Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  Tom’s stream of words was fueled by his instincts and his regrets. He’d known for a long time that he was unhappy, but he’d forced the feeling into a cage like a stray animal, giving in to his own fear of failure. He had been so obsessed with success that he had begun labeling anything unrelated to his obligations at Empyrean as childish and a waste of time. He remembered something his mother had said many times: Don’t end up just some working stiff.

  Tom tilted his head and then continued. “You know, house cats live much longer than outdoor cats, but they spend their lives staring out a window at a world they’ll never experience. In the end, you’ll realize it was easier to do what the world expected, and that admission will kill you. Because it will be too late. This is about as cliché as it gets, folks, but the money we’ve made is transient, Connie. She comes, and she goes. Oh sure, it’s fantastic, it’s wonderful, but it’s not enough—not anymore. And in the last couple years, I’ve never felt so empty—despite everyone telling me I’m living the dream. And you, Connie, you’ve moaned to me so many times about your father, working his whole life and not doing the things he dreamed of doing. Now you’re doing the same thing. You’re going to regret the time and energy you didn’t invest in order to uncover just a few of the nuggets that put a spark in your mind, a calmness in your soul—the thing that wakes up your mind and imagination and lifts you to the heights of living in the now. I’m telling you about something spectacular, and you’re worried about getting a jaywalking ticket. I’ve never chased a rainbow; I’ve been too busy with obligations that I’ve strapped on to myself. And if it turns out that this was all for naught, or if I get hurt or killed, then at least you’ll know your friend Tom Hartger died a good death.”

  Conrad glanced at Gwen, looking for guidance. Gwen nodded in silent acknowledgment. “Maybe I am an indoor scaredy-cat,” Conrad admitted. “But I like my existence. And my reality. I have no desire to go pulling at the strings that hold it all together. I want you to find your rainbow, Tom. You deserve it. But let me ask you something—not that I’m convinced about any of this, mind you—but who are you, Tom Hartger, to pull back the curtain and see Oz, even if you wanted to? Why you? Why us? Why now?”

  “It’s gotta be someone. It’s inevitable that someone, somewhere, someday, will find God—whatever God is. If you could see the evolution of man, his timeline from his humble beginnings and then out to infinity, don’t you think he’d eventually learn how to pull back the curtain? New realities emerge every day, and they’re coming faster than ever now. It’s inevitable, just a question of time. Everything you’ve seen in your life—don’t you see the coincidences? You’ve known all along that it was going to happen. I’ve always known, too.”

  Conrad frowned. “If it’s so wonderful to see Oz, then why did Tesla, Loomis, and those other scientists conceal the truth about what they discovered? You know, more than anyone else, that those guys were patent hounds. They could have made a fortune being the gatekeeper to Oz, but they…” Conrad looked around the room as if recalling something.

  “What is it?” Gwen asked.

  Conrad stared through her and then held up a finger and spoke. “I’m having a déjà vu right now. This conversation—that coil, the description of the machine, creating an opening, the patent…it’s all familiar.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Tom said. “I’ve been having them for three days straight.”

  “It’s coming,” Conrad continued. “I was about to say that this all sounds like one of the patents I read when I started with Empyrean years ago, from the originals your grandfather filed. I remember that I’d read a method, an abstract that sounds just like this machine.”

  “We have patents for all kinds of stuff, Connie, but I don’t remember seeing a patent detailing a method for opening a portal to God.”

  Gwen walked to the couch and put her hand on Tom’s shoulder. He looked back at her.

  “But maybe,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “I’ll tell you what, pilgrim,” Conrad said, channeling John Wayne. “Let’s head on down to the O. K. Corral and have a look-see.”

  Tom crossed his arms and stared. “I don’t know if I want you coming on my vision quest,” Tom replied. “My priorities being screwed up, putting everyone in danger and all.”

  “Aw, look-e-here, fella. If-ens ya don’t let me come, I’ll start singin,” Conrad said.

