Einstein's Bridge

by Cramer, John

  Griffin felt a surprising tingle accompanying each handshake. “I’m glad to meet you,” he said. “On the phone you mentioned a job proposition. I hope you understand that I just arrived here from CERN two weeks ago, and I’m not exactly exploring job opportunities at the moment.” He’d read the recent news reports about the new major research foundation with a big endowment. It seemed too good to be true.

  Preston nodded. His face looked strangely familiar, but Griffin could not remember in what context. “We understand your commitment to your new position here,” Preston said, “but we wanted to talk to you anyway. The Iris Foundation is now in the process of creating two major new research foundations, the Iris Institutes. One of these will be located in Europe and the other in the United States. The Foundation has very deep pockets for supporting fundamental research. The initial foundation endowment is over five billion dollars, and we expect that to grow as the companies that support it prosper. We are here to offer you the job of Research Director of the new Iris Institute in this country. The starting salary is around $300,000 per year, plus benefits.”

  Griffin felt a rush of adrenaline. “Research Director? Surely this is a joke. You must want a prominent Nobel Laureate for a position and salary like that. I’m just a mid-level high energy experimentalist. I only make $45,000 a year, just a little more than I was getting at CERN. I don’t even have a permanent job at Fermilab, just a five-year appointment.”

  “I know that our offer must seem strange, George,” said the man introduced as Roger Fulton. He had a clipped British accent. “But we already know that you are the man we want for the job. Let me tell you a story. It begins on a warm spring day in May of the year 2004, when I was sitting alone at a table at the CERN cafeteria, minding my own business ...”

  When Roger had finished, Griffin sat quiet for a while, thinking as he looked at Preston. “You want me to believe that you are me, but seventeen years older. If anything you look younger than I do. You might be my younger brother.”

  “I made myself younger with a bit of re-Writing of some basic cell biology” said Preston. “I also Wrote a lot of other changes for my body that aren’t apparent. For example, I don’t have to exercise to stay in shape any more. I’m also smarter than before, my reflexes are quicker, and I can cause my time-sense to speed up or slow down by about a factor of ten. I can set my own muscle tone, and I can bench press four times my body weight. I’m immune to cancer and other diseases. I can changed my appearance and facial characteristics too, but I haven’t, except for shaving off the beard. My whiskers don’t grow now unless I ask them to.”

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. Was this some kind of con game?

  “But, OK,” Preston continued. “Here’s some proof you might believe.” He extracted a black stamp pad and a sheet of white paper from his briefcase and placed them on the desk. Then he held out his right index finger to Griffin. “Look at my fingertip closely,” he said. “Make sure that I’m not using a rubber overlay or something.”

  Griffin nodded.

  Preston rolled his finger across the stamp pad and then across the paper, leaving a clear black fingerprint with a clear overhand loop pattern. “Now you do the same thing.”

  Griffin did so, and then looked closely at the two fingerprints. “They’re the same.” he said quietly.

  “OK, let’s get to the point,” said Preston. “What do you think of our offer, now that you understand what we have in mind?”

  What if I tell you I think you’re crazy, Griffin thought. “What if I tell you I’m not interested, that I like what I’m doing here?” he asked.

  “I already know that you like the work,” said Preston. “You’ll do rather well here. Your group will clinch the discovery of the top quark in about two years, although it’s going to be rather messier than you might think. You’ll also turn up preliminary evidence that the quark may have substructure. You and Grace will not have any children. You’ll land a permanent faculty position at the University of Washington in Seattle. About the same time you and Grace will part company, and she’ll go back to England. I know that you’re already having problems. Following that, in my world you joined the LEM collaboration and began to work primarily at the SSC. I’m not sure what you’ll do if the SSC project is canceled, probably join one of the LHC collaborations at CERN, either ATLAS or CMS. That, perhaps, won’t work out so well. Roger tells me the LHC at its present design energy is unlikely to get an definitive Higgs signal. So if you’re going to switch your research path, this might be a good time to do it.”

  How would he know that Grace and I are having problems, Griffin wondered.

