Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  He had spent the last twenty years of his life in the confines of that lab. Sure, he had occasionally escaped to teach a course in theoretical physics, and he had traveled to dozens of conferences over the years. He had even presented his own research at some of them, but those presentations had gone almost unnoticed. Publications were few and far between — they just were not important to him. Lack of attention to the current state of his profession, however, had left him in his current unhappy situation. There were new rules in academia, with many institutions now requiring frequent publications to maintain tenure. Academia also required constant awareness of subtle professorial politics. He had been negligent in both, perhaps intentionally, and it had cost him his job.

  There were some friends in the department. Jim Nichols had offered to spend some of his grant money to keep him around, but it would be a subservient position. No, Evan was going to take a sabbatical instead. That is what he was going to consider it, although in truth it would not be the sort of sabbatical which he was accustomed to. No pay, no security, no travel to exotic locations. And no opportunity to work. There was the biggest rub. He had been so close. So close to changing the world.

  Evan walked down the quiet street between the old fraternity houses. The gentle breeze served to modestly temper the otherwise hot day in the small New England town. Summers in New England could be stifling, with a combination of high humidity and high heat. Only along the coastline, or in the mountains, would one find reprieve. Despite the heat, this place was beautiful. In the tranquility of the protected campus, the luxury of the potential for unhindered learning was mixed in with open lawns, ivy-covered buildings, and granite steps to libraries. The students were fortunate to be in such a situation. But they were too young to recognize the true value of it. The faculty were fortunate too, but Evan didn’t like most of the faculty. And they didn’t like him. Evan thought differently than most of the other faculty members. He had different values.

  It was quiet this time of year — everyone away for the summer. The college would come alive again in two weeks — eager young minds ready to learn but distracted by parties. Students would be playing frisbee on the lawn, studying under the trees, making dates in the library, and blasting their favorite music out the dormitory windows for the benefit of all to hear. It was always an exciting time. Why had he forgotten about all that? He looked at the ground, and began kicking a small rock ahead of him — but with his second kick, it rolled down a storm drain. Despair began to set in. He felt betrayed by the college, two decades sacrificed. He had not saved much money over the years. Even his house was owned by the college. There were bills sitting on his kitchen table at home that deserved to be paid.

  He did not know what he was going to do. He thought he shouldn’t be worrying. He should be enjoying the beautiful day. There was no point in worrying, for he already knew he had no answers. Perhaps he would think about it all some more tomorrow.

  The air conditioning system at his house was not working, and he had neglected repeatedly to inform the college’s maintenance department about it. It had simply slipped his mind — for over two months. Right now however he thought about how nice it would be to have a cool house to come home to. Oh well; he would turn on the fans, and have a cold glass of lemonade.

  He turned up the walk toward his quaint Victorian house, pushed open a low metal gate and slowly climbed the creaky gray wooden steps that led to his porch. The screen door was closed, because of its spring-return mechanism, but the inner door lay wide open, inviting the wind to cool down what otherwise would be a stifling house. That’s strange, he thought; I know I left it closed.

  With more than a little hesitation, Evan peered through the screen into the house. Nothing seemed amiss. His couch sat covered with newspapers, many unread. The television, hardly used in twenty years, was in its usual position tucked beside his desk. There was nothing out of place. He saw something move through the kitchen door, and he heard the familiar clunk of the locking handle of his old refrigerator’s door pushed closed.

  Evan realized he had little to lose at this point, and that emboldened him. He pulled open the screen door, without making an effort to prevent its loud squeak. He hoped the noise would frighten the intruder away. He strode with a pretense of conviction toward the kitchen door, aware that he might be injured or killed by whoever was invading his house. But his adrenal glands pumped out their powerful hormone, and he was invigorated. All his senses were tuned as he marched into the kitchen and saw the man sitting at his kitchen table.

  The man turned as he walked in and smiled widely. His silver-gray hair was unkempt, and he was balding in the front. He wore half-rimmed glasses, the kind commonly seen on the faces of old gentlemen as the lenses of their eyes stiffen with age. A glass of lemonade sat on the kitchen table, and a half-folded newspaper rested on the man’s moderately protuberant belly. He stood up quickly and reached his large, ruddy hand toward Evan, who took it reflexively.

  “Good to see you, sir. How are you? Please excuse the invasion, but it was getting boring outside, and the door was unlocked.” The man was familiar, but Evan could not place him. However, it was clear that this was not a dangerous character. “I am Isaac Bonhoff; we talked on the phone several months ago about your work. Do you remember?”

  Their conversation came back quickly to Evan. “Of course, Professor Bonhoff. I remember it well. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Although somewhat of a surprise.”

  Bonhoff laughed. “I am well-known for both my ego and my obliviousness to social customs. In fact I am frequently compelled to use the statement, ‘please forgive me.’” He paused and picked up the cold glass from the table. “Please forgive me for visiting your refrigerator. Your lemonade is exceptional. Clearly not created from a freeze-dried concoction.”