  Tom shook his head and looked at the ceiling for help. Gwen appeared confused. Conrad began slapping his hands on his knees like a mountain man and then stomped around on one foot like a horse. Strange banjo noises emerged from his mouth, and he began singing an impromptu song. “Well I can’t be soooo certain, but if you want to pull back that ole curtain, then you’ll have to chase and find the clues, before your gal pal gets the blues…” Gwen raised her eyebrows, but Conrad continued his Western serenade. “I didn’t mean to yell none, and I’d like to come and help some, would ya’ll mind if I caaaame along, or else I’ll keep on singin’ this ole song…”

  “You were just questioning Tom’s sanity, and now you want in on this wild goose chase?” Gwen asked.

  Conrad sang his response. “Well, Tom’s my boss and friend yo, and can tell me straight up hell no, but if he don’t let me come along, I’ll just keep on a-singing this same old song. And I can keep on going all night and day, or he can just say yes and make it go away, cause partner, maybe I’m only mortal, but I’d like to help ya find God’s portal.”

  Tom scratched the side of his face and let out a gasp. “OK, let’s take a look in the archive. Please, just stop singing,” he said, clasping his hands in prayer.

  Conrad put one arm over Gwen’s shoulder and the other over Tom’s. He pulled them both close as all three erupted in laughter.

  CHAPTER 34

  TOM HARTGER GRIPPED the silver combination dial set at the center of the heavy metal door.

  “It looks like a Cold War bomb shelter,” Conrad said as he placed his ear to the door like a safe cracker.

  Tom spun the dial like a roulette wheel and then watched it come to a stop. “This was the original door to Empyrean’s patent vault, but the locking mechanism doesn’t work anymore,” he said nostalgically. He ran his fingers along the cold metal frame. “I had it installed eight years ago, when we moved the company into this building.” He pushed open the door and felt the inside wall for a light switch, but florescent lights blinked on automatically. Tom hadn’t set foot in this room for years. Empyrean had kept digital copies of its patents since the late ’90s, so the paper files stored here were seldom needed.

  Gwen and Conrad followed Tom inside. There was silence as they inspected the room for signs of something obvious, something they could gravitate to immediately.

  But it soon became obvious that there wasn’t anything obvious. They saw two long rows of chest-high drawers spanning the length of the generous and sterile room. Along the walls hung numerous gilded frames, but no art was inside. Instead, the frames held words that Gwen quickly realized were quotes on the subject of patents, inventions, and ideas.

  “We’ve acquired over seventy thousand patents in the company’s lifespan, but there are only around fifteen thousand paper copies, and those are kept here,” Tom said. He realized the gravity of the task at hand and wasn’t feeling very excited about a paper chase that would likely last the rest of the night.

  “Where do you get them all?” Gwen asked.

  “Nowadays, the majority come from a global network of inventors. Some come from startups, large corporations, research institutions, or anyone who wants to monetize their IP. Many were purchased, too.

  “The patents filed by Phillip are probably one of those far cabinets,” Tom said, pointing. “My grandfather filed over two hundred patents himself. What we’re looking for is a long shot, but keep your eyes open for any patent filed between 1939 and 1960 that has an illustration like the one in Tesla’s notebook. It’s got the large wheel in front. I can’t imagine my grandfa
ther stealing anyone’s idea, but, as they say in the biz, it’s not an idea until it’s been patented.”

  Conrad sat in front of a cabinet and began searching through file folders. Tom chose another drawer. Gwen chose to begin her search in the next aisle over. She opened a drawer with dividers and read the labels. Agriculture, Automotive, Biologicals, Computer Hardware, Communications, Consumer Electronics, Construction, Energy…She retrieved a file from the Energy folder and read the title out loud. “Traveling Wave Nuclear Reactor, filed by Phillip Hartger on Tuesday July 23, 1946. What does this one do, Tom?”

