering marketing students who needed to fulfill their requirements before moving on to the more advanced courses. There had been bright rays of intellectual promise along the way, but most went on to acquire business degrees, and—while Perry was the last one to criticize a healthy interest in the acquisition of a tidy income—those students were not genuine mathematicians.
Those interested in pure mathematics were rare in his classroom. Millhaus had somehow spent a decade and a half of his prime years prattling on about the same bland concepts. All he had craved was a tenured position at a respected university, and that was all he got. A childhood of financial uncertainty had made him blindly committed to an adulthood of financial security. Nothing risky. Nothing daring. Just secure. And, if abject boredom was the price he had to pay, then so be it. But maybe, just maybe, the young Heyworth was more than the lazy peacock he appeared to be.
After class, Millhaus pestered Devon so mercilessly that he was finally able to crack the student’s absurd attachment to feigned mediocrity. Devon and Perry hammered out a deal of sorts that gave them both a much-needed intellectual outlet. Perry was able to discuss ideas and concepts that he had no interest in broaching with his professional colleagues (faculty camaraderie was anathema to him), and Devon was able to enjoy the freedom of his own intellectual pursuits without anyone knowing. For his part, Perry promised to give Devon no grades above solid high seconds. Since neither of them had a particular care for financial gain (Perry was perfectly secure; Devon was astoundingly rich), they decided to publish all of their joint work directly and anonymously onto open source mathematical discussion boards. Ten years on, Devon and Perry still met on a monthly basis to discuss the latest mathematical conundrum, architectural puzzle, or financial observation.
After an enjoyable university career spent under the radar at LSE—not only under the radar, but usually underground at dance clubs and late-night bars—Devon met with Max to talk about what he should do next. Max had recently decided to embark upon a monstrously ambitious PhD program at the University of Chicago and voiced his wish that Devon should join him.
The laughter that constituted Devon’s reply could be heard across the pub and out into the crowded mews off of Berkeley Square. Devon had absolutely no intention of entering an educational institution ever again, having just barely escaped the confines of the classroom and thus fulfilled what he understood and accepted to be his filial debt
On the other hand, Devon was not an infant, and this was a maths lecture after all. He didn’t need to play the utter fool.
“Well, I… could you repeat the question please?” He was only stalling, of course, and it seemed this teacher was not the droning idiot Devon mistook him for.
“I think not. Explain your answer, please, Mr. Heyworth.”
“Very well. For the regular tetrahedron, the formula for a solid angle at a vertex suspended by a face will, in my experience, produce steradians identical to those in the apex angles in excess of one radian. Hence, my answer was 4.735.”
The rest of the students in the class looked as though they had accidentally stepped into advanced Finno-Ugric when they had, in fact, signed up for basic Spanish.
Professor Millhaus picked up his stylus, seemingly unimpressed, and returned to his podium to continue his lesson.
Devon thought he had sounded acceptably fair to middling.
“Please see me in my office after class, Mr. Heyworth. Now, back to regular tetrahedrons…”
Millhaus continued in his dull monotone, hoping against hope that this Heyworth boy might actually have a brain. Perry Millhaus had spent the past fourteen years teaching first-year mathematics to the entering marketing students who needed to fulfill their requirements before moving on to the more advanced courses. There had been bright rays of intellectual promise along the way, but most went on to acquire business degrees, and—while Perry was the last one to criticize a healthy interest in the acquisition of a tidy income—those students were not genuine mathematicians.
Those interested in pure mathematics were rare in his classroom. Millhaus had somehow spent a decade and a half of his prime years prattling on about the same bland concepts. All he had craved was a tenured position at a respected university, and that was all he got. A childhood of financial uncertainty had made him blindly committed to an adulthood of financial security. Nothing risky. Nothing daring. Just secure. And, if abject boredom was the price he had to pay, then so be it. But maybe, just maybe, the young Heyworth was more than the lazy peacock he appeared to be.
After class, Millhaus pestered Devon so mercilessly that he was finally able to crack the student’s absurd attachment to feigned mediocrity. Devon and Perry hammered out a deal of sorts that gave them both a much-needed intellectual outlet. Perry was able to discuss ideas and concepts that he had no interest in broaching with his professional colleagues (faculty camaraderie was anathema to him), and Devon was able to enjoy the freedom of his own intellectual pursuits without anyone knowing. For his part, Perry promised to give Devon no grades above solid high seconds. Since neither of them had a particular care for financial gain (Perry was perfectly secure; Devon was astoundingly rich), they decided to publish all of their joint work directly and anonymously onto open source mathematical discussion boards. Ten years on, Devon and Perry still met on a monthly basis to discuss the latest mathematical conundrum, architectural puzzle, or financial observation.
After an enjoyable university career spent under the radar at LSE—not only under the radar, but usually underground at dance clubs and late-night bars—Devon met with Max to talk about what he should do next. Max had recently decided to embark upon a monstrously ambitious PhD program at the University of Chicago and voiced his wish that Devon should join him.
The laughter that constituted Devon’s reply could be heard across the pub and out into the crowded mews off of Berkeley Square. Devon had absolutely no intention of entering an educational institution ever again, having just barely escaped the confines of the classroom and thus fulfilled what he understood and accepted to be his filial debt
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