It's as if you're looking for inspiration all over the world, but the goddess of inspiration is sitting in your living room drinking afternoon tea.
For so long, Andymond and I have been burying our heads in the chaos of possibilities, trying to find where the three wheels start each day. We've gotten so far in cryptography that we've forgotten the higher mathematics that underpins it.
I first studied "group theory" because of its discoverer, the French genius mathematician Galois.
He discovered group theory when he was nineteen.
Twenty died in a duel in a political conspiracy.
The day before he went to the arena, he didn't cry and tremble, nor did he leave the last words to his mother and lover, but wrote all night. He wrote down his life's mathematical gains, and attached a paper to his only friend. It was later discovered that he had scribbled these words over and over again on the margins of the pages - "Time is running out".
It was fourteen years later that people understood the concept of "group" proposed by him and found that it could completely solve the problem of solving algebraic equations with radicals that had troubled mathematicians for hundreds of years.
However, the most brilliant mathematician in the world had already died at the age of twenty.
He has only studied mathematics for five years.
Out of curiosity, I stepped into Gavarro's domain. Unexpectedly, this is a key to open the door of "mystery".
Because "Mi" is actually a permutation group that uses the wheel to permute the twenty-six characters.
If the equation is constructed from the point of view of the theory group, then this equation may have a solution.
Actually even at this point, I still can't decipher it. It's like everyone knows that all roads lead to Rome, but few people actually get there-the calculation is too huge.
Fortunately, a long time ago, I also discovered another fatal weakness of "Mi" - the reflection wheel.
The reflection wheel makes the process of encryption and decryption exactly the same. That is to say, if the letter A is reflected by the reflection wheel to be the letter B, then conversely, the result of the letter B passing through the reflection wheel must be the letter A. This makes the letters of the group permutation relative to each other, which greatly reduces the amount of calculation.
It took about a month from throwing Arnold in the bar after a flash of inspiration to actually finding a way to decipher it.
A month later, I called Linton, and he answered reluctantly: "Alan, I'm busy, I'm deciphering..."
I said: "'Mystery' has been cracked. Come here now and bring as many recently intercepted ciphertexts as you can."
In the evening, before the sun had set, Linton drove a military jeep. He unloaded loads of material from the back seat, panting and exhausted.
I commented: "If Andrew knows that you have stolen so many secrets of this level, he will shoot you."
Linton's eyes were shining: "Mr. Garcia is not here, I am the head of the first office now. If there is not enough information, I will find a way and tell me how to crack it!"
I began to explain with pen and paper, while Linton looked on. To some extent, he is also a genius in mathematics. There are only a few places where I need to ask questions, and the rest of the time he just listens silently. I started to explain in the evening, and when everything was calculated, it was already the next morning.
Linton's face was not as pretty as I expected. He looked at me silently and said, "Alan, you are a genius."
He asked me, "How much do you want? I'll find a way to get it for you...but you have to say that the 'mystery' was deciphered by me."
"I'm not helping you, I'm helping Britain!" I grabbed him and shook: "The point is not who deciphered it, with it, we can get information on German submarines through radio waves! The cargo ship will not be sunk ! American butter and bacon can come in! Our air force and navy..."
"I won't say it." I remembered that Andemon said I was a high-risk person, and sighed: "I can't say it either."
Linton grabbed my sleeve and repeatedly confirmed: "Alan, you really won't say that you deciphered it, really you won't?"
The deciphering of "mystery" is highly confidential, and of course there will be no reports in the newspapers. The next day I opened the morning paper, and it was still reporting the defeat of the Royal Navy, and the atmosphere was gloomy. But I know it won't be long before we get good news.
Instead of good news, I waited for bad news.
First, the Prime Minister ordered all Air Force pilots to enter combat readiness, and the Royal Air Force who were on leave were all recalled. Edgar's vacation was also forced to be cancelled. He wrote me a letter explaining that he couldn't come back to see me in Cambridge in the autumn and reminding me not to approach the black shirts that were all over the streets of London. He drew my face with a pen on the corner of the letter paper, and wrote next to it: "I just remind you, I love you."
Paper is not cheap anymore. I turned his letter over, wrote a reply on the back and sent it back. When the post office came out and walked to Diagon Alley, it was stopped by two gangsters.
One was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and his face could not be seen clearly: "Hey, cutie, come play with me?"
The person next to him had a long scar on his face, and the corners of his mouth twitched when he smiled. He slowly pulled out a gun from his windbreaker: "Don't move, baby."
I turned away and raised my hands.
The man with the gun came over with a lewd smile and held the gun against my back, and the one with the hood stood in front of me, putting his hand inside my coat. I thought he was looking for a wallet, and told him sympathetically that it was in the right pocket—but there was no money.
I really panicked when he started to unbutton my shirt and touch my waist.
The man behind me stabbed me with a gun and said, "What are you afraid of? It's not that you haven't had sex with men before. Aren't you gay?"
I stuttered: "Who are you? How do you know I'm gay?"
The man who unbuttoned my shirt hugged me from the front, and the man behind smiled and stuck close to me. I could clearly feel the calluses on my palms when they touched me. Only people who carry guns often have calluses like this - I've seen it on Anderson's forefinger. Their hot air and dirty words sprayed on my neck together: "Hey, he has a reaction when I pinch my lower body..."
