Anderson only stayed in Cambridge for three months. He didn't hold a farewell banquet, and he didn't even show up for the final exam. He just left a math problem on the blackboard in the last class.
He smiled and said to the dark crowd of people below the auditorium, shaking the chalk between his fingers: "You have two choices—pass my final exam, or solve this problem before the exam and call me."
Anderson's test questions were so rare that most of them failed. When grade sheets were posted on the bulletin board outside the library, I pushed my way through the crowd and found myself at the top of the failing list.
I strangled Edgar's collar and shook it. Impossible, impossible, I have solved all the problems!
"Perhaps you made a mistake in one step." He could only stop the brush and raised his hands high: "You should go to Professor Wesson to check the paper."
Yet Andremund had gone to Plimpton Manor. He even left on the day of the test, and the test papers were distributed by the teaching assistant.
The teaching assistant is a shy girl who only reaches my shoulders. She turned out my test paper and the report card sent by Andmond, and frowned: "Is that Alan Custer? Your class performance is zero."
Anderson's rule is that the test scores and the attendance rate are 50/50 each. I felt aggrieved: "I remember how many classes I took, how could it be zero? Did I make a mistake somewhere?"
She put away the paper regretfully: "Professor Wesson said that the grades cannot be changed."
Edgar patted me on the shoulder: "You got revenge. What did you do to him?"
I didn't do anything, I just gave him a kiss...
My uncle is very concerned about the report card sent to him by the school. The numbers on it are directly related to my living allowance. So there is only one road left.
"I have only one way to go." I looked at Edgar miserably: "If I fail one subject, I won't even have to eat dry bread next month."
I don't want to knock on Linton's door, but I have no choice.
He lives on the top floor of a youth student apartment. The door was ajar, and when it was pushed open, it was empty and there was no one there. The window was open, and there was a table painted light blue, the paint was a little peeling. There was a pile of papers scattered on the table, and the moment the door was opened, it suddenly flew up due to the air circulation. I grabbed one in my hand, with a bunch of numbers and formulas scrawled on it.
The pen rests on the paper, the ink bottle cap is open. I kicked the bed board, dragged out a person from below, and said desperately: "Linton, we must join forces."
The youth under the bed are more desperate than I am. His beard hadn't been shaved in a week, and his hair was a mess of grass. He asked the landlord for bacon and coffee, and after finishing eating in one sitting, he adjusted his glasses and calmed down: "Alan, I can't figure it out."
Linton and I are middle school alumni, and our acceptance letters arrived on the same day. His grades are always the first in the school, he is a genius in mathematics, and he has independently demonstrated a well-known theorem. One of his pleasures is to squat on the side of the playground with grass-like hair and watch others play rugby, and calculate whether the ball can hit the goal according to the angle and strength of the throw.
I happened to pass by one day and heard him shout, "You can come in!"
I said, "It's crooked."
Sure enough, the ball went wide. Linton asked me why, according to his algorithm, he could score a goal.
"Because it's windy." I replied lazily.
From now on we are enemies. His total score is the first in the school, and I can only take the first place in mathematics. But until graduation, his math has never surpassed me.
I failed this exam because of Andermond's intentional revenge, and Linton failed because he really missed too many classes. When encountering a math problem that I can't solve, I usually squat at the door of the library to watch the girls coming and going, and wait for the inspiration to take the initiative to patronize. His approach was more extreme—getting under the bed, blocking out all the light with the sheets pulled down, and thinking about problems in complete darkness. Can't find the answer and won't come out from under the bed.
If the problem was hard, he would stay under the bed all day and skip anyone's class.
"How long were you under the bed this time?" I asked.
Linton tore a piece of bread: "I don't remember, it seems like I went in on Tuesday."
Three days... I think.
"It's the question that Professor Wesson wrote on the blackboard." He shrugged and turned his head to stare at my face: "It involves Waring. Alan, I know what you want to do, but I want to tell you, It’s impossible for us to solve that problem.”
I knew that Andrew wrote a problem on the blackboard, two lines, but I didn't know it was Warren's problem.
This is a conjecture about the square of positive integers proposed by E. Warren in 1770, and no one has been able to demonstrate it for nearly two hundred years.
I sat in the library in deep despair. I have searched all the books related to Warren's theorem, but I have no clue. Edgar came to comfort me and advised me to give up and forget it. He will lend me living expenses next month.
I laughed at him: "Where did you get the money? Are you selling paintings?"
In the end, he nodded seriously: "At least I can still sell paintings. You can't make any money, and you've ruined your health. Why don't you go back with me. World-class math problems won't be easily demonstrated by sophomores." .”
"You look awful, you can't be a model for me any longer - I don't want to be drawing skeletons all day long," he said.
I've been sitting in the library for two weeks with manuscript paper stacked half a foot high. I don't know if it was a mistake, but the conditional calculus given by Anderson is subtly different from the classic Warren's theorem, which resulted in the missing of a key number at the end of the calculation.
What's missing is a six-digit number, and I'm at a loss.
I wanted to give Linton a call (he had one installed in his youth apartment) and went to the public phone booth. My mind was full of those six numbers, and by accident, I pressed them in as a phone number.
After a while, a sweet and soft female voice came from the other end of the phone: "Hi, this is Plimpton Manor."
I stood stiffly in the phone booth with the receiver in hand, when I heard the other party ask, "Who are you looking for?"
"Professor Wesson," I said.
"Professor Wesson is not here." The female operator seemed a little confused: "This is the direct line from Consultant Garcia."
"There isn't a man named Anderson Wesson here? I, I remember Professor Wesson said last month that he would come to work here."
