Chapter 32: Hope Is a Genius

Lin Ran smiled and shook his hand, replying: Thank you, Sir Lincoln. I’ve long heard of Xiangjiang University’s academic vitality, and I hope my arrival can bring new energy here.

Lin Ran’s English had long been set to the most standard American accent.

The head of the Mathematics Department, Zhang Tianze, stepped forward eagerly and said in Mandarin tinged with Cantonese accent:

“Professor Lin, hello. Our department held a month-long seminar to discuss your paper on the proof of Fermat’s Conjecture.

There are still some unresolved points we hope you can clarify personally.

Your description of birds and frogs has also been widely admired; we also hope to hear your views on learning mathematics and conducting mathematical research.

Moreover, our students are all eagerly looking forward to your seminar.”

His tone carried a hint of reverence—mathematics is such a discipline, where the line between strength and weakness is starkly clear.

Another crucial point is that mathematics is the discipline most reliant on lineage.

In many people’s stereotypes, mathematics seems to rely solely on paper, pen, and books for research, but in reality, it is profoundly dependent on lineage.

Minnesota State University launched a project called MathGenealogyProject, a web-based database dedicated to collecting the academic genealogies of mathematicians, initiated by Harry B. Coonce in the autumn of 1997.

The project gathers information on all mathematicians worldwide, including everyone who has earned a Ph.D. in mathematics.

Among the most famous mathematicians, you can almost always trace back to a master-student lineage.

Göttingen University became a center of mathematics because of Gauss; Soviet mathematics was immensely strong because of the giant Euler; Paris became a center because of Grothendieck and other greats.

Later, Princeton became the center because after World War II, German scientists fled from Göttingen to Princeton.

To Zhang Tianze, Lin Ran—with his Randolph Program—was the kind of mathematician who could lift Xiangjiang University to new heights.

Lin Ran turned to him and replied in standard Mandarin with a faint smile: “Professor Zhang, you flatter me. I’ve come here to discuss mathematics with Hong Kong’s students and hope they may find inspiration.”

He added in Cantonese: “Thank you for your welcome.”

Though his Cantonese was not fluent, it drew warm laughter and applause from the locals.

A member of the Board of Trustees, a wealthy businessman named Mr. Huang, stepped forward and interjected: “Professor Lin, you are the pride of the Chinese people. To have proven a conjecture unproven for centuries, your return to Hong Kong truly brings glory to our people!” His voice boomed, his face beaming.

Because of Lin Ran’s visit, the people of Xiangjiang felt deeply uplifted—partly because he was a globally renowned mathematician, and partly because Cambridge and Oxford had both offered him visiting professorships, yet he had rejected them both and accepted Xiangjiang University.

Even though they shared Chinese heritage, this still greatly boosted Xiangjiang’s morale.

Especially the local Chinese businessmen, who through their connections in the Hong Kong government, knew for certain that Lin Ran’s rejection of Cambridge and Oxford was not rumor but fact.

Lin Ran nodded slightly and replied humbly: “Mr. Huang, you overstate it. I am merely someone who studies mathematics; bringing glory to the Chinese people is an unexpected joy. Here in Xiangjiang, I hope to help the younger generation of Chinese grow together.”

His tone was calm, yet carried an unshakable resolve, causing Mr. Huang to nod repeatedly.

At this moment, the reporters around him could no longer hold back.

First, a reporter from the South China Morning Post pushed forward, his pen nearly touching Lin Ran’s face: “Professor Lin, what are your plans for the seminar? What knowledge will you impart to our students?”

His tone was urgent, yet his English was an exceptionally standard London accent.

Lin Ran chuckled lightly and replied: “I believe the most important thing is to teach them some ways of thinking and some interesting mathematical problems, hoping to spark their curiosity.”

Lin Ran’s answer was flawless.

He couldn’t possibly say: I came here to teach variational methods and optimal control theory related to intercontinental ballistic missile trajectories.

Qian Xuesen was indeed a control theorist; his book Engineering Cybernetics still has practical applications today.

But optimal control theory only formally emerged in November 1960 at the First International Federation of Automatic Control meeting in Moscow, with Bellman’s dynamic programming, Pontryagin’s maximum principle, and Kalman’s LQ theory.

The variational methods Lin Ran planned to teach the seminar students were not even this crude version, but algorithms later proven in the space race.

More precisely, they were algorithms specially optimized for the reality that China lacked computers and relied entirely on manual calculation.

For example, Pontryagin’s maximum principle, proposed in 1956, was used in the design of America’s Redstone rocket and the Soviet R-7 rocket.

But why couldn’t China use it? Because China had no IBM computers to provide computational power.

With only manual calculation, the maximum principle was far too difficult.

And Lin Ran, if he wanted to teach these theories before the public without revealing their connection to aerospace,

how could he disguise missile trajectory optimization as pure academic play using future mathematical language?

Lin Ran did not yet know who China had sent, but he had casually mentioned to Huang Yunji, editor-in-chief of the Chinese American Daily, that he enjoyed working with true geniuses.

“I hope they send a real genius,” Lin Ran thought silently amid the crowd: “Otherwise, I’ll redefine the objective function of optimal flight paths as an extremal problem of functionals, claiming I’m studying extremal properties in abstract spaces.

I’ll package air resistance and thrust as perturbation operators, disguise multi-body gravity as group actions—if he doesn’t understand, I’m done for.”

As the conversation unfolded, more and more students gathered around. Several young people in white uniforms held up handmade signs reading “Welcome, Dr. Lin!”

Someone had drawn a giant “∞” symbol on the ground with chalk, symbolizing mathematics’ infinite allure.

Heads poked out from windows of the teaching building; female students peered through binoculars, whispering to each other:

“Did you see? Did you see?”

“Isn’t he handsome?”

“Laura, let me see your binoculars!”

“He really is handsome, and so young. In these two months, who knows who’ll get the chance?”

“I heard Professor Lin can make Einstein faint just by speaking!”

“He’s a mathematician, not a physicist!”

“Can you even get into his class? I didn’t even dare pick up the application form!”

Laughter and chatter intertwined; the air buzzed with reverence for the great mathematician.