“As I’ve pointed out, the apex of academia,” said Flick. “There’s no debate: Mathematicians have been shown to have the highest I.Q.’s. Higher, I might add, than the psychologists who design the I.Q. tests and undoubtedly give themselves a sizable advantage.”
“You’re a smart guy,” said Milo. “Therefore, you’ll beat the system.”
Flick grinned. “If I was a lottery ticket, Milo, you’d be wise to buy me.”
“Hmm. Parole, then finish your Ph.D.”
“Followed by a post-doctoral fellowship and eventual welcome into the tenure track of a highly ranked institution.”
“Your time behind bars—”
“Will not make a difference. Math is free of irrelevancies. That’s the beauty of it.”
“Hmm,” said Milo. “Too bad it’ll never happen.”
“Your lack of faith is comical, Milo. A few years in some minimum security will not impact—”
“I’m not talking jail, Cameron. I’m talking the Ph.D. The U. booted you out two years five months ago because you could never come up with anything close to original.”
Flick’s pale skin turned gray, the pink rash, beige. His neck tendons—cords he’d severed in other people’s necks—stood out in relief, stiff as pencils.
“You,” he said, extruding words through taut lips, “are stupid and obtuse and ludicrously in error.”
“Not claiming to be a genius, Cameron, but I’m totally on base. Not only were you kicked out of the department, you didn’t make much of an impression while you were there. I’ve spoken to several of your professors. They barely remember you.”
“That,” said Flick, “is…is…you’reblaspheming.”
“Now you’re God?”
“God-like.The mentally gifted are. I was talking when I was ten months old. Taught myself to read at four and a half—”
“Great, Cameron. But looks like you front-loaded your smarts and reachedyourapex at the bachelor’s degree level. Didn’t even earn a master’s. Even a dumb guy like me could do that. M.A. in American Literature. True, it’s not math, but it’s still one degree above you.”
Flick stared. Gripped the table. Opened his mouth, clamped it shut. Produced a small oval aperture in the center of taut, nearly white lips.
“Session over!”
No response from outside the room.
Milo said, “Maybe Deputy Coolidge took your words to heart, Cameron. Superfluous, so why stick around?”
“You,” said Cameron, “are a dolt. A taurine—no, too charitable, you’re aporcinedolt. An obese, slavering, sweaty-faced porcinesaurineadmixture of scale and swine…and…and…”
His lips continued working but nothing came out. Something choking internally.
Unable to come up with more words, he began shaking. Banged a left fist on the table, so hard it had to hurt.
“Session over!”
Milo said, “So there you have it, Cameron. I may be a dolt but I’m a dolt with a master’s. Which you don’t have. But let’s put that aside and talk about Alex here.He’sgot a Ph.D.”
Flick gaped. “Right.”
“This isDr.Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist. Didn’t you get your Ph.D. from the U.?”
I nodded.
“Same place that had no use for you, Cameron. How old were you, Doc, when you earned your degree?”
