New Eden

by Kishore Tipirneni

  “Einstein was wrong,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Everything . . . is . . . information.”

  Bowman collapsed a second time as the shocked audience looked at the ghastly scene. Joshua grasped Dr. Bowman’s hand to afford him some comfort.

  Rachael and Vinod looked at each other in disbelief. They said nothing.

  4

  Your Not-So-Average Scientific American

  (five years later)

  The radio was on in the Toyota Prius as Rachael Miller drove through the gray, slick streets of Berkeley, California. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, removing fat raindrops from the windshield at a tempo that perfectly matched “Sweet Emotion” by Aerosmith. Vinod had been mildly shocked that Rachael, despite their five-year friendship, knew almost nothing about lead band member Steven Tyler. She had programmed a classic rock channel on her Sirius XM to rectify all problems related to her ongoing education in classic rock music although she occasionally switched to a classical station to listen to string quartets by Mozart, Bach, Haydn, and other composers. She loved the complex yet pleasing interplay among two violins, viola, and cello. To the discerning ear, the instruments were definitely communicating with each other.

  The weather was apparently causing static as the words of “Sweet Emotion” began to cut in and out, so Rachael gave a voice command to the radio. “Alexa, change to CNN.” It was time, she thought, to catch up on the news. The New Horizons spacecraft was currently taking images of a newly-discovered planetesimal at the edge of the Kuiper belt. She planned on writing an article on the two dozen known dwarf planets beyond the orbit of Pluto, and the spacecraft’s latest discovery, Cassandra Prime, would be featured in her opening paragraph. She thought to herself that if New Horizons had been launched with a Bowman sphere, which was the name now given to the glass spheres that contain spookyons, the imaging team at JPL wouldn’t have to wait the six hours it was taking to receive the spectacular images of the planetesimal made of ice, rock, and frozen gases. The news, however, matched the dreary day in terms of content.

  “This is Dan Boyd with CNN, and our top story at this hour concerns the alarming Ebola outbreak in Malaysia. The World Health Organization estimates that the number of infected individuals has exceeded one thousand. Healthcare workers on the ground in Malaysia are having trouble stemming the outbreak since the most effective vaccine up until now, known as VSV-EBOV, is proving ineffective. Doctors with the CDC and WHO have issued joint statements that previously-recognized strains of the disease have obviously mutated and that no vaccine at present appears capable of halting the spread of the highly-infectious Ebola virus.”

  This was an article, Rachael thought, that she hoped her editor would not assign her. It was grim, to say the least, and travel restrictions to and from the Pacific Rim had already been in place for a month. Panic had not yet seized the populations of the United States or Western Europe, but Rachael knew that this could change quickly as the number of reported cases continued to mount.

  She was about to request that Alexa find her classical station when she saw a sign through the mist ahead that indicated she had reached her destination: BOWMAN PARTICLE RESEARCH CENTER — UC BERKELEY.

  Rachael swung the wheel hard right and pulled into the long, curving driveway that led to the parking lot of the research center. The center was a gleaming complex of glass and steel buildings with immaculate landscaping. She parked her car close to the main entrance. Grabbing her brown leather briefcase, she quickly opened the door of the gray Prius and, holding the briefcase over her head to shield her head from the rain, trotted to the front door and slipped into the atrium of the facility.

  The receptionist, a woman with white hair pulled into a severe bun, sat behind a wide semicircular white counter, on top of which was a bronze nameplate that read CHARLOTTE LLOYD.

  “Good afternoon,” Rachael said, approaching the counter as she brushed strands of damp hair from her forehead. “I have an appointment to interview Dr. Joshua Andrews. I’m Rachael Miller with Scientific American.”

  “Yes, can I see your ID?” Charlotte said in a British accent, her gray eyes briefly surveying the sole visitor to the center that afternoon given the constant nature of the downpour outside.

  Rachael handed her a driver’s license which Charlotte verified and handed back. She then checked her computer screen before looking up at the twenty-five-year-old journalist.