  “No,” replied Evan, smiling. “This is one of the few luxuries I have been able to afford myself. I am one of the leading purchasers of lemons and sugar at the grocery store. In fact, I was thinking of starting a business.” Indeed, he had had no such thought until this moment. But it did not seem such a bad idea, really. Especially given his rather awkward predicament of not having a job.

  “Well then, that might be perfect,” Bonhoff mused. “You would likely benefit from locating such a business in a tropical clime, would you not? Although hot this time of year, Massachusetts will become chilly again several months from now.”

  “I have not given it all that much consideration,” responded Evan truthfully. “But I am sure you are right.” He assumed this was just an exchange of pleasantries, and sooner or later Professor Bonhoff would arrive at the point of his visit. But this was not just an exchange of pleasantries; rather, it was a convenient lead-in to the man’s next statement.

  “How would you like to set up your shop on a tropical island, in the Southeast Pacific Ocean, starting nine months from today? I do not mean your lemonade stand, although that would be fine too, but rather your research. Professor Harrigan, I am offering you a job.”

  Isaac was of course well aware of Professor Harrigan’s imminent departure from this college. Isaac’s knowledge base and resources were enormous. He was proud of his collection of data regarding Americans and foreign nationals. He had his fingers in several government organizations, as well as a multitude of corporations. In fact, he had served as consultant to many of them. He was considered entirely reliable by all who knew him. And in return for his reliability, people would help him with favors from time to time. Isaac would not participate in anything immoral — in fact, that would be anathema to him. But he took full advantage of the freedom of information in American society, and he never hesitated to use the government’s information resources available to him as a citizen of the United States. The knowledge that the government had about people was frightening. He knew of only one way to assuage that fear.

  It was his academic stature that allowed him to acquire knowledge of Harrigan’s recent history. Several college and university presi
dents had been Isaac’s classmates at Harvard, some forty years ago. He had worked with or worked for other presidents. He kept his network intact by frequent communication, both written and social. Isaac excelled in social situations. Partly, it was his lack of obedience to those who place on paper the dictums ruling societal interactions. Partly, it was his quick wit — dry and self-deprecating. And surely it was his confidence. He was profoundly confident. People flock to confident men.

  So he socialized frequently. Isaac loved to eat, and had no hang-ups regarding cholesterol or saturated fats or sodium. He would rarely turn down an invitation to a friendly gathering and would frequently offer invitations to others. He made and kept friends quickly. And the more he socialized, the more he got to sample the variety of culinary opportunities available. Furthermore, the more he socialized, the more he met beautiful women.

  Beautiful women were a primary motivation for Isaac Bonhoff. He had had a lovely wife, whom he had been faithful to until her death more than a decade earlier. But that had not prevented his eyes from wandering. As his wife would say: “It is okay to whet your appetite elsewhere, as long as you come home for dinner.” He considered women to be akin to artwork — beauty was to be admired, appreciated, and acknowledged. From time to time, he sought to view exhibits of Gauguin, Chinese Shang dynasty bronzes, or the relics from Tutankhamen’s tomb. Or he would listen to a Bach concerto, or a Beethoven symphony. But always, always, he sought the company of beautiful women, for Isaac was a connoisseur.

  True, he was sometimes accused of both debauchery and chauvinism, but he was neither. Indeed, those who knew him at all recognized that he treated men and women with equal respect in all matters. He just enjoyed looking at women, and he saw nothing artistic about the male. As he grew older, some would say “more mature,” he no longer even attempted to conceal his appreciation of women. It had become part of his expected behavior, and it served to amuse those with whom he socialized.

  It was the attractive wife of the president of this college who had first apprised him, several months previously, of Harrigan’s imminent departure. This was timely information, for Professor Harrigan was one of the scientists whose knowledge might, just might, hold one of the keys to the Island’s success. Isaac had come across the scientist’s work by chance, since he was not a big name in the scientific community. But then his work was not a big hit with the scientific community either. It had to do with detection of tiny particles. Now, detection of tiny particles is a big pastime of physicists everywhere. But Evan’s techniques for detection did not stand up to the scrutiny of others. Evan had never tried to prove their validity to anybody.

  Actually, Evan had been successful on his own terms. He was an unrecognized genius in his field. Evan himself apparently did not recognize his contributions. But Isaac saw the potential. And not just Isaac, but also some of the other scientists who had already been recruited to the Island Project saw Harrigan’s techniques as potentially valuable. In any event, he would be a fine addition. Besides, from all he had heard, Evan Harrigan was a very nice man.

  So Isaac had come from Boston today hoping to bump into Harrigan. He had risked that Harrigan would not be home, but even in that event the trip would not have been wasted, for western Massachusetts was beautiful and Isaac always sought beauty. Judging from the man’s bedraggled appearance, it seemed he had timed his trip well.

  “I am offering you a job,” Isaac reiterated, looking firmly in Harrigan’s eyes. “One that will give you nearly complete freedom from the pressures that you experienced lately. You will have adequate financing, adequate support, and adequate personnel. You will not be required to publish your work, although that will certainly not be discouraged. You will receive full credit for your work, if you so desire, or you may spread the credit amongst your new colleagues, at your discretion.”