Both men are hard, and I can feel the scorching | heat of their lower bodies through the fabric.
"Moan|groan twice to listen to..."
"Baby, move a little more, yes, it's here..."
"Why is it like a wooden man, Jack touched his place to see?"
Someone unzipped my trousers, put his hand in, and began to twitch violently. I closed my eyes, trying to control my consciousness. My legs were shaking, and if they hadn't lifted me up, I would have fallen to my knees.
Suddenly the person behind scolded: "Damn. I can't do it to the end. I'm hard here."
The person in front cursed something in a hoarse voice, and said, "That's enough, it's good to let you touch it! Let's go!"
The screeching siren pierced the air when they let me go.
The two turned around and disappeared at the end of the alley. I stood alone with my pants up, and saw a middle-aged policeman looking over here.
I was taken to the police station and charged with sodomy|rape.
Edgar said that homosexuality is against the law.
Two men have run away and I can't prove I have a gun on my back. At the same time, my own lower body was under the man's lower body—it was hard.
During the investigation and evidence collection, I discovered that I had never covered up when I was chasing Andymond. Later, when Arnold helped me check the case file records, I found that there was also such a sentence collected in the testimony: Sarah, the waitress in the coffee shop, proved that Alan Custer did have a same-sex lover.
Anderson did say to her when she got me out of the Cherry Bar: "Break up with him. He's gay."
You can imagine how people treated an unemployed gay man in Britain during the war. No matter how I explain it, name-calling, tears that I was framed, it doesn't help - it's been a nightmare. I was told there were only two options - to the hospital or to prison.
People see homosexuality as a disease that needs to be cured.
I wanted to call Linton, and his assistant answered, saying Mr. Brown was not there.
I wanted to ask Arnold for help, only to realize that I didn't have his contact information.
After three days in detention I chose the hospital.
It was a public psychiatric hospital in the East End of London. The cold white stone building, half of the walls are covered with ivy, and the windows are all welded with iron bars. I was placed in the ward of another gay man who had been in treatment for a long time.
The 27-year-old man named Maureen told me: "We can only be released if the doctor issues a discharge notice."
Mo Lin was a fat man with a gloomy personality. He told me that he has been here for a year.
We were locked in the house every day, and only when we were eating and taking medicine, a male doctor would open the door and push the cart in.
For the first week, I was quite normal, thinking that as long as I cooperated with the doctor, I could go out. But I don't know what the medicine that is dispensed every day is, I just feel that it makes me lose control of my emotions and irritable.
When I feel irritable, I think of Andremon. I am like a moldy rag thrown in the corner, Andemon is the only sunshine in my mind.
Passwords don't matter anymore, wars don't matter anymore, I just want to see Andremon.
I want to see him smiling at me again standing under the apple tree outside the library, his emerald green eyes are as beautiful as opals in an antique shop.
My Andrew.
One day Maureen threw the tableware like crazy, throwing the iron dinner plate, knife and fork onto the iron bars in front of the window.
I heard him crying: "I can't fit anymore!"
I comforted her: "You can be like a doctor asking for an oversized dress."
Maureen turned around slowly and stared at me in disbelief: "I didn't mean the clothes. Alan, don't you know?"
It was already November, he was wearing a sweater, and he couldn't see any other shape of his body except being fat. Maureen grabbed his sweater and pulled it up. I was dumbfounded—under his clothes, on top of the heavy fat, there were women's breasts. He was wearing a bra that was too small.
I suddenly felt nauseous, rushed to the corner and started retching.
I heard Maureen say slowly behind me, "They think we like men because we have too much testosterone. Those doctors give us mostly estrogen. You get fatter and grow boobs... You've only been here a month now, nothing has changed. I've been here for a whole year."
Maureen's voice had a bit of a woman's sharpness: "Alan, you will become like this sooner or later."
At that moment the world fell apart. Maureen wasn't crazy, but I was.
I hammered the door like crazy, crying and begging the doctor to let me out.
After I refused to take the medicine, the medicine was added directly to food and water.
If I want to stop the medicine, unless I go on a hunger strike.
At noon on the third day of the hunger strike, meals were delivered as usual. The door of the ward opened again. Over the doctor's back, I saw Arnold.
He came across the corridor in a white coat, and took off a pair of bloody white rubber gloves as he walked, like a surgeon who had just finished an operation. Arnold was laughing, and behind him were several young female nurses, carrying trays covered with gauze.
I haven't eaten for three days, and I have almost lost my ability to think. I just remember rushing out and yelling his name. Two strong male doctors tried to hold me down at the door, and one of them waved his hand to Arnold, saying that there was nothing wrong here: "mentally ill."
I looked at Arnold's back in despair.
Someone knocked something on my head, and I became dizzy immediately.
Suddenly all the movements stopped, and the doctors who were yelling and trying to catch me all stopped, and respectfully stepped aside. I jumped straight on the person closest to me.
"Alan?"
Arnold caught me. He hugged my shoulders with a panicked expression: "Alan, why are you here?"
He patted me on the back reassuringly: "It's okay, Alan, it's okay."
I tried to grab his shoulders, but only the fabric of his clothes. I heard myself almost crying: "Andemon... I want to see Andemon..."
Then I don't remember anything.