Quantum

by Tom Grace

  ‘How the hell would you know what Raphaele wanted me to do? We were a team. We were going to solve this thing together.’

  ‘Actually, after you moved into the new lab, Raphaele was going to retire.’ Kelsey held up her hand to stop the question she saw forming on Sandstrom’s lips. ‘We had a long talk with Dorothy yesterday after the funeral. She told us that Raphaele felt that he’d done all he could for you, and it was time for him to step aside. Had none of this happened, Raphaele would be telling you this right now and wishing you well. He would also have given you this.’

  Kelsey set the thick manila envelope on the edge of Sandstrom’s bed. He stared down at it; across the top was his name scrawled in Paramo’s hand.

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Letters. Dorothy said they were Raphaele’s most prized possession. Sometime back in the forties, he corresponded with another physicist. In Raphaele’s opinion, the man was one of the greatest minds he’d ever known. He also felt that something in these letters might help you figure out your discovery.’

  Sandstrom’s eyes never left the envelope as Kelsey spoke. There were only a handful of twentieth-century physicists who Raphaele Paramo considered truly brilliant, and as best as Sandstrom could recall, Paramo never mentioned having significant communication with any of them.

  ‘Who was Raphaele’s pen pal?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Nolan replied, just as curious about the letters as Sandstrom was.

  ‘We were tempted to read the letters on the way back from South Bend,’ Kelsey admitted, ‘but it wouldn’t have been right. These letters were meant for you.’

  ‘Well, I want to know. Open the envelope and read me one of them.’

  Kelsey smiled as she unclasped the oversize envelope. Inside, she discovered a collection of old brown file folders bound together by string. Each folder bore the date of the letter it contained; the correspondence spanned almost two years.

  ‘I guess we should start at the beginning.’

  Kelsey untied the string and opened the first folder. Surprisingly, the paper, which was older than anyone in the room, had barely yellowed – Paramo had kept his treasured letters safe for more than fifty years. The author’s penmanship was fluid and precise, like the work of a calligrapher.

  ‘Fifteen September 1946,’ Kelsey began. ‘Dear Raphaele… ’

  After a few lines about personal matters, the author shifted direction into the realm of theoretical physics. The tone was conversational, as if Raphaele and the author were sitting in a bar having a discussion over a glass of beer. The man would pose a thesis, then let his imagination run wild, challenging his thesis from several different directions.

  More than once Sandstrom had to ask her to stop so he could digest what he’d heard. The beautifully written prose was interspersed with mathematical notations and explanatory doodles. The first four-page letter took nearly an hour to read.

  “‘— and I look forward to your thoughts on this. Your friend, Johann Wolff.’”

  ‘Amazing.’ Sandstrom sighed, physically drained by the effort he’d put forward to follow the letter. ‘I’d have to study that letter more carefully, but I’d swear that part of what you just read dealt with interaction-free measurement.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Kelsey agreed.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the dumb guy in the room,’ Nolan said, crossing his arms over his chest, ‘but what is it about that letter that has you both so stunned?’

  ‘If Kelsey and I understand this letter correctly, Wolff was working on quantum optics.’

  ‘And why is this significant?’

  ‘The significance is not what, but when,’ Kelsey said. ‘Wolff was thinking about interaction-free measurement in the mid-forties. I’ve never seen anything on the subject dating that far back. In the early sixties the guy who won the Nobel Prize for inventing holography essentially said such a thing was impossible. No one was even fooling around in this area until the eighties.’

  ‘This is cutting-edge quantum thinking now,’ Sandstrom added. ‘Fifty years ago, my God. This guy’s grasp of the subtle nature of potential and probability is amazing. Las Vegas would hate a guy like this.’

  ‘Shall I read another?’ Kelsey asked as she carefully placed the first back in its folder.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Sandstrom replied eagerly.

