The Math Hoax

                                        
            I zipped up my backpack and slung it over the back of my chair.  On the desk in front of me was a manila folder with the words, "DO NOT OPEN" emblazoned on the front.  When the TAs finished passing them out, our professor stepped slowly to the podium.  He appeared to be at least eighty.
 
"Welcome, and congratulations.  Each of you has passed basic calculus.  Not an easy feat!  Basic Arithmetic, then Algebra and Geometry.  Finally, Trigonometry and Calculus.  From the Lebombo Bone to Peano's axioms.  From to Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi's Ilm al-jabr, to Fibonacci's cubes.  Plimpton 322 to Euclid's three dimensions.  Archimedes' parabolas and Newton's infinitesimals... you've learned it, you've used it, you've proved it.   And then we told you a little something about parabolic disorder.  Now, I know..."
 
A woman with dark hair and cat shaped backpack in the front row raised her hand, "Excuse me, sir?"  The professor cleared his throat.  I could not determine if this was due to nervousness or irritation.
 
"Uh, yes, young lady?"
 
"It's just that, uh, you said parabolic disorder.  I'm not sure what you mean."
 
"Oh, my apologies."  He looked over to a short, fat man with a thick head of hair sitting in the corner with a clipboard.
 
The man stood up and walked hurriedly to the front, hunched in deference to the professor.  "Yes, she is right," he intoned, " We didn't get into parabolic disorder.  I thought we were going to wait on that until the presentation."
 
Now I could tell the professor was clearly irritated.  He looked back at the half-full classroom, our eager eyes so full of anticipation.  He forced a smile.  "Right.  I'm used to getting groups who've already got a sense of where I'm about to go.  But OK."
 
He stepped back from the podium and began to pace.  "As I said, 40,000 years ago with Lebombo we have the first evidence that humans began to mark their counts.  Peano described the basic axioms for arithmetic, which billions of school children have been taught all over the world.  It's what most of us use at the grocery store or when baking cookies.  Some of us have need for more demanding calculations, and we have Ilm al-jabr to thank for that.  Building houses, planes and writing software code all relies on what it originally laid out.   When they first found Plimpton 322, they saw where Euclid was coming from and Newton knew where the apples fell.
 
He stopped pacing and looked out at us with intensity.  "But see, what was just mentioned here with regard to parabolics."  He pointed in the general direction of the woman in the front row.  "Well, that was it.  We had reached what appears to be the limits of mathematics."
 
"You might say we followed the fifth postulate as far as it would go."  The professor smiled and let out a small chuckle.  He adjusted his glasses, obviously proud of his little witticism.
 
The students rustled in their seats, uncomfortable as to where this was all heading.
 
"The best mathematicians pushed and pushed.  We lost many good men.  Gauss was the first to fall.  He famously went mad, and they found his body in the Oker.  Lobachevsky and Bolyai ended up in a duel and shot each other fatally.  Families were torn apart after seeing their young going to college and destroying their careers.  So, something had to be done.
 
"A group of mathematicians, calling themselves the International Convention of Concerned Mathematicians (ICCM), came together to address the problem.  They met in secret, in Geneva so as not to worry the public.
 
From somewhere behind me another student asked in confusion, "But why?"
 
"Right, well.  Sure, just let everyone know that that was it - the end of mathematical discovery forever.  Do you realize what that would have meant, how demoralizing it would have been for humanity?  All this war and famine and sickness and the constant, just awful dreariness of existence?  Math was something we could believe in.  Sure, there is God but who believes in him anymore?
 
A muscular young man in my row snorted.  I had been standing near Rick before class began and he was on his phone talking to someone about corn futures in Iowa.  "Whatcheer isn't more than a half an hour.  Tell him he could be in Oskaloosa before Chicago even opens.  Dad's position is good.  Tell them I'll be back in a few weeks but to not doing anything before I get there."
 
He raised his hand and responded, "Uh, I think I know quite a few people in Iowa who would fit the bill."  The class tittered.
 
"OK, sure," the professor continued.  "But Math is such a part of everything we do."  Most people don't do much more than simple addition and subtraction on the first of the month.  But they know we mathematicians have it all under control.  We make the things work that make their lives comfortable.  Their cars, their TVs, their internet, their satellites and airplane systems.  We make things WORK.
 
"Could you imagine humanity suddenly being faced with the reality that this is it, that we aren't going any further?  I don't know.  I just think it would be a shock we wouldn't recover from.
 
