They argued about where to hang the whiteboard and compromised on Ryan’s side of the wall that separated their apartments. When it was finally up, Katarina used all twenty markers to draw a dragon. As she drew, Ryan reread the note from Emmy. Holding the note in both hands, he toyed with Sean’s football with his feet and unveiled images of Emmy from his memory of her visit. He was smiling at the vision of Emmy when she had caught him staring at her—she’d had a sparkle in her eye, a beer in her hand, and, damn, her body was just so tight and perky.
Katarina interrupted him. Imitating Dodge’s nasal whine, she said, “Stop obsessing over your girlfriend, McNear. You’re pathetic.”
“You think she’ll be my girlfriend?”
From that day, the whiteboard was covered in squiggly lines, loops, and mathematical symbols that were constantly written, rewritten, and analyzed. Ryan moved the pile of foam he called a bed so that he could stare at the day’s analysis as he fell asleep.
They worked through Feynman’s books, and when they couldn’t figure something out, Ryan suggested they call Emmy. And every time Ryan made the suggestion, Katarina teased him. In response to the teasing, Ryan pretended they needed to call Emmy at the slightest confusion, like when the black marker ran dry.
Through spring, Katarina soaked up calculus, including ordinary and partial differential equations, and was doing vector calculus before school let out for summer. If she’d had an involved parent, Katarina would have met with a school counselor and switched to an advanced math class. Instead, she did only a serviceable job with eighth-grade algebra while bothering her teachers with questions on subjects ranging from fractals to group theory.
Ryan exchanged e-mails with Foster every week, and the answer was always the same: “Save some time on your calendar for next month.” His impatience grew. In three and a half years, the only place he’d seen Sean was in nightmares, images of Sean frozen in time, unable to mature in Ryan’s absence, or the slightly less disturbing picture of Sean playing ball with his new dad.
His most horrifying nightmare was too real to be a dream, more like a suppressed memory. Ryan’s most palpable mistakes involved that addictive chemical, but at the heart of the choices that landed him in this mess sat Tammi. The nightmare began and ended with smoky images of what his meth-junkie girlfriend must have done to Sean that would cause a judge to issue that damn restraining order. As the months passed, the smoke started to clear, and Ryan realized that his subconscious was revealing something that he couldn’t have faced at the time. He almost looked forward to the nightmare as the facts clarified in his own brain.
Happily ill-equipped to deal with the business side of things, Foster felt useless in these board meetings. All he could contribute was a bit of morale by saying things like “fabric of reality” or “vacuum fluctuations” in the same sentence with “Creation” or “everlasting soul.”
At this particular meeting, though, he would have to make a request.
The Creation Energy Advisory Board was led by the primary investor, Blair Keene. It also included the faculty of Evangelical Word University’s Department of Earthly Science, but the authority sat with the university chancellor, Jeb Schonders. Jeb was a large man who wore a Stetson hat, boots, and a bolo tie. Foster was certain that the man had never once undone his top shirt button, and he knew that when Jeb started rolling up his sleeves, he expected total quiet.
To Jeb’s left, Blair Keene said, “Next on the agenda—we’re finally getting somewhere with National Engineering Group. They’ve had some internal difficulties deciding which direction they want to take.” Blair, the Houston trial lawyer, wore expensive suits with conservative ties and, depending on the audience, either tasseled loafers or boots. He had boots on today.
Jeb responded, “The bigger the herd, the longer it takes to turn, but they’re coming into our corral now. Another benefit of keeping Foster out there speaking to the faithful. He rounded ’em up in Virginia, and the deal is almost cut. We’ve got a tenfold increase in our budget to consider.”
Blair distributed copies around the table: an outline of Creation Energy’s projected and existing debt and a lab wish list Foster had composed at the beginning of the fiscal year. While handing him a set of copies, Blair gave a covert nod to Foster. Funding was coming. Foster relaxed.
The board immediately split between those who wanted to reduce the company debt, led by the department chair, and those who wanted to spend whatever was needed to develop the technology, led by Blair Keene.