  Isaac paused to observe Harrigan’s reaction. The professor seemed bewildered, with a deep crease in his brow and his lips pursed. It was clear that Harrigan could not even imagine what sort of job he was being offered. Was it with the government perhaps? Or maybe even a foreign government? Perhaps a corporation?

  Isaac knew this was what the man was thinking, for he had made the same offer many times before. “You would be working for neither the government nor a corporation. I represent an organization that is small now but growing rapidly. We are dedicated to a certain mission that is committed to improving the future of mankind.”

  Harrigan sat down at the table, and he listened as Isaac spoke. The appeal to a scientist was unquestionable. The opportunity was exciting. Who could turn it down? And besides, Isaac knew, the man did not have anything better to do.

  7. Creative Destruction

  HER BROTHER had called the night before and left only a brief message. She hated when she missed his calls because he never left her any hint as to what he had called about. It left her wondering.

  She had missed her brother’s call, but the evening with Jeff Baddori had been worth it. It was rare that she relaxed and went to a party. It was rarer still that she would spend time to develop a relationship. She was too busy with work.

  Sophia looked in the mirror. She had to question Jeff’s insistence that she was the prettiest girl he had ever known. He was too attractive to have not met many beautiful women in the past.

  The face in the mirror had the soft and unmarred appearance of skin that has not been exposed to years of excessive sun. Yet she was well tanned now. Her blonde hair was full-bodied, yet each strand was fine. Her features were sharp, as was common among in women from Iceland, and they gave her the appearance of fortitude. She opened her eyes wide and leaned into the mirror. Her irises were very light blue, with faint highlights of green. She let her face relax, and then set about the rest of her morning ritual.

  The day ahead was particularly important. She intended to ask that she be allowed to head her own project. Her job was to do menial mathematical tasks assigned to her by the physicists above her. And occasionally, a post-doc would be made the primary assistant to one of the project leaders. But they would never be given an opportunity to organize, coordinate, and manage a project of their own. Government-grant money was generally only available to the top people in the department. It was like an old-boys’ network. The government controlled all fusion research now, and had infused the fusion community with a government mentality.

  American corporations did not even attempt to invest in fusion research, perhaps because the leading researchers had not had success in over sixty years, and the plans that they proposed in their quest to achieve even a marginal success cost billions of dollars. Only the government was willing to spend billions of dollars in this manner.

  The project she planned to propose today was significant, yet inexpensive. She was very well respected in the department, and she had demonstrated her value in a recent navy-sponsored project. The leaders of any of the major projects could fund her proposal with minimal effort or sacrifice. Even so, she feared they would not accommodate her request, despite her proven worth, because she was still just a post-doc.

  She put her hair up in a tight bun and in doing so pulled her eyebrows higher. The addition of horn-rimmed spectacles with plain glass lenses served to create the image of the hard-working, laboratory-imprisoned scientist that she wished to convey. She did not go the effort of creating these pretenses on a usual day

  Sophia entered her closet and brusquely pushed aside the European-style clothing she had taken with her from Iceland. The current European fashion of black bell-bottom pants and heavy platform shoes was completely ugly, akin to the attire worn by American counter-culture teenagers. She appreciated the wardrobe she had acquired while in California. This clothing accentuated bodily curves, instead of making one look like a tree trunk. It flowed smoothly and loosely over her body. Nonetheless, she pushed aside the outfits in her California wardrobe becausenone of them were appropriate for the day’s activities. She reached for a plain, light-brown business suit
that looked to have spent much time in a cedar chest. It was fairly well worn, but conservative — perfect for her meeting.

  Donning her drab outfit, she moved outside, climbed into her red Alpha Romeo, and started down the narrow access street that ran perpendicular to the beach. The beach traffic at this time of day was light, so she easily traversed the residential blocks and reached the two-lane road that would take her to the state highway and inland to her desert laboratory.

  Her trip usually took about twenty-five minutes. As the car moved eastward — away from the cool winds of the ocean — the sun baked the pavement and surrounding dry sands, and gradually heated the atmosphere. In the early morning the heat from the sun was insignificant, but by noon that same sun’s piercing radiation would gradually turn the cement walls of the university laboratory into an incinerator; it made the air conditioning system work so hard that it too perspired profusely.

  She tuned in to Russia Today on satellite radio and absorbed news of US and world affairs. Few people in America realized that the English-language Russian news was much more trustworthy regarding the issues facing the United States than any of the mainstream media, which mostly produced various forms of propaganda. Russia Today was by far her most important source of news; it made her long commute enjoyable. She would often cruise the last few miles at a snail’s pace, allowing her to take in the last story of the half hour. This morning, particularly enamored with the report of a volcanic eruption in the South Pacific, she remained in her car even after she turned into the laboratory’s drive, passed through security, parked, and turned off the ignition. Had she not stayed in the car, she might have missed the opportunity to witness one of her arriving coworkers zip his fly and adjust his pants as he walked on the nearby path toward the entrance of the main research building.