  Four hours and five letters later, Sandstrom was ready to get out of bed and go back to work. While Nolan was impressed with the author’s ability to describe incredibly complex phenomena lucidly, for Kelsey and Sandstrom the experience was something akin to an epiphany.

  ‘Raphaele was right,’ Sandstrom declared, ‘this guy’s thinking was decades ahead of his time.’

  Kelsey nodded her head in agreement. ‘I’m just surprised that we’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Nolan said as he put the last few folders back in the pile. ‘Especially since he was here at Michigan when he wrote these letters.’

  ‘His comments on some of the senior faculty in our physics department sound like they could have been written today. Just change the names,’ kidded Kelsey.

  ‘Bureaucracies are eternal,’ quipped Nolan.

  Still reclining in his hospital bed, Sandstrom stared in wonder at this gift from his mentor. ‘It’s like Wolff was doing stuff in his head that we’re just starting to figure out now using supercomputers. Based on what he showed Raphaele, I think Wolff was working toward a theory of everything.’

  ‘A theory of everything?’ Nolan asked. ‘Sounds like a Monty Python movie.’

  ‘For physicists,’ Sandstrom replied, ‘a workable theory of everything is the Holy Grail.’

  ‘I’ll bite then. What is it?’

  ‘You want to field this one, Kelsey?’ Sandstrom asked.

  ‘Sure. The short version goes something like this. Four basic forces are known to be at work in the universe – forces that determine the behavior of everything from the smallest subatomic particle to the universe itself. Current theory predicts that if we were to wind the clock back in time to less than a hundredth of a second after the Big Bang, we should find these four apparently separate forces merging into a single unified force.’

  Nolan nodded. ‘I’m with you so far. Gravity, which keeps us from falling off the earth and affects all the big stuff in the universe is theoretically related to the forces that hold atoms and all the subatomic bits together.’

  ‘Exactly. A theory of everything, or TOE, describes the linkage between all the forces. If we can ever develop one that can survive experimental testing, we’ll have a much clearer understanding of how the universe began, how it works, and where it’s going. Now, trying to tie all four forces together in one shot is incredibly difficult. Einstein spent the later years of his life on his unified field theory and came up empty. Taking it one step at a time, we’ve managed to tie two of the forces – electro-magnetism and the weak nuclear force – together. Currently physicists are trying to tie these two forces with the strong nuclear force – the one that holds protons and neutrons together to form atomic nuclei. A theory describing the union of the three nongravitational forces is known in the trade as a GUT, which stands for grand unification theory. The next step after a working GUT is developed is a working TOE.’

  ‘So, based on Wolff’s letters, you think he was piecing together a theory of everything?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Sandstrom assured Nolan, ‘and he was at least as far along fifty years ago as anyone is today. I’m seeing glimmers of M-brane theory in these letters and hints at strategies for resolving some of the stickier problems that current theorists are wrestling with.’

  Nolan nodded. ‘Can these letters help you with your research?’

  ‘Who knows? It all depends on how far Wolff progressed with his theoretical work. These letters are just chip shots, snippets; Wolff did his big thinking somewhere else. A guy this bright had to have published somewhere – left some kind of record of his research.’ A gleam
shone in Sandstrom’s eyes, and he looked up at Nolan and Kelsey. ‘We have to find Johann Wolff.’

  ‘Ted’ – Kelsey’s voice carried a touch of concern – ‘even if he’s still alive, he’d be at least as old as Raphaele was.’

  Sandstrom smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter. A mind like this has to have left some mark behind – some evidence that he was here. Dead or alive, we have to find Johann Wolff.’

  14

  JUNE 28

  Moscow, Russia

  Irena Cherny placed the handset back in the cradle of the multiline phone on her desk and sighed. She took a deep breath, attempting to stave off the anger that threatened to disrupt her normally poised demeanor.

  ‘Yop t’voi yo mat!’ she growled, cursing the man with an expression suggesting an incestuous relationship between the bureaucrat and his mother.

