“Speaking of algebra,” he said. (The crew smiled. They very much liked that “speaking of.” It seemed to them so enthrallingly illogical.) “In my day one very quaint instructor gave the lectures on the history of mathematics. He would stand by the board”—the teacher started to demonstrate—”and begin, ‘Even the ancient Greeks knew that (a+b)2 equals a2 plus 2ab plus—’” The teacher looked at his imaginary notes. “‘Plus… uhhh… b2.’”
The crew broke out into laughter. The seasoned spacemen looked at Teacher. They were in raptures. They thought this man was great and simple, like the world.
“But now look at what curious things sometimes happen with (a+b)2,” the teacher said, and sat down. Everyone crowded around him.
There began that without which the crew could no longer live and the teacher would not want to—the adventures of numbers in space and time. A mistake in a coefficient threw a ship off course and plunged it into a black abyss from which there would be no return for the man who had put a plus instead of a minus before the radical; a cumbersome, horrible-looking polynomial broke up into astonishingly simple factors, and Lin yelped in distress, “Where were my eyes? How simple!”; there resounded the strange, solemn-funny stanzas of Cardano, who had described in verse his method of solving cubic equations; the incredibly mysterious story of Fermat’s Last Theorem rose up from the depths of history…
Then the teacher said, “Fine, boys. Now you can see: if you can reduce all of your problems in life to polynomials, they’ll be solved. At least approximately.”
“I wish I could reduce them to polynomials,” burst out Pol, who had suddenly remembered that tomorrow he wouldn’t be here, that he had to leave Teacher, perhaps forever.
“I read you, Comrade Computerman,” the teacher said affectionately. “The most difficult part is putting the question properly. Six centuries of mathematical development will do the rest for you. And sometimes you can get along even without the mathematics.” He was silent for a moment. “Well, boys, shall we have a four-one fight?”
“Zow!” the crew exploded, and dashed out of the room, because for the game four-one you needed room, and soft ground underfoot. Four-one was an exacting game, demanding great intelligence and an excellent knowledge of the ancient holds of the sambo system of combat. The crew worked up a sweat, and Teacher threw off his jacket and collected himself a few scratches. Then they all sat under a pine on the sand and rested.
“On Pandora a scratch like that would call for an emergency alarm,” the teacher informed them, looking at his palm. “They’d put me in isolation in the med section, and would drown me in virophages.”
“But what if a crayspider bit off your hand?” Pol asked with sweet horror.
The teacher looked at him. “A crayspider doesn’t bite like that,” he said. “It couldn’t get a hand into its mouth. Anyway, now Professor Karpenko is working on an interesting little thing which makes virophages look like kid games. Have you heard about bioblockading?”
“Tell us!” The crew were all ears.
Teacher started to tell them about bioblockading. The crew listened with such fascination that Tenin felt sorry that the world was so enormous, and that he couldn’t tell them right now about everything known and unknown. They listened without stirring, hanging on his every word. And everything was very fine, but he knew that the ladder made from sheets was waiting in the cabinet, and he knew that the Captain—at least the Captain!—knew this too. How to stop them? Tenin thought. How? There were many ways, but none of them were any good, because he had not only to stop them, but to make them understand why they must stop themselves. There was also one good way. One, at least. But for that he would need a night, and a few books on the regeneration of atmospheres, and the complete plan of the Venus project, and two tablets of sporamine in order to last it out. The boys couldn’t leave that night. And not that evening either—the Captain was intelligent and saw a good deal. He saw that Teacher was onto something, and maybe onto everything. So I’ll do without night, thought the teacher. But give me just four or five hours. I’ve got to hold them back, keep them busy, for that long. How?
“Speaking of love of neighbor,” he said—and the crew once more rejoiced in that ‘speaking of’—”what do you call a person who picks on those weaker than himself?”
“A parasite,” Lin said quickly. He could not express himself more strongly.
“The three worst things are a coward, a liar, and a bully,” recited Athos. “Why do you ask, Teacher? We never have been, and we never will be.”
“I know. But in the school it happens… sometimes.”
“Who?” Pol jumped up. “Tell us, who?”
The teacher hesitated. Actually, what he planned to do was foolish. To involve the boys in such a matter meant risking a good deal. They were hot-headed and could ruin everything. And Teacher Schein would be justified in saying something not very pleasant regarding Teacher Tenin. But he had to stop them and…
“Walter Saronian,” the teacher said slowly. “But this is hearsay, boys. Everything has to be carefully verified.” He looked at them. Poor Walter! Knots of tension moved across the Captain’s cheeks. Lin was terrible to behold.
“We’ll check it out,” Pol said, his eyes narrowing meanly. “We’ll be very careful.”
Athos exchanged glances with the Captain. Poor Walter!
“Let’s talk about volcanoes,” proposed the teacher. And he thought, It will be a little hard to talk about volcanoes. But I think I’ve hit on the natural thing to hold them back until dark. Poor Walter! Yes, they’ll verify everything very carefully, because the Captain doesn’t like to make mistakes. Then they’ll go looking for Walter. All that will take a lot of time. It’s hard to find a twelve-year-old after supper in a park that occupies four hundred hectares. They won’t leave until late evening. I’ve won my five hours, and… oh, my poor head! How are you going to cram in four books and a six-hundred-page plan?
And Teacher Tenin started telling them how in eighty-two he had happened to take part in the extinguishing of the volcano Stromboli.
They caught up with Walter Saronian in the park, by the pond. This was in one of the park’s most remote corners, where not every smallfry would venture, and therefore only a few knew about the pond’s existence. It was spring-fed, with dark deep water in which, fins moving, large yellow fish rested between the long green water-lily stems stretching up from the bottom. The local hunters called the fish bliamb, and shot them with homemade underwater rifles.
Walter Saronian was stark naked except for a face mask. In his hands was an air pistol that shot jagged-edged darts, and on his feet were red and blue swim fins. He stood in a haughty pose, drying off, with his mask pushed up on his forehead.
“We’ll get him wet for a start,” whispered Pol.
The Captain nodded. Polly rustled the bushes and gave a quiet, low-pitched cough. Walter did exactly what any of them would have done in his place. He pulled the mask over his face and, wasting no time, dove without the least splash into the water. Slow ripples swept over the dark surface, and the water-lily leaves placidly rose and sunk a few times.