  Tom glanced in Gwen’s direction. “We call that the TWR,” he replied. “It’s a next-generation nuclear reactor designed to run on the depleted uranium that conventional reactors create. Its design produces infinitely smaller amounts of nuclear waste, too. The idea is just hitting its high-value licensing window because of the growing stockpiles of depleted uranium 238—that’s the waste product created by conventional reactors as they spend uranium 235. Anyway, the TWR converts their depleted uranium directly into usable fuel. The physics are incredible, and the process creates an inexpensive fuel that could easily provide electricity globally. For all intents and purposes, the conversion process for U238 is inexhaustible. That patent was licensed a few years back, and three traveling-wave plants have already been built by our client. I’m really proud of that one.”

  Gwen studied the illustrations inside the file. “Your grandfather filed this in 1946?” she asked.

  “If that’s what it says,” Tom replied without looking.

  She placed the file back in the drawer and then reached into the Agriculture folder and retrieved another file, reading the label out loud. “Photonic Fence, a light-based alternative to pest control. Filed by Phillip Hartger on Thursday, September 17, 1953. What’s this thing do?”

  “That’s a little like a defense system of sorts. It guards against disease-spreading insects, like mosquitoes. Oh, and this is really cool: a small beam of energy—a low-power laser—shines on the insect, which either kills it or immobilizes it so it can’t spread disease or reproduce. Do you know how many people are killed by malaria every year? Anyway, perimeters can be set to guard crops, people, water sources—whatever. And it’s far superior to spraying pesticides.”

  Gwen looked around for a moment and then back at the file. She began reading out loud again. “The Photonic Fence combines low-cost sensor and laser tracking technology with computer software to identify, track, and immobilize mosquitoes and other insects, thus preventing the outbreak of malaria and other diseases by eliminating their primary transmission vector.” Gwen stared at Tom, whose face was buried in his drawer.

  “Yup,” Tom replied. “The photonic fence is another idea just entering its high-value licensing window.” Tom popped his head up and smiled at Gwen. He liked the idea of her being at the office with him. Or maybe he just liked the idea of her being close anywhere.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this before, exactly, but I think I might be dumbfounded,” Gwen said.

  “Patents are a very powerful thing,” Tom remarked. “The passage over there is one of my favorites.” He recited the words on the wall from memory: “‘James Watt patented his steam engine on the eve of the American Revolution, consummating a relationship between coal and the new Promethean spirit of the age, and humanity made its first tentative steps into an industrial way of life that would, over the next two centuries, forever change the world.’ That was written by Jeremy Rifkin. Most people think the stuff making the world turn is oil or gas or uranium or sunlight or coal or methane or even money, but if you take a closer look, you’ll see that above everything else, it’s ideas. Ideas are what make the world turn. That’s what makes people’s lives better. And while many of our good ideas have aged over the last hundred years, they just need a tweak, an update. There’s hope in our ideas. Isn’t that right, my good fellow?”

  “Indeed, ole boy,” Conrad replied playfully. “That’s why I keep myself trapped on the island with you and Lovey,” he said through clenched teeth, channeling Thurston Howell.

  Gwen thought about Tom’s words. About the person he’d become. It was apparent he had no great enthusiasm for money or power or ego. While some strange, perhaps abstract ideas about money had once swirled inside the head of the just-scraping-by college kid she’d known many years ago, she could see quite plainly that his most lofty ambition now was the search for truth and the real wisdom of life. He had good intentions for the world; he was grateful and eternally curious. And when he followed those beams of truth, he did so with single eye and was unshakable. He had an incredible capacity for reason, which she was attracted to. There are some men whose size you cannot understand or appreciate until the pleasantries about the weather have been dispensed with, and it is only when you are standing next to one of them and can recognize the stature and breadth of his shoulders and mind that you know you are beside a good man, an intelligent man, and can plainly see the size and symmetry of his soul and heart. Gwen smiled to herself—Tom was a good man.