  She glanced down at the slip of paper containing the flight and cargo identification numbers for the materials acquired by Dmitri Leskov’s team in the United States. Orlov had handed it to her more than two hours ago, requesting that she locate the shipment and arrange for it to be retrieved.

  Cherny stood, brushed at a crease in her skirt, and calmly walked to her employer’s office. She knocked, and Victor Orlov waved her in.

  ‘Did you talk with the people at Sheremetyevo?’ Orlov asked.

  ‘Da, Victor Ivanovich, I most certainly did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have been able to confirm that the aircraft has indeed arrived and been unloaded.’

  ‘Good, then we can send a truck down to retrieve our shipment.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Cherny said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As you requested, I called Customs using only the name on the cargo manifest and made no mention of you or the company.’

  Orlov nodded.

  ‘After wasting a great deal of my time, they finally connected me with someone who allegedly has enough blood flowing between his ears to generate a spark of intelligence. This individual informed me that the aircraft that arrived from Chicago had no cargo on board that matches our number or description.’

  ‘How can this be? Voronin faxed us all the paperwork. The shipment should have been on that plane.’

  ‘I understand, but according to the people who unloaded the aircraft, it was not on board. Since the manifest that arrived with the aircraft also did not indicate that our property was on board, the man I spoke with suggested that there may have been a clerical error in Chicago.’

  Orlov was on his feet, pacing in front of the tall windows that faced the Moskva River.

  ‘Get Voronin on the phone.’

  Cherny did a mental calculation of the time difference. ‘It’s four in the morning there.’

  ‘I don’t care if I have to wake that fat slob up. I want to know where my property is.’

  Cherny nodded and returned to her desk. In five minutes she connected Orlov with Voronin.

  ‘Victor Ivanovich,’ Voronin said groggily, still trying to shake the sleep from his head. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can answer a question, Pyotr Yefimovich. Where is my property?’

  ‘It left Chicago yesterday. It should be in Moscow by now.’

  ‘According to Russian Customs, no cargo containers bearing the numbers that you faxed me were on the plane. Again, I ask, Where is my property?’

  Voronin was now fully awake, fear for his life causing an adrenaline-fueled rise in both his heart rate and blood pressure. ‘Could the Customs people be fucking around with you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, because they didn’t try to extort any money from me. They say that there was no cargo on the plane matching the information you sent me.’

  ‘I swear to God, Victor, I wouldn’t do this to you.’

  Orlov could hear the fear in Voronin’s voice, a fear that the man was perfectly justified in feeling. Even halfway around the world, Voronin knew that Victor Orlov could make his life a living hell or, worse, take his life. Orlov did what his business required, and ordering a man’s death was no different from cashing a check.

  ‘I know, Pyotr. And you know that I don’t like excuses. I want results; I want my property. Find it today.’

  ‘Da, Victor Ivanovich. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.’

  15

  JUNE 28

  Ann Arbor, Michigan

  Nolan walked down East University, or what used to be East University until the dead-end road that defined the eastern edge of the original campus had been closed off and terraformed into a lush pedestrian walkway. To his left was West Engineering, a long three-story Romanesque building topped with a red tile roof and a pair of cupolas.

  He smiled as he passed by a series of glass-block windows that punctured the building’s thick masonry base. Hidden behind the translucent blocks was the Naval Architecture wave tank and the carpentry shop where his grandfather, Martin Kilkenny, had worked for so many years building large model ships.

  Beyond West Engineering, Nolan clambered up the worn granite steps of the Randall Physics Laboratory.

  Turning left out of the stairwell, Nolan headed for the office of Kelsey Newton, Associate Professor of Physics.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ he said through the partially open doorway.

  Kelsey turned away from her computer and smiled. ‘What took you so long? You called almost an hour ago.’

  ‘Same old, same old. Just as I was walking out of my office, I got sandbagged by a couple of calls. I picked up some bagels on the way, and an espresso.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Kelsey gratefully accepted the tall, Styrofoam cup.

  ‘How’s the search for Wolff?’