  “Yes, here you are. Your background check has already been completed and approved.” Charlotte handed Rachael a visitors’ badge which she attached to her blouse. “I’ll walk you back. Please follow me, Ms. Miller.”

  British reserve and propriety are alive and well Rachael thought as she followed Charlotte Lloyd down a hall that led to a walkway with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall on the left, beads of rain cascading down its surface. Beyond was a luxurious green garden with high hedges that Rachael thought might be as much for privacy as they were for beauty.

  “Have you met Dr. Andrews before?” Charlotte asked as they walked.

  “No, but I saw him on stage at Dr. Henry Bowman’s final lecture five years ago.”

  “Really now,” Charlotte said, breaking stride and turning to face her visitor. “The lecture, I presume.”

  “Yes, I was an undergrad at Berkeley at the time.”

  Charlotte resumed walking, talking as she faced forward while Rachael followed. “You were quite lucky to see that live despite the tragic outcome for Professor Bowman. These things happen, though.”

  Stiff upper lip, Rachael thought. Death indeed happens to us all. She thought it odd that she’d seen no one else in any of the intersecting corridors. It was a large building, but it appeared empty. Did Dr. Joshua Andrews work by himself? A chill ran down Rachael’s spine. A research center with no researchers—no bustle of activity. A lone woman sat in the atrium. Dead quiet in the hallways. The center seemed more like The Overlook Hotel in The Shining than a modern research facility.

  A minute later, the two women arrived at an office with an open door, upon which were the words JOSHUA ANDREWS, Ph.D. — DIRECTOR.

  Joshua was seated at a desk, his back to his visitors. On his left was a PC. To his right were stacks of disorganized papers and folders. A lab bench with electronic equipment was behind the desk and ran the entire length of the back wall. The two women walked into the office.

  “Dr. Andrews, the reporter from Scientific American is here for your interview,” Charlotte announced.

  Andrews grumbled a barely audible response. “Huh? What moron scheduled an interview for today of all days?” Andrews asked without turning around. He typed feverishly at the keyboard of his desktop computer.

  Exasperated, Charlotte shot Rachael an apologetic look before speaking. “Dr. Andrews, you were the one who approved this interview with me three months ago.”

  Joshua, his back still turned, replied, “Well, just tell him I’m not here. Tell him I’m busy.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “But I’m afraid that—”

  “Or tell him that I have the afternoon off. It’s a beautiful day outside, so just say I went for a hike to collect my thoughts.”

  “Dr. Andrews, it’s a dismal, rainy day,” Charlotte countered, “and I believe there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. First of all, the reporter is a she not a he, and when I told you she’s here for their interview, I meant here, as in standing in this room.”

  “What? Oh, sorry, Charlotte. I was busy working on—” He paused mid-sentence and turned around to see the young and beautiful reporter in his doorway. There was an awkward silence finally broken by Joshua. “Terribly sorry, Miss—”

  “It’s Rachael Miller,” Charlotte said with a small grin as she peered first at Joshua and then back at Rachael. “You two have a nice chat.” Closing the door, the receptionist left Joshua and Rachael in their awkward silence.

  “Uh, well, that was awkward . . . and entirely my fault. I mean . . . I don’t usually, you know, greet peop
le by saying . . . by saying what I said, and so . . .”

  Rachael knew that Joshua was embarrassed and fumbling for a way to apologize. She also knew that the man she’d seen five years earlier kneeling next to the prostrate form of Henry Bowman had matured, had gotten even more handsome than she’d remembered. He was thirty now, she guessed, thirty-one tops. His brown hair was of average length and was parted neatly on the side, and his eyes—light brown—indicated both enthusiasm and gentleness. Rachael prided herself on her keen powers of observation, which she’d developed as someone who was always writing in her journal, always observing people, places, and things. Gazing at the flustered director, she thought she’d put him out of his self-imposed misery.

