The mathematics that covered the walls and floor of Herman Zindel's office was, as far as Alan Charterhouse was concerned, extraordinary. As enthusiastic as he was, however, he had to be careful; Aetheric Geometry was a heresy, punishable by death. A scientific heretic didn't even get the benefit of a trial. If Beckett suspected that Alan had been dabbling in higher-plane geometry, he could simply take out his revolver and shoot him in the head.

"This is...well." Alan swallowed hard. He was looking at a group-theory proof that went a long way to solving a harmonic symmetry equation he'd been working on for a year. It was just as well his uncle was going mad. He'd have been furious if he'd recognized the mathematics scrawled in Alan's journals and on the backs of old maps. "Obviously, my father knows...knows a lot more about this sort of thing..."

"We haven't got your father." Beckett was nothing if not blunt.

"We've got you. Tell me what you can."

What am I supposed to say? Alan thought. That Zindel was coming close to re-creating Wolfram's translation formula? He had a sudden vision of his brains splattered all over the chalkboard, smearing Zindel's brilliant proofs. "It's definitely....definitely Aetheric Geometry. I mean, you don't...don't see anything like this ins...in standard cartographic or engineering applications."