  Kelsey swallowed a tentative sip of the strong brew. ‘I asked a couple of the older professors but struck out. Seems Wolff was gone before any of them arrived for postgraduate work. I also checked the library network. I found quite a few books authored by people named Wolff, on subjects ranging from philosophy to chemistry. I even found a couple of mystery novels, but nothing by a Johann Wolff. There’s also no mention of Wolff in the physics journals dating back well before the war.’

  ‘How about departmental records?’ Nolan asked as he took a bite of a sesame-seed bagel.

  ‘I was just getting to that. I have no idea how far back the on-line stuff goes.’

  Kelsey swiveled her chair back to face her computer. She navigated through the Physics Department Web site, bypassed the public-relations material, and keyed in her ID number and password to log on to the department’s restricted server.

  ‘We want Faculty, Wolff, Johann,’ she said as she typed in the parameters for her search.

  The mouse pointer on her screen changed from an arrow into a cluster of three spinning gears. Thirty seconds later a new screen of information began to load.

  ‘Johann Wolff, assistant professor of physics,’ Kelsey read aloud, ‘1946 to 1948. Received his doctorate from the Institute for Physics at the Kaiser Wilhelm Gessellschaft in Berlin, 1944. No picture available.’

  ‘He was studying physics in Berlin during the war?’ Nolan asked incredulously.

  ‘Apparently so. His doctoral work was in quantum mechanics. He got in on the ground floor.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘In 1944 the field of quantum physics was about twenty years old. Wolff was studying the cutting-edge science of his day.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Kelsey scanned the screen for linking sites but found nothing. ‘This is it on-line, so it looks like we’re taking a walk over to the archives.’

  Kelsey shut down her computer and followed Nolan out of her office. They exited through the west side of Randall onto the Diag, cut through Angell Hall and crossed State Street to the LS&A Building.

  They entered the building and descended a side stairway to the basement. After scanning the floor directory, they quickly located the room where faculty, staff, and student records were stored.

  ‘Oh,’ said the woman behind t
he reception counter as they opened the smooth wooden door. She held her hand to her chest reflexively. ‘You surprised me. I don’t get many visitors during the summer. How can I help you?’

  Kelsey quickly glanced at the woman’s plastic ID badge.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Greene,’ Kelsey said politely before introducing Nolan and herself. ‘We’re looking for some information about an instructor who taught physics here in the late 1940s.’

  ‘That’s going back quite a bit, but I’ll see what I can do. What’s the name?’

  ‘Johann Wolff,’ Nolan replied.

  ‘The department’s on-line records show that he was here from ’forty-six through ’forty-eight,’ Kelsey added.

  ‘Can I see your staff IDs?’ Mrs Greene asked.

  ‘Here,’ Kelsey replied, pulling it out of her purse.

  Nolan unclipped his badge from the collar of his shirt and laid it on the counter. It was similar to the standard faculty picture ID but bore the imprint of MARC as well.

  ‘Always have to check,’ Mrs Greene said as she handed the badges back. ‘Faculty records, even old ones, are still considered restricted information.’

  She keyed the information in to her computer, scribbled down a number on a piece of paper, and disappeared into the stacks of file drawers and shelving units that filled the basement level. Ten minutes later she returned.

  ‘Oh my, it took a little digging to find this one,’ she said as she placed a thin file folder on the counter.

  The folder’s tab contained a bar code strip and the name WOLFF, J. Kelsey turned the folder and opened the cover. Inside she found an ancient university-employee-information sheet listing Wolff’s date of birth, citizenship, and other vital data.

  ‘Well, he definitely doesn’t live there anymore,’ Mrs Greene offered.

  ‘What?’ Nolan said, then he skipped down to the home address. ‘Oh, you’re right.’

  ‘Where is that?’ Kelsey asked, trying to get her bearings.

  ‘It was just off campus,’ Mrs Greene replied, ‘near the business school. It’s a parking lot now.’