The Second Smartest Person in the World

When I first encountered Sir Archimedes Plunkington-Biffin (known merely as Plunky to his friends), more than fifty years ago, he claimed, with a degree of arrogant certainty that quite unnerved me, to be the smartest person in the world. I later discovered that Plunky was only the second smartest person in the world, but I was, nevertheless, hugely impressed by the apparently boundless range of his mental abilities. It seemed that he comprehended the underlying workings of the cosmos as deeply as any person could. While he never excelled in displays of humility, and was decidedly lacking in any form of charm, he did make his mark as a relentlessly active thinker.

I once asked Plunky whether, in his opinion, everything around us, everything that we, as humans, are able to see and hear and touch, actually is as it generally appears to be, to which he replied, following a period of deep thought, "Yes, quite probably it is, or perhaps I should say, in the interest of greater clarity, maybe it is." To have it explained to me in such an eminently forthright manner, without the burden of any unnecessary attempts at half-baked philosophy, caused it all to become thoroughly clear in my mind. I regarded myself as being extremely fortunate to have the chance to avail myself of such rare wisdom.

In another instance, which now constitutes a painful memory, I asked Plunky why it was that lemonade had such a pleasing taste, prompting him to reply, quickly and in a sharp tone of unmistakable repugnance, "That is one of the most abundantly silly questions that I have ever heard, and therefore is a question that is, if I may take the liberty of boldly saying so, patently unworthy of a serious answer." The sudden harshness of Plunky's disdain mortified me, making me feel awkward and ashamed, as if I had committed an unpardonable offense. A considerable length of time had to pass before I could summon the courage to look him in the eye again.

Although I thereafter continued to maintain a passing acquaintance with Sir Archimedes Plunkington-Biffin, conversing with him in a casual way, every now and then, whenever the opportunity happened to present itself, I did not dare to make any further inquiries of him. I was constantly fearful of repeating my past mistake, sorely afraid that I would, without meaning to, ask another "silly question" and come across as utterly foolish. Having been so unlucky as to suffer the full wrath of his unforgiving intellect once, I did not want to suffer it again. It seems that I shall never find out why lemonade has such a pleasing taste.