Jeb rolled his sleeves up. The room went quiet and he said, “Our deal with National Engineering will be signed by the end of the month. We’ll be their primary R and D investment in renewable energy, and they’re in a stampede to give us contracts for things like propulsion systems. They’re already the biggest nonmissile defense contractor and are fixing to extend that to missiles too. We need to be ready to spend the first round of funding on big things to establish Creation Energy as a viable counterweight to the US Department of Energy. It ain’t a good time to be timid.”
Foster waited to catch Blair’s eye, just enough to convey thanks. More thanks. Foster marveled at the man. How could so much good, so much generosity and piety be packed into a single man? And a lawyer at that? Not only had Blair Keene provided all of Creation Energy’s funding to date, along with half the university’s startup money, but he was the father of Foster’s angel. The term father-in-law seemed callous in the face of the magnitude of what Blair meant to Foster.
Blair argued with the department chair about funding options. It took longer for Jeb to join the discussion than Foster expected, but eventually, that preacher-voice drowned out the others. “Every cent goes to equipment. What’s this at the top of the list? Blade servers? Wouldn’t know one from a tractor tire—that’s what we’re buying next. And understand this: National Engineering wants to announce the partnership on their schedule—until they do, we will only refer to them as a Fortune 100 company, comprendo?”
Jeb challenged the board with his silence.
Foster cleared his throat and, as he spoke, pretended that he was writing a note to himself. “Perfect timing, Jeb. I’ll invite the other inventor to interview for the software director position.” The sound of his own words excited him, made it feel real. Foster owed Ryan. Something had happened at Foster’s bachelor party that had started Ryan’s downfall. He didn’t know what but suspected that it had to do with what he thought of as the final act of his bachelorhood, that lap dance. It felt like a crisis rite, but it also caused a guilt-debt that he wanted paid. “With Ryan McNear in my lab, no computer cycle will be wasted. There is a synergy necessary in a project like this. Ryan knows what I need—he’s the software guy, I’m the hardware guy.” Foster handed out copies of Ryan’s résumé and felt a wave of fulfillment. These were special men, men he could rely on.
Jeb’s deep laughter echoed through the room. “You don’t have to defend your choice. You know our requirements.”
In the lab, Foster called these requirements the faith-filter. Every decision he made, every result he reported, had to pass biblical consistency. Foster knew Ryan had never even read the Bible. He said, “Ryan is a nitty-gritty engineer—exactly what my lab needs. He grew up Catholic.” It was all Foster could say about Ryan’s relationship with Jesus, and it felt like an exaggeration.
Jeb didn’t look pleased. Some of the other board members shook their heads.
It was Blair, of course, who came to the rescue. “Wasn’t Ryan McNear the man that God chose to start us on this path?”
“Yes,” Foster nodded, a little sickened by the inevitable politics. “Writing the patents was Ryan’s idea.”
Jeb stroked his chin and looked around the table. He stopped at Foster and said, “Son, would you mind stepping outside for a few minutes while we discuss this? Nothing personal, of course, it’ll just be a mite easier to speak our minds as we review his résumé. And easier for you too.”
Foster sat up strai
ght but didn’t move toward the door. He looked to Blair, who shrugged. He said, “But I know Ryan. I know his résumé. I worked beside him at most of those companies.”
“You ever work at Oil Xchangers?”
“What? No. What Oil Xchangers?” Foster scanned his copy of Ryan’s résumé.
“That’s the thing, you see. There are a few positions on his credit report that don’t appear on his résumé.”
Foster didn’t know what to say. Everyone was staring at him. He realized that his mouth was hanging open. He took a breath. Someday he wouldn’t have to remind himself to trust in the Lord. “Of course,” he said, “speak freely. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
He stood and walked to the door. As it swung shut, he heard two faculty members object. One said, “A lapsed Catholic?” and the other said, “He’s from the East Coast.”
It didn’t bode well, but Foster was at peace in his faith.