  “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Andrews,” she said, extending her hand as she walked towards Joshua. “Rachael Miller with Scientific American. And hey, I get it. I know you’re busy, but I’m working on an article with a deadline.”

  Joshua felt considerably more at ease and took the hand of the lovely science writer. “Of course. Make yourself at home. Are you okay interviewing me while I work? And call me Josh by the way.”

  “That’s fine—Josh.”

  Rachael grabbed a chair from across the room and wheeled it next to the lab bench where Joshua was sitting. Electronic equipment and computers took up almost every inch of the wide table, but the object that caught her attention was a Bowman sphere, identical to the one which the professor had used in his demonstration at Wheeler Auditorium. It wasn’t glowing green—or any color. It was just a hollow glass sphere with metal contacts on the top and bottom.

  “Mind if I record you?” she asked, pulling out a digital recorder from her briefcase. “It’ll be faster than taking notes.”

  “No problem. Go for it.”

  Rachael switched on the recorder. “So it’s been five years since the untimely death of Professor Henry Bowman from . . . what was it? I believe the medical term is a ruptured aortic aneurysm?”

  “A ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm,” Joshua said. “Physicians call it a triple A for obvious reasons. It’d probably been growing inside him for years, but the docs figured that due to increased blood pressure from the excitement of the presentation, it picked that particular time to rupture.”

  “I see. Quite sad that he was presenting what was arguably one of the greatest discoveries of science and never lived to enjoy the accolades.”

  “Yeah, I really miss Henry. He was a brilliant man—and a bit of a character. Had a great sense of humor and a flare for the dramatic as evidenced by the presentation that he never got to finish.”

  Rachael nodded. “I was actually in the audience for that. He worked that audience like a professional entertainer.”

  “It was memorable alright. I suspect that a bulb burns brightest just before it burns out.”

  Rachael smiled and noticed that Joshua glanced in her direction and smiled every few seconds as he entered data into one of the computers next to the Bowman sphere. He wasn’t so busy, she surmised, that he didn’t have time to partially indulge in some of the social graces.

  “Definitely true in Dr. Bowman’s case,” she stated. “And am I correct that it’s been four years since the university finished this facility and put you in charge of carrying on his work?”

  “You’re correct.”

  “And is it also true that, in that time, you’ve been unable to create even a single additional pair of entangled spookyon particles?”

  Nonplussed, Joshua ceased working and looked squarely at his interviewer. “Wow, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?” His eyebrows were raised as he was clearly caught off guard by how fast she got to the point—indeed, a point of obvious frustration for the director of the Bowman Particle Research Center.

  “Just trying to be efficient,” she said, “plus I’ve read some of your academic papers on the progress of your work.”

  “Or lack thereof,” he said with a bemused look on his face. “Sadly, you’re right again. So far, we haven’t been able to create another entangled spookyon pair. I think the university is getting frustrated with our team.” He paused. “Um, that last part is off the record, okay?”

  “Fair enough. But who is ‘we’? I didn’t see a soul as Ms. Lloyd escorted me back here. This place reminds me of a mausoleum.”

  Joshua laughed. “You don’t miss a thing. I have very few assistants due to the sensitive nature of the research.”

  Rachael leaned forward, glancing at her recorder to make sure the green light was still on. “To what do you attribute the delay? Some critics are questioning the wisdom of putting someone as young as you in charge of the entire project, and I’ve also heard that the university board is starting to question the huge expense of building and maintaining this facility.”

  “Actually, we’re getting very close—and that’s on the record—but I don’t think the university had much of a choice in putting me in charge after Henry’s death. The university had given him lavish funding and wanted to capitalize on his work. I was the only one he’d ever really confided in when it came to the heart of his research. Henry was a fairly paranoid person, even to the point of not committing his lab notes to a hard drive or any kind of electronic device whatsoever for fear of them being hacked. He therefore wrote all of his notes in old-fashioned black and white notebooks. You know, the ones with the faux marble covers.”