Well, at any rate that was the conclusion of the ICCM.  Each of you has a folder in front of you.  Go ahead and open it."
 
The room was silent for a moment as the class seemed to be calculating what was about to happen, processing the words of the professor.
 
I peeled back the adhesive, reached in and pulled out a small packet of legal paper.  On it, just as was written on the outside of the manila folder, were the words DO NOT OPEN.  One student protested that we should heed them.
 
"No, go on ahead.  That's just there as a reminder of how serious this information is."
 
Multiple gasps erupted in the room. 
 
I lifted the first page and read words I'll never forget:
 
The math is not real.
 
I looked around and the entire class was staring towards the old professor in disbelief, rows of brows furrowed.
 
"I know.  It's a lot to take in all at once.  This is why I always thought we should finish the final unit on parabolics with at least a preview of what would come next.  Might be a bit less shocking."
 
The lady with the cat backpack snorted and said exasperatedly, "You can't be serious with this?" She looked around at the rest of us with an awkward smile and asked the class, "This is a joke, right?  He's joking."
 
She was met with a prevaricating silence.  She turned back to the professor.  "Right?"
 
"I'm afraid not, miss.  The greatest minds tried and failed.  We have basic integers, coefficients, polynomials, graphs and such.  But that's I'm afraid all we're ever going to have."
 
The Iowan leaned back deeply, using his broad biceps to push the edge of his desk back with the heel of his palms.  "There's no way this is real.  I know mathematicians, they do all kinds of crazy stuff.  Our course catalogue is filled with higher math.  Calculus II and III, Linear Algebra, Differential Equations.  What are they all doing!!?"
 
The professor stood silently; lips pursed in a slightly wry smile.  He looked like a man for whom things were going exactly as he expected they would.
 
"Um, sir, what about the movies?"  I turned around and saw a middle-aged woman with a simple hair style that fell down over a faded white t-shirt.  "Or on TV.  All those chalkboards with lots of equations all over the place.  I mean, I know it's just fiction.  Or, but on the news, I've seen stories on science where labs have some pretty advanced looking math on the whiteboard.  I usually can't understand it.  What's all of that then?"  The Iowan nodded along.  They looked to the professor, who was now looking down and had resumed his pacing.
 
Without looking up, he continued to pace, allowing a silence to drag over the class. 
 
"It's all made up.  Turn to the third page in your packets."  The class obliged.
 
On page three was a list in three bullets:
 
Rules for Higher-Mathematicians

1. The math does not exist.
2. Tell no one.
3. Use only Provideo.

 
"When you stepped into class today, you were stepping in to a very special, very exclusive group.  You were selected through your proficiency, and we are grateful for your dedication.  But the sad truth is that you have reached the end of the road.  There is no math to learn beyond what you already know.  As future mathematicians, you will be the inheritors of a sacred duty: to keep the story of math alive in the public imagination.  This has not been easy, as you can probably imagine.  But aside from the unavoidable slip-up here and there, I think we have done a pretty good job so far."
 
The professor looked up and his tone became more serious.
 
"One of the first tasks of the ICCM was to develop a system of structures that would be our guideposts in this new reality.  Protocols were developed, networks activated that ensured only the proper channels of communication were used.  Briefings were devised to inform heads of state and captains of industry.  Special departments were tasked to develop materials that would be given to media sources such as journalists and film producers.  They had to have the appearance of complexity.  A sort of arbitrary language was developed.  You know, like Klingon."
 
The class appeared oblivious to this reference.  "From Star Trek?  Their whole language - they made a whole language up.  It was internally consistent, and they used it in the series and films.  I think some fans even learned it.  Imagine that!"
 
The class remained silent.  The professor waved his hand, "OK, before your time.  Whatever.  The point is that they made it up, but it seemed real.  So, the ICCM went to great lengths to do the same thing but for math.  It was sent out globally to every college and university.  Students just like you were given the same packet you know have on your desks.  Turn the page."
 
On the next page, a hyperlink and an email address: my first and last name@provideo.
 
I was about to ask the professor a question myself but before I could get the words out, he went on, providing the answer soon thereafter.
 
"These are the two most important things you will need for the rest of your career.  That link is your access portal to the ICCM's database.  This will be your personal email throughout your career in mathematics."
 
From somewhere behind me the sound of a cup spilling and a student calling out "oh shit."
 
The Iowan, still in a state of shock, "I don't believe it.  This makes no sense.  You said it before - cars, planes, satellites.  The Hubble, the Mars rover.  Carl friggin' Sagan! You're telling me none of that is real?!!"  He stared back at the professor, as if expecting him to reveal at last that this was all some silly first-day-of-the-semester charade.
 