Fifteen minutes later, they called him back into the room.
The men were quiet. Blair wouldn’t make eye contact.
Jeb said, “We’d like you to consider other candidates.”
Without thinking, Foster said, “No. Ryan is the right man for this job. It’s his work. He should have a right to develop it.”
Jeb’s eyes opened wide. He then scowled, and Foster felt as though he were being examined. The words had come out so fast that Foster thought they had to be inspired, and it gave him added confidence. An hour ago, if they’d asked if he believed in Ryan, he might have waffled, but not now.
Foster met Jeb’s stare. Jeb’s eyes relaxed and he started to smile. Finally, he nodded and said, “All right, then. It’s your call.”
Ryan finally got the e-mail from Foster: “We want to interview you for the position of director of software next week.” Ryan waited a day before replying so that he wouldn’t appear desperate. Within thirty minutes of sending a note saying he “could be available,” he got an e-mail from Foster’s secretary with a complete itinerary.
Five days later, a Wednesday, Ryan walked into the San Francisco airport dressed in the high-tech uniform: khakis and a polo. In line at security, he talked to an Asian man carrying an Analog Devices briefcase. On the plane, he helped a computer engineer debug some software. The feeling of belonging stayed with him at the car rental counter in San Antonio and through the drive west to Hardale, home of Evangelical Word University. It wasn’t until he set down his suitcase in his hotel room and caught his reflection in the mirror that doubts surfaced. The lines in his forehead seemed to extend the bridge of his nose up to his widow’s peak, and the auburn hair over his temples had platinum highlights.
The next morning, Ryan jerked awake with the feeling that he was about to step off a cliff.
He dragged himself to the shower and then made a pot of tea in the in-room coffeemaker. As he sipped his tea, he caught himself wondering if he really believed what he’d read in Foster’s book. Emmy sure didn’t. Had Foster discovered something, or was it all an elaborate way of forcing religion into the context of science? He tried to put the thought aside. It was more important that he present himself as an engineer excited to start a new project.
The elevator door opened, and across the lobby, Foster rose from a couch smiling, his head cocked to the side.
Ryan held out his arms and said, “Dr. Reed, I presume?”
They met halfway across the room. Foster said, “God’s been watching over you. After all you’ve been through—you look fantastic.”
As far as Ryan knew, Foster didn’t know much of what he’d been through. Foster engulfed him in a hug. Ryan squeezed back. The smell and feel of his longest friendship helped but didn’t push away that feeling of stepping into thin air.
Foster hustled Ryan out to the parking lot. “Come on, we’re spending the day in the lab, dinner with faculty, interviews all day tomorrow, barbecue at my house, and sign a contract Monday. But first, I’m hungry.” He hit the remote entry and opened the passenger door of a red Porsche.
Ryan held up his hands. “Whoa!” He pointed at the huge spoiler. “Someone’s paying you more than you’re worth.”
“Rachel’s dad gave it to us as an anniversary present. As a professor, I’m lucky I make enough to eat—but you. You, sir, stand to make some serious cash.”
Before starting the car, Foster looked at Ryan. “Hey, we’re back on the front lines, man. This is how it was meant to be.”
“Do you have my schedule? I need background on everyone I have to talk to and—for Christ’s sake—tell me what they want to hear.”
“Hold it.” Foster winced. “Do not swear around here.” At the first stoplight, he reached behind Ryan’s seat and pulled out a folder. “The agenda is in here.”
The university gate was visible from half a mile: huge ivory-white columns reaching two hundred feet to a bronze arch that read “Evangelical Word University” in turquoise gloss. A gold cross hung from the arch. As they got closer, Ryan noticed the rough texture of the columns—stucco. The gates had outlines of angels blowing trumpets, and there was a small sign: “Established MCMXCIX, Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Foster said, “Driving through these gates never gets old.” He zigged under the arch and zagged down a side street. Rich green lawns covered small knolls with pale concrete paths that guided students from one white stucco building to another—all white and green with hints of Greek-temple architecture. He turned into a parking lot at a sign that read “Department of Earthly Science.” Before getting out of the car, Foster placed his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You’ll see. Being laid off was the best thing that ever happened to you. You’ll see.”
