saying, “You may be right about that.”
Alistair had pointed me toward my prime suspect, using reasoning and simple logic. But I was growing doubtful that he would be able to deliver Fromley himself with similar ease.
Thursday, November 9, 1905
CHAPTER 7
As soon as we arrived, Professor Richard Bonham, the chairman of the Department of Mathematics, convened an impromptu meeting in his office. His quarters were pleasant, though less amply furnished than those at Alistair’s research center. Since Columbia supplied little in the way of office furnishings, most professors had to procure for themselves whatever items they wanted: furniture, plants, even carpets. But the office’s best feature was a large window that offered an artist’s view of Low Memorial Library’s granite dome rising into the sky.
Professor Bonham did his best to make us feel welcome. “No need to call me professor,” he said, waving off our formal greeting. “That’s for my students; you should call me Richard.”
He was an older man, near sixty by my guess. A dark gray suit that was at least two sizes too big enveloped his rail-thin body. He had lost significant weight since he bought that suit, which made me suspect he was—or had recently been—quite ill.
“This is Caleb Muller, Sarah’s advisor.”
I shook hands with a much younger man who was probably nearer my own age. He had the rugged features and strong build of an outdoorsman, and were it not for his tweed jacket and black-rimmed glasses, he would look out of place in this company.
“And one of our graduate students, Arthur Shaw.” A young man with tousled hair and ruddy cheeks came over to shake hands.
“People call me Artie,” he said shyly.
Richard sat at his desk after directing us toward his paisley-covered armchairs with stiff backs, while the others sat across from us on borrowed wooden desk chairs. We soon found ourselves deep in conversation about the academic dimension of Sarah’s life.
“Yes,” Caleb was saying, “Sarah officially became my advisee when she began her dissertation proposal, but I have unofficially advised her since well before her matriculation here, even while she was an undergraduate at Barnard. Her research centered on the Riemann hypothesis, a mathematical problem that has resisted every attempt to prove it since Riemann first published it in 1859. Even,” he added with a self-deprecating grin, “my own best attempts.”
“In layman’s terms”—I returned his smile—“can you explain what the hypothesis is and Sarah’s approach to solving it?”
“Of course. Generally, the hypothesis involves our understanding of prime numbers. To be precise . . .” He rose from hischair and wrote an equation on the blackboard, talking all the while. It made no sense to me, but as Caleb continued to explain, I tried to follow the larger point of what he was saying. “. . . so the unproved Riemann hypothesis is that all of the nontrivial zeros are actually on the critical line.”
He looked at us hopefully, even expectantly. But when he registered only blank confusion, he clarified his point. “I suppose the details are of no use to you. What is important for you to know is that either to prove—or to disprove—the Riemann hypothesis is considered one of the most interesting problems confronting mathematicians today. David Hilbert, one of the world’s most eminent mathematicians, has listed the Riemann hypothesis as one of twenty-three problems he believes will define twentieth-century mathematics. And Sarah was attempting to tackle it. She was building on the work of another mathematician, named von Koch, who had made an important breakthrough four years ago. If she could have done it, well then, not only would it have been a first rate-dissertation, but it would also have radically altered her future prospects.”
“Altered them how?” I asked, puzzled. It seemed an under-statement in light of
Alistair had pointed me toward my prime suspect, using reasoning and simple logic. But I was growing doubtful that he would be able to deliver Fromley himself with similar ease.
Thursday, November 9, 1905
CHAPTER 7
As soon as we arrived, Professor Richard Bonham, the chairman of the Department of Mathematics, convened an impromptu meeting in his office. His quarters were pleasant, though less amply furnished than those at Alistair’s research center. Since Columbia supplied little in the way of office furnishings, most professors had to procure for themselves whatever items they wanted: furniture, plants, even carpets. But the office’s best feature was a large window that offered an artist’s view of Low Memorial Library’s granite dome rising into the sky.
Professor Bonham did his best to make us feel welcome. “No need to call me professor,” he said, waving off our formal greeting. “That’s for my students; you should call me Richard.”
He was an older man, near sixty by my guess. A dark gray suit that was at least two sizes too big enveloped his rail-thin body. He had lost significant weight since he bought that suit, which made me suspect he was—or had recently been—quite ill.
“This is Caleb Muller, Sarah’s advisor.”
I shook hands with a much younger man who was probably nearer my own age. He had the rugged features and strong build of an outdoorsman, and were it not for his tweed jacket and black-rimmed glasses, he would look out of place in this company.
“And one of our graduate students, Arthur Shaw.” A young man with tousled hair and ruddy cheeks came over to shake hands.
“People call me Artie,” he said shyly.
Richard sat at his desk after directing us toward his paisley-covered armchairs with stiff backs, while the others sat across from us on borrowed wooden desk chairs. We soon found ourselves deep in conversation about the academic dimension of Sarah’s life.
“Yes,” Caleb was saying, “Sarah officially became my advisee when she began her dissertation proposal, but I have unofficially advised her since well before her matriculation here, even while she was an undergraduate at Barnard. Her research centered on the Riemann hypothesis, a mathematical problem that has resisted every attempt to prove it since Riemann first published it in 1859. Even,” he added with a self-deprecating grin, “my own best attempts.”
“In layman’s terms”—I returned his smile—“can you explain what the hypothesis is and Sarah’s approach to solving it?”
“Of course. Generally, the hypothesis involves our understanding of prime numbers. To be precise . . .” He rose from hischair and wrote an equation on the blackboard, talking all the while. It made no sense to me, but as Caleb continued to explain, I tried to follow the larger point of what he was saying. “. . . so the unproved Riemann hypothesis is that all of the nontrivial zeros are actually on the critical line.”
He looked at us hopefully, even expectantly. But when he registered only blank confusion, he clarified his point. “I suppose the details are of no use to you. What is important for you to know is that either to prove—or to disprove—the Riemann hypothesis is considered one of the most interesting problems confronting mathematicians today. David Hilbert, one of the world’s most eminent mathematicians, has listed the Riemann hypothesis as one of twenty-three problems he believes will define twentieth-century mathematics. And Sarah was attempting to tackle it. She was building on the work of another mathematician, named von Koch, who had made an important breakthrough four years ago. If she could have done it, well then, not only would it have been a first rate-dissertation, but it would also have radically altered her future prospects.”
“Altered them how?” I asked, puzzled. It seemed an under-statement in light of
Similar Books