"Are you from Cambridge?" Perhaps I was acting too student-ish, and the operator laughed. Who did she say to on the other end of the phone: "Mr. Garcia, some students really found us. Can you please come over as soon as possible?"
I heard Andrew's voice: "Ask for my name. If the last name is Custer, tell him the typo is wrong."
I swallowed and tried to keep my voice steady when the female operator asked, "Linton, my name is Linton Brown."
The next afternoon I took a ride to London and found Plimpton Manor in the suburbs.
It is the summer of June, and the old locust trees beside the boulevard are in full bloom. Get out of the car and walk along the main road to the end is Plimpton Manor. The weather was a bit hot, so I unbuttoned the first two buttons of my shirt while walking. Looking in from the iron gate, there is an old red brick building inside, with many green vines hanging from the low walls, swaying slightly in the warm afternoon wind. Among the numerous estates on the outskirts of London, it stands out inconspicuously.
If it weren't for the soldiers with guns at the iron gate.
I gave my name, and after a while a woman in a shirt and trousers came out and led me in. At that time, women rarely wore shirts and trousers, so her pretty face and plump figure left a deep impression on me.
"My name is Annie, Mr. Garcia's assistant." From the voice, she was the woman who answered my call yesterday. It turned out that it was not the operator, but the female assistant.
Annie led me through most of the manor and into an independent red brick building: "Mr. Garcia is our general counsel, and he will talk to you in person later."
She pushed open the door of an office and told me to wait inside.
Ten minutes later, Andemon walked in.
When he opened the door and saw me, he froze for a moment and frowned: "Alan, you shouldn't be here."
I was also shocked: "Aren't you the one who created functional analysis Professor Anderson Wesson?"
He took off his tie and put it on the back of the chair: "To be precise, I am both Andreas Vinson and Andreas Garcia. It depends on whether I am in academia or in Plimpton Manor."
Edgar was right that Anderson could not have expected a second-year Cambridge mathematics student to demonstrate two hundred years of mathematical riddles. He set a password in this puzzle, hoping that someone could find it out from the numbers and guess the correct way to use it.
In other words, what he came up with was not a math problem, but a password problem.
But Andrew didn't give me a chance to explain, he just threw me out. The beautiful assistant was guarding the door, and I watched Andermeng sitting at the large desk processing documents helplessly, but I couldn't take a step forward.
"You said that if you understand the questions, you will pass." I protested.
Andemont didn't raise his head: "You have passed the exam now, I'll call the school right away, and I can go back."
"You don't have the right to give me a zero on my usual grades - this is naked | blatant retaliation!"
His writing pen paused: "I don't remember anything worthy of revenge for you."
Then he really never said a word to me again.
By the time Andemont came out of the office, it was already dark. The air at night was a little muggy. Andymond seemed surprised to see me still standing against the wall.
"Honey, I thought you might not want to let me go, so I stayed." I leaned against the wall and shook my legs: "My parents are cryptography researchers, so I can guess a little bit. This is not an ordinary manor, it should be It is a place similar to the Cryptographic Research Institute under our intelligence agency. You are short of people, and the shortage is very serious, so you come to Cambridge to select people. You see, I know the location of your confidential research institute, and I even visited inside... "
Andemont said softly, "Continue."
His emerald green eyes stared at my face, staring at my back in midsummer. I shut up.
He sighed: "Come with me for dinner."
There is a comfortable and bright restaurant on the second floor, which should be dedicated to the general counsel. I didn't do anything, I ordered fried eggs with ham and cold meat and a large piece of toast. Andymond ate very little after working all day, and drank three cups of black coffee.
"It's not good for the stomach." I reminded him: "My mother also has the habit of drinking black coffee. When I was a child, I remember that she often had a stomachache and couldn't sleep."
Andmond put down the coffee cup and smiled: "Your eyes are very similar to Mrs. Custer's, especially when you are serious. I have met her before, and she is a great cryptography expert."
I didn't know that Anderson had met my mother, and when my parents were mentioned in our first meeting, he acted as if they were unfamiliar.
Andemon looked particularly tired, so I asked him, "Do you eat so late every day?"
He leaned on the chair and raised his head, raised the back of his hand to cover his eyes: "'Mystery', it's too difficult to untie."
He said: "You're right, Allen. This place belongs to the secret agency MI6. Internally it is called the Cipher Academy, and externally we usually refer to it as the Golf and Chess Research Institute. The trend of Germany is very unpredictable. In order not to repeat the tragedy of war, There is an important cipher we must break. Poland intercepted the German cipher machine, and the Russians intercepted the old German cipher book, but they all failed. Now the "mystery" cipher machine and a copy of the old code book are sent to When it comes to us, the UK cannot give up this opportunity to crack. We really lack talents."
So it was pre-arranged that Andrew came to Cambridge to teach for three months, in order to select excellent decryptors for MI6. There are two ways he expects to be selected, one is the top three in the test scores, and the other is to find his contact information hidden in the question.
I did well in the exam, and Andremeng probably got tired of being chased by me, and his class score was directly zero, but I didn't expect that I still chased here.
It was too late to go back that day, so Annie arranged a room for me to rest for the night. The next day Andremon drove me back in person. It was an upscale black limousine. I don't know the name of the car, but I remember that there were not many private cars at that time, and they were very eye-catching on the street, giving people the illusion that we were driving together.
When he arrived in Cambridgeshire, he suddenly said, Ellen, you must forget everything you said yesterday. Just act like you've never heard of it.
Andemont parked the car downstairs in my room, I knocked on his window after getting out of the car and said: "Andemont, I love you, I mean it. If it's really that hard to be a fan, I'd be happy Help you share."
He bent his eyes and smiled, suddenly got out of the car at the other end, walked around the car and walked towards me. Before I could react, he pushed me against the car window.