He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "Timmy Warden. Gathering material. That has the sound of a book. Was he allowed to live long enough to give you enough material?"
"Timmy and some others. They all died there in the camp. I was there, too. I almost died, but not quite."
"Sit down. I'm perfectly willing to talk about him. I take it you're not a professional."
"No, sir."
"Then this, as a labor of love, should be treated with all respect. Ruth knows as much about Timmy as any person alive, I should say."
"She told me a lot. And I got a lot from Timmy. But I need more. She said you were interested in him."
"I was. Mr. Howard, you have probably heard of cretins who can multiply two five digit numbers mentally and give the answer almost instantaneously."
"Yes, but—"
"I know. I know. Timmy was no cretin. He was a very normal young man. Almost abnormally normal if you sense what I mean. Yet he had a spark. Creative mathematics. He could sense the—the rhythm behind numbers. He devised unique short cuts in the solution of traditional class problems. He had that rare talent, the ability to grasp intricate relationships and see them in pure simple form. But there was no drive, no dedication. Without dedication, Mr. Howard, such ability is merely facility, an empty cleverness. I hoped to be a mathematician. I teach mathematics in a high school. Merely because I did not have enough of what Timmy Warden was born with. I hoped that one day he would acquire the dedication. But he never had time."
"I guess he didn't."