The professor was deadly serious.  "Well, it's complicated."  He then explained that while yes, we did have advanced electronics, the notion that these were based on any higher math than simple calculus was a myth.  Sagan had actually been a high-ranking member of the ICCM.  That wistful, almost sad quality about him was less about the wonder of the universe than the sadness in seeing its mysteries ever-unreachable, locked away behind an impenetrable wall of ignorance.  We were able to land on the moon, to sample the rocks on Mars, but these were simple feats of basic math it turned out.  More fantastic theories such as the distance to stars, the gravity of galaxies and cosmic inflation - all little more than hunches, with little math behind them.  In reality we had no idea what was really beyond our solar system. 
 
And what about atoms and particles, someone asked, dejectedly.  We knew some basic chemistry, but we didn't really know much about the interactions of electrons, much less quantum dynamics, one of the better "fields of study" conjured up by the ICCM. 
 
The cat backpack lady seemed almost ready to cry as the professor spoke, each of his words like the teeth of a chainsaw to her soul.  "What... do we all do, then?"
 
The professor leaned on the podium and took out a small green piece of cloth, with which he then used to clean his glasses. 
 
"You work.  If you want to continue.  You may decide of course to turn around and walk right out that door."  The professor pointed limply.  "You just need to sign the next page, agreeing to the rules.  But for those of you who want to remain, and continue on in a career of mathematics, you will become an employee of the ICCM.  Each quarter you will receive a new packet of materials.  We call it the Provideo.  It is designed by the art department of the ICCM.  Unlike Klingon there is no real logic to it.  It's just a bunch of squiggles and dashes.  Meaningless really.  But you need to memorize it.  It is the most important thing you will do.  You will meet together in your departments at your assigned university or private lab.  There your days will be spent in review, going over each new piece of Provideo until you know it like the back of your hand.  You will put it up on the whiteboards in your workspace, print it out and tape it to checklists, you know, all the kind of busywork stuff the public would expect.  Should you take an interview with a PR team or news anchor or whatever you'll be well equipped to make it all seem quite serious and above board."
 
The student behind me had finished wiping up their spilled drink, had now gathered their things and was heading down the aisle towards the podium.  He looked flustered, and handed his packet to the professor, who looked it over.  "I signed it.  I'm not sure what to think right now.  But... this is a lot.  Thank you."  The door slowly closed on its pneumatic hinge after he left the room.
 
"It's not for everyone.  I know.  It is sad.  I won't lie.  But I hope you'll understand the position of the ICCM.  It's really best for everyone."
 
---
I sat on a park bench outside.  The late morning sun was still working to evaporate the morning's dew.  Passing students laughed and continued on to whatever interesting new studies lay ahead.  Still wearing my backpack, I gripped its straps in my thumbs and pulled it close.  It was heavy with textbooks from the Spanish, Women's Studies and Criminal Justice classes I planned on attending later today.  But no math.
 
There would not be any more math.  I suddenly took note of the geometry in the buildings around me.  A bird swooped by overhead and I thought of how one might calculate its flight path.  How many cubic liters of water in the fountain?  How much plastic feeder line was predicted to be needed in the landscaper's gas-powered trimmer?  All basic math.
 
I looked into the sky, the white whisps of clouds smeared across the nitrogen blue.  Beyond which there were stars.  Or were there?  What was it the professor had said about the solar system and galaxies?  I think we still know they are there, some things, somewhere out there.  But I suppose we'll never know.  I suddenly realized the word for what I was feeling: small.  Everything usually seemed to have a grandeur to it - a bigness.  There was a sort of infinity that transcended reality and we were always searching to discover more of it.  But this was all shattered.  Or not even that.  It wasn't explosive it was implosive.  As if in an instant an eternal outward energy had reversed course and was now turning in on itself.  What was shining, giving off light, was now absorbing it into a deadened kind of gloom.
 
And yet the sun still shone above.  I stood up and began to walk.  My next class, Freud's Old Maid: Sexual Repression in Victorian New York, didn't start until 12:30pm.  I had time to grab lunch.  I was suddenly really hungry all.  I thought about my friend, Barry, and felt a strong urge to call and tell about what had just happened.  I quickly remembered the rules, and the paper I had signed.  I couldn't tell Barry, or anyone else.  I was now part of a worldwide secret society, in possession of a secret knowledge that only a handful of humans would ever know.  That felt kind of good.