In every test but one. One of Carl's graduate students had attempted to reconcile the Wolgren rule with census data for his doctoral thesis - queerly, the subject seemed never to have been covered. The boy had failed. He had found another subject, got his degree and was now happily designing communications systems for the TV syndicates, but in failing he had produced a problem worth the attention of a first-rate mathematician; and Carl had offered it to Cornut.
Cornut had worked on it, in his own after-hours time, for six months. Incomplete as it was, the report gave Master Carl three hours of intensive enjoyment. Trust Cornut to do a beautiful job! Carl followed every step, mumbling to himself; cocking an eyebrow at the use of chi-squared until it was proved by a daring extension of Gibb's phase-analysis rule. It was the mathematical statement that concerned him, not the subject of census figures themselves. It was only when he had finished the report and sat back, glowing, that he wondered why Cornut had thought it was not finished. But it was! Every equation checked! The constants were standard and correct, the variables were pinned down and identified with page after page of expansions.
'Very queer,' said Carl to himself, staring vacantly at the bench where his X-ray film was quietly soaking up electrons. 'I wonder—'
He shrugged, and attempted to dismiss the problem. It would not be dismissed. He thought for a moment of calling in Cornut, but stopped himself; the boy would not be back from his visit to Locille's family, and even if he were it was no longer feasible to burst in on him.
Dissatisfied, Master Carl read again the last page of the report. The math was correct; this time he allowed the sense of it to penetrate: 'Of n births, the attained age of the oldest member of the population shall equal n times a constant e-log q.' Well? Why not?
Carl was irritated. He glanced at his clock. It was only ten. Frowning, he buttoned his jacket and went out, leaving lights on, door open, report open on the desk ... and the X-ray film still firmly taped to its gamma-emitting paper.
No one answered his knock on Cornut's door, so Carl, after a moment's thought, pushed it open. The room was empty; they had not returned from the texas.
Carl grumbled at the night proctor and dropped in the elevator to the campus. He thought a stroll might help. It was chilly, but he scarcely noticed. The q quantity, was there something wrong with that? But its expansions were all in order. He recalled, as clearly as though they were imprinted on the wall of the Administrative Building ahead of him, the equations defining q; he even remembered what quantities those equations involved. Public health, warfare, food supply, a trickily derived value for the state of the public mind ... they had all been in the accompanying tabulations.
'Good night, Carl-san.'
He stopped, blinking through the woven iron fence. He had reached the small encampment where the aborigines were housed; the captain, whatever his name was, had greeted him. 'I thought you people were off - ah, lecturing,' he finished lamely. 'On exhibition,' he had been about to say.
'Tomorrow, Carl-san,' said the waffle-faced man, offering Carl a long, feathered pipe. That had been in the briefing; it was a peace pipe, a quaint and for some reason, to the anthropologist a surprising, custom of the islanders. Carl shook his head. The man - Carl remembered his name; it was Masatura-san - said apologetically, 'You softspeak hard, sir. I smell you coming long way yesterday.'
'Really,' said Carl, not hearing a word. He was thinking about e-log and the validity of applying it; but that was all right too.
'Softspeak brownie not smell good,' the man explained seriously.
'No, of course not.' Carl was wondering about the values for a, the age factor in the final equation.
Tai-i Masatura-san said, growing agitated, 'Cornut-san smell bad also, St Cyr-san speak. Carl-san! Not speak brownie!'
Master Carl glanced at him. 'Certainly,' he said. Good night.' After him the tai-i called beseechingly, but Carl still did not hear; he had realized what it was that was unfinished about Cornut's report. The numerical values had been given for every quantity but one. It was still early; he did not intend to sleep until he had that one remaining value...
Cornut, with his arm around Locille, yawned into the face of the red moon that hung over the horizon. It was growing very late.
They had to take the ferry to the city and wait to transfer; the only direct popper from the texas to the city was in mid-morning, and Locille's family had no place to put them up. Nor, if they had, would Cornut have stayed. He needed time to become accustomed to domesticity; it was too many things at once; bad enough that he should have to interrupt his routine to accommodate Locille's presence in his room.
But it was, on the whole, worth while.
The University was under them now, the cables of the Bridge lacing the red moon, the lights from the Administration Building bright in the dark mass of towers.
It was odd that the Administration Building should be lighted.
Drowsily Cornut looked, out of the corner of his eye, at the neat, sleepy head of his wife. He did not know if he liked her better or worse as a member of a family. The parents -dull. Amiable, he supposed, but he was used to brilliance.
And her brother was an unfortunate accident, of course, but he had been so enchanted with the rag Locille had brought him, like a child, like an animal. Cornut was not quite pleased to be related to him. Of course, you couldn't choose your relatives. His own children, for example, might be quite disappointing...
His own children! The thought had come quite naturally; but he had never had that particular thought before. Involuntarily he shivered, and looked again at Locille.
She said sleepily, 'What's the matter?' And then, 'Oh. Why, I wonder what they want.'
The ferry was coming in close, and on the hardstand several men were standing patiently, behind them a police popper, its blades still but its official-business light winking red. In the floodlights that revealed the landing X to the pilot, Cornut vaguely recognized one of the men, an administration staffer; the others all wore police uniforms.
'I wonder,' he said, glad that he didn't have to explain the shudder. 'Well, I'll sleep well tonight.' He took her hand and helped her, unnecessarily but pleasurably, down the steps.
A squat uniformed man stepped forward. 'Master Cornut? Sergeant Rhame. You won't remember me, but—'
Cornut said, 'But I do. Rhame. You were in one of my classes, six or seven years ago. Master Carl recommended you; in fact, he was your advocate at the orals for your thesis.'
There was a pause. 'Yes, that's right,' said Rhame. 'He wanted me to apply for the faculty, but I'd majored in Forensic Probabilistics and the Force had already accepted me, and— Well, that's a long time ago.'
Cornut nodded pleasantly. 'Good to see you again, Rhame. Good night.' But Rhame shook his head.
Cornut stopped, a quick, vague fear beginning to pulse in his mind. No one enjoys the sudden knowledge that the policeman in front of him wants to discuss official business; Rhame's expression told Cornut that that was so. He said sharply,'What is it?'
Rhame was not enjoying himself. 'I've been waiting for you. It's about Master Carl; you're his closest friend, you know. There are some questions—'
Cornut hardly noticed Locille's sudden, frightened clutching at his arm. He stated, 'Something's happened to Carl.'
Rhame spread his hands. 'I'm sorry. I thought you knew. The lieutenant sent word to have you called from the texas; probably you'd left before the message got there.' He was trying to be kind, Cornut saw. He said, 'It happened about an hour ago - around twelve o'clock. The President had gone to bed - St Cyr, I mean. Master Carl came storming into his residence - very angry, the housekeeper said.'