  The three continued digging through files, interrupted only by the sounds of manila folders snapping and papers rustling, file folders flickering, and cabinet drawers rolling.

  And when Gwen wasn’t looking, Tom was. He noticed the way she pushed her hair behind her ear each time she turned a page and the way her mouth moved, just a little, while she read. He saw her patient eyes move across the paper and the gentle, almost slight movement of her hands.

  But just as the sounds of drawers opening and closing and file folders flipping were beginning to become hypnotic, the pattern was broken. “I found it!” Conrad shouted excitedly. “This is it—this is the one I was talking about.” He held up the folder like a trophy.

  Tom and Gwen gathered around and saw a machine very much like the one in Tesla’s notebook. But this one was larger and far more detailed. A mass of gears, tubes, valves, and pipes formed a sort of foundation, with a large wheel in the base. The construction of the wheel formed a geometric pattern, and they counted four coils positioned symmetrically at its center. Gwen read the label: “Magnetic field portal. Filed by Phillip Hartger on Monday, February 10, 1941.”

  “My God,” Tom said. He turned to the front page and began reading the abstract. “A device used to capture, concentrate, and focus a brain’s stored electrical data for the purpose of transmitting electric and other data, including thoughts, ideas, memories, or suggestions from one individual to a group or from a group to one individual. The process by which four set magnetic oscillators or oscillating agents are rotated at a speed greater than ninety thousand revolutions per minute while simultaneously emitting a specific reoccurring magnetic signal at sufficient frequencies and intervals so as to cause, conjure, or bring about an interference pattern of a spherical shape whose fundamental properties allow the transference of a brain’s electrical data by a process similar to reverse osmosis: transference occurs from an area of lower brain-wave concentration through the interference pattern to an area of higher brain-wave concentration on the other side. This function can also be used in reverse in order to receive brain-wave data from an area of higher concentration through the interference pattern—also considered a semipermeable membrane—to an area of lower concentration.”

  A look of disgust washed over Tom’s face. He reread the abstract and then turned to the illustration. Tom’s eyes sought the quotations on the wall once more, but he found no solace there. He knew this file was exactly what they had been looking for, and suddenly the coincidences stacked too high; the pile had reached a tipping point. Phillip Hartger had been little more than an idea in Tom’s mind. He hardly remembered the man. The relationship he had was with the man’s memory, and he’d built it up along with the company. But the idea of the man in Tom Hartger’s head was suddenly out of excuses. That comfortable blanket of moral superiority was thinning. “You were right, Connie,” Tom said in a melancholy tone. “This is exactly like Tes
la’s machine—or Loomis’s machine, or Swami Vivekanda’s machine. Clearly, it’s the same machine. And for some reason, Phillip filed a patent, and it’s sitting in our archive. Let me take all this in for a minute, and then we can decide the right thing to do.”

  Conrad and Gwen were speechless. All three seemed to drop their gaze, each for different reasons. Time stopped, and there was only the uncomfortable sound of the fluorescent lights buzzing in their ears. Tom’s eyes moved around the room awkwardly, and his stature seemed to shrink.

  But the mood changed when Conrad spoke. “Since I found it, I’m pretty sure the right thing to do is give me first crack at licensing. And listen to this: I’m thinking the Catholic church should get first option. They have the dough, and it fits perfectly with their brand message. I could fly to Rome and do the negotiating. It may take months; I may have to get an apartment there; but I want you to know I’m here for you.”

  Slowly a smile emerged on Tom’s face.

  “Good idea, Connie,” Gwen chimed in. “There are some very lovely neighborhoods near Vatican City. Trastevere might work. It rests along the west bank of the Tiber River, just south of Vatican City. There are plenty of sidewalk cafes, museums, book stores…I’ll scout some apartments for us, and I won’t take no for an answer.”