  Rachael was intrigued by the concept of so much heady research being recorded on ruled paper via handwriting. It appealed to the writer in her—the journalist who enjoyed committing her own thoughts to paper via cursive.

  “A man after my own heart,” she declared. “I like the heft of paper and ink, and I enjoy the physical act of writing.”

  “Then you would’ve gotten along well with Henry. He was paranoid about someone stealing his research. When I once asked him about his notes only being in a notebook, he told me, ‘You can’t hack a piece of paper Joshua.’ The problem is that he hid every single one—all three hundred notebooks—and nobody can find them.”

  “Three hundred?”

  “Yes. One would think that the sheer number of books would make the search easy, but Henry was as shrewd as they come. For a man who could create entangled spookyons, hiding so many notebooks would be a piece of cake. For all I know, he hijacked another one of NASA’s satellites, and they’re orbiting the Earth. Then again, they may be here in Berkeley right under my nose.”

  “Still, you got the gig,” Rachael remarked.

  “I did indeed. All of the work toward my Ph.D. was geared towards Henry’s quest for spookyons, so the mantle fell upon my shoulders. I knew his methodology and remembered the basic steps he used in creating spookyons. I’d made my own notes, which have been of enormous help, so here I am.”

  “But still no spooky action at a distance?” Rachael queried.

  Joshua held the thumb and index finger of his left hand an inch apart. “Not even action at a short distance. In fact, no action at all.” He shrugged, held out empty hands, and turned up the left side of his mouth in a gesture of I got nothin’.

  Rachael smiled as the young director displayed both honesty and humor. “It can’t be that bad, can it? No results at all?”

  Joshua sighed. “We can create spookyons easily enough. The basic process Henry taught me was pretty solid and easy to remember. The problem is isolating and storing them in Bowman spheres.”

  “Like the one at Wheeler and aboard the Mars rover?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What happened to that pair, by the way?”

  “NASA claimed ownership since Henry had played fast and loose by essentially making the sphere a stowaway on their rover. They confiscated the sphere from the presentation as payment for hitching a ride to Mars. They’re still using it to control the rover, but they want the technology to remain top secret for fear that a foreign power might try to weaponize such communication.”

  “That’s bureaucrats for ya,” Rachael said wryly.


  Josh pointed his index finger at the reporter as if to say You’ve got that right!

  “That must have been a huge setback.”

  “To say the least, but like I said, creating spookyons isn’t the problem. It’s not child’s play, but I can do it. But Henry never taught me all of the intricacies of isolating them and then storing them in the spheres without some contamination. I’ve had several ideas over the past four years as to how Henry pulled it off, and I’ve come up with some promising techniques. But close only counts in horseshoes, so we always aim to be precise and achieve a dead ringer.”

  “Where exactly do things stand as we speak?” Rachael asked. “Your wording implies that you may have gotten that proverbial dead ringer.”

  Josh moved forward, folded his arms, and leaned against the lab table. “You’re good. Very good. You should have been a lawyer.”

  “Ick! Too dry!”

  “And science isn’t?”

  “Not to me.”

  Joshua fell silent for almost a full minute as he stared across the room before looking over at Rachael. He was clearly weighing how much to tell her—how much he was willing to tell the entire scientific community, for that matter. At last he spoke.

  “We get a good pair about once a month, which isn’t a bad average. In fact, we’re going to attempt to create a pair of spookyons this afternoon using a new isolation technique I came up with. I was just finishing attaching a spookyon detector to this sphere shortly before you arrived. The detector verifies that we have indeed created a pair of entangled spookyons. That’s why I didn’t want to take your interview. Lots of stuff going on today.”

  “I understand completely.”

  “If we get a pair, the next step is to use the detectors to see if they’re entangled. As I’ve said, we haven’t observed entanglement yet, and we’re not sure why aside from contamination issues.”

  “Hmm. I’d love to watch you create these spookyons.”