Ryan raised one eyebrow.
Foster laughed. “It’s going to be okay—we’re back!”
They walked along a path to a small cafeteria. The students didn’t dress the way they had back at UMass. No tie-dye, no piercings, and no weird hair—the men wore button-up shirts with tacked-down ties, and the women wore dresses that hung past their knees.
Over breakfast, Foster filled Ryan in on how he’d come to EWU. After getting laid off at GoldCon, Foster had gone to graduate school to study physics at Evangelical Word—it started with a piece of junk mail he’d received literally the day they were laid off. He’d be their first PhD candidate.
“At other universities, if you talk about faith, the Lord, or even invoke Creation—they ignore everything else you say. Evidence doesn’t matter to them—they’re that set on destroying the Word of God. You’ll be hearing a lot about the attack we’re under, but by the time you and I are finished, it won’t matter.”
Foster’s rants were still the same. It was fun to see him get worked up, and Ryan found comfort in releasing his doubts by reeling Foster in. “Do you have a product requirements document?” The PRD defines the features of a new product so that design engineers have specific goals. Without a PRD, Ryan had once told a junior engineer at GoldCon, you just meander along the path.
Foster’s face relaxed. “This is great. God bless you.”
They walked back to the department and up a flight of stairs to Foster’s office. Foster offered Ryan his desk chair. “I’m teaching a class in a few minutes. When I get back, I’ll fill in the details.”
Ryan sat in the chair and popped open his briefcase to show Foster that his copy of The Cosmology of Creation was suitably dog-eared and that he also had Feynman’s QED.
Foster said, “Ryan McNear—always ready to get in the trenches.”
“Well, I’m trying, but I still haven’t figured out what you’re doing.”
“We’re building a power generator based on a combination of biblical and physical principles. The great lesson of modern physics is that every law of nature can be traced back to a principle of symmetry. I discovered the symmetry that links the spiritual and the physical, the very symmetry that God used to create the universe.” Foster had a cryptic grin, as though he were tempting Ryan to contradict him. It was the first indicat
ion that Foster wasn’t quite the same guy Ryan had known years ago. The realization was comforting to Ryan; after all, he’d changed too.
Ryan ran his tongue across his lips, smiled, and offered an outstretched palm. “Dude, I’m with you, but I do have one question: How are you gonna build a power generator out of that?”
Foster looked at his watch and said, “That will have to wait until I get back from class.” He motioned to the folder he’d given Ryan in the car. “Look through the university documents, check your e-mail, and relax while I’m gone.” Foster grabbed a binder and stepped toward the door but stopped. “I’m sorry about what happened between you and Linda, but it’s going to turn out for the best. I promise. You’ll find your angel too.” He closed the door on his way out.
A picture of Rachel, Foster’s “angel,” was set next to the computer. She was lounging on the blue ski boat in a bikini. Ryan thought something was different about her. Last time he’d seen her, she was still a skinny aerobics instructor. She looked good in the picture, happy and comfortable; maybe she’d put on some weight. Her hair was shorter now too. Maybe that was it.
There was a knock on the door, and before he could say anything, a petite woman with great gobs of curly white hair peeked in. She looked like Dolly Parton’s grandma. “Why, I thought I heard someone in here—you must be Mr. McNear. We’ve talked on the phone—I’m Mabel.”
Ryan stood and took her hand, offering a little bow. She said, “Darlin’, can I get y’all a cup of coffee or a Coke?” He half expected her to kiss him on the cheek.
Ryan followed her to the coffee station and answered a slew of questions about California—yes, the weather is nice; no, the men aren’t all “queer”; yes, the taxes are high; no, you don’t see movie stars in every restaurant. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he drank tea, so he took the coffee and excused himself back to the office.
The God Patent Page 11