The Tree of Knowledge Daniel Miller (best android ereader TXT) 📖

While his peers played football in T-shirts and jeans, tussling in the dirt, Albert would stroll along the sidewalk, clad primly in khaki pants, a well-pressed shirt, and suspenders, his glasses perched on his oversized nose while he solved math equations or puzzles. Of course, the neighborhood boys found this intensely annoying and took the necessary steps, which usually entailed dropping “little Alby” in the nearest neighbor’s garbage bin. Much to their chagrin, he refused to perform the requisite crying and cursing that these bullies had come to expect from their victims. No, Albert would simply dust himself off and glance at his watch with a look of deep annoyance, like a businessman waiting for a delayed train. Eventually, the boys turned their attention to more expressive targets.

Still, those boys never entirely forgot about Albert, and every time he walked down the street, he could sense those eyes . . . staring and sizing him up like prey. The knowledge that, at any moment, those eyes could choose action and that, within seconds, he could be dumped in another garbage can heightened Albert’s tension in a crowd or in front of an audience. A tension that returned to him this morning as he raised his quivering hands to his immaculately tied bow tie, grabbed the bright-blue Expo marker in front of him, and wrote on the enormous lecture hall whiteboard.

Introduction to Logic

Albert saw his reflection in the whiteboard and felt the sweat beading around his freckled cheeks and light-brown hairline. His boyish face had finally begun to wrinkle, and the wrinkles—few as they were—gave him an added gravitas, or so he thought.

It’s September, why is it so hot? He wiped the sweat from his aquiline nose. And more important, what was I thinking, wearing a wool suit? Vanity . . . so irrational.

“Good morning, everyone. I am Professor Puddles, and this is Introduction to Logic,” he said in a slightly cracked voice while scanning the room for the few students who would inevitably smirk at his last name. Albert had noticed a very high correlation between students who smirked at his name and those who eventually dropped the class. Of course, correlation did not imply causation, but it was interesting nevertheless.

“Let me begin by thanking you all for enrolling in my class. I’m keenly aware that Introduction to Logic is not, at first glance, the ‘sexiest’ class on the Princeton syllabus. However, I will submit to you today that logic is indeed sexy. Logic is fact in a world of fiction, truth in a society of lies, and light in the shadows. Logic will never betray you, deceive you, or disappoint you. It will guide you and illuminate your path ahead. Logic provides the loyalty, security, and friendship that many of you hope to find in a spouse someday. What could be sexier than that?”

While Albert discoursed on the beauty of logic, his graduate assistant crept through the cracked door. Ying was a PhD student in mathematics who, like Albert, had won the Junior Mental Calculation World Championship when she was younger. His mentor had insisted that Albert take her under his wing due to their shared skill. He enjoyed working with Ying but found her to be a hopelessly messy thinker. Her round, cherubic face a clear reminder of her occasional lack of dietary discipline. Her floral dress and flip-flops, a nod to an almost reckless spontaneity. And her music . . . the endless boy band pop love ballads . . . absurd. Still, Albert did notice that despite Ying’s failure to appreciate the beauty and order of logic, the office always seemed a little cheerier when she was around.

“Excuse me, Professor Puddles,” said Ying in her singsong voice. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

Albert clenched his jaw. “I’m a little busy here, Ying.”

“I know, but it’s really important.”

“OK, what is it?”

Ying looked around the giant lecture room, raised her eyebrows, and cautiously pressed, “It would probably be better to talk about this outside.”

Albert glanced at his watch. His lecture was already one minute behind schedule, and he would never get back on track if he left the room. “Ying, you can just say it. I have nothing to hide from my brilliant students,” he said as he grandly gestured around the room.

Ying looked around the lecture hall once more, shrugged her shoulders, and in the most upbeat tone she could muster, said, “A police officer is here.”

“And . . .”

“Well . . . he says . . . he says that there was a murder last night and . . . and that you might know something about it.”

Chapter 3

Albert excused himself, and slid out the creaky lecture hall door with Ying following behind. The ancient hardwood floors of Princeton’s Fine Hall creaked as the two strode down the hallway toward his office. The building’s name had been changed to Jones Hall, thanks to a beneficent donor, but he preferred to think of it by the name it bore during its glory days. Fine Hall was a source of calm in an otherwise disordered place. Every time Albert strolled down the enormous, sterile white hallways, he pictured the giants of mathematics at work. He saw Einstein holding court on his theory of relativity; John Nash working the chalkboards at the library late into the night; the great logician Alonzo Church carefully erasing the blackboard in his classroom until the last speck of chalk was gone before beginning his lecture.

Yet, on this day, the tightly cinched knot in the bottom of Albert’s stomach choked his ability to appreciate his surroundings. His mind sparked with calculations regarding what this tragic event could have to do with him.

A murder?

I might know something about it?

I don’t even know any police officers. I’ve never done anything illegal in my life.

What could this possibly have to do with me?

“What else did the officer say?” Albert asked Ying.

“That was about it. He just said that a security guard had been killed during a