  “I see that you still don’t believe me,” said Preston. “OK, let me tell you some things about yourself that nobody else would know ...”

  Griffin listened as Preston began to talk, listing childhood events and personal secrets. Griffin was perplexed. How could he know these things? Had he mentioned them to his coworkers, to his friends, to Grace? Did he talk in his sleep? No, there was no way this guy could know ... he must ... “OK! Stop! You win!” he said, feeling embarrassed, exposed. “I give up, dammit. You must be me.”

  Griffin was quiet for a while. “What is the research at Iris going to be like?” he asked finally. “Not high energy physics, I suspect.”

  “We’ve told you some of it already,” said Roger. “As Director of Research, it will be partly up to you. Our plan is to select a few areas of basic and applied research and to move forward rapidly, to reach the point where we’re once again doing original research instead of learning from the Makers. We want to hire a lot of bright young people, with an emphasis on quick uptake and flexibility. You’ll be responsible for leading and guiding these young people. For a time it will be necessary to keep quiet about our information from the Makers in order to minimize the culture-shock effect. We hope we can get through that period of secrecy in about ten years, perhaps sooner.”

  “I’ve always hated secrecy,” said Griffin.

  “I know,” said Preston, “you were very uncomfortable with all the security during the summer job you had with that defense contractor. But in this case it’s necessary, George. I also know you can do deal with it when you have to.”

  Griffin took a deep breath. He was quiet for a while. “OK,” he said finally, “I’ll do it. But, I want you to understand my reason. I’m thinking of all the people I know who might be alternate candidates for the job. And I think they’d all probably screw it up, in one way or another. So I suppose I’ll have to do it myself. But let me tell you, up front, I’m not at all fond of administration, and I’m going to really hate the secrecy part. I want you to understand that.”

  “I do understand, George,” said Preston. “I would say exactly the same thing, of course.”

  Griffin frowned at him. He wondered what it was going to be like, working for a man who knows exactly how you think, who knows every thought you’ve ever had, up to now.

  CHAPTER 8.5

  The Anti-SSC Coalition

  JOE Ramsey examined himself in the gold-framed oval mirror. “Congressional Staff Member and Special Assistant to Congressman Jonathan Matthews, D-Oregon” read the gold-embossed business card wedged into the mirror frame. He’d been very clever to work on the Matthews campaign while he was finishing Law School in Eugene. Otherwise he would have been doomed to the usual indentured servitude at some big Portland law firm, spending his most productive years in some back room pounding a computer terminal doing Lexis and Nexis research and writing briefs for the partners who interacted with the clients and pulled down the big salaries.

  Here in D.C., however, he was the point man for his very own Congressman. Since Jon had just been elected for his first term, Joe was in on the ground floor. It was he who interviewed most of the visitors and made the decision on who would be allowed to see The Man and who would be sent on their way a
fter a brief discussion of why they were here, with maybe a gallery pass to the House.

  Joe loved his job. He worked in this unique environment where most of the key decisions of the legislative body of the most powerful nation in the world were being made by twenty-four year-old staff members like himself. He was living in a town where there were four women for every man. And he was making contacts that would land him a good position later, if and when.

  The phone on his desk buzzed, and he looked at his schedule. The next appointment was with one A. Lang from the Tallahassee Environmental Coalition. Probably something about protecting alligators and bullfrogs. However, the appointment had been requested by the lobbyist from PetroGen, one of Jon’s biggest contributors. He lifted the receiver, said that he was ready now, and walked to the reception room.

  “A. Lang” turned out to be a woman, quite a good looking young one, actually. The “A” stood for Alice. He noticed that his hand tingled when she shook it and wondered if that meant something special. He hoped so.

  “I’m here,” she explained, “to voice the opposition of my group to the SSC Project in Texas.”

  “I’d like very much to hear about that,” Joe said, radiating sincerity and concern, “and I know Congressman Matthews will be interested.” He led her to his office and suggested that she join him on the sofa rather than sit on the less comfortable chair before his desk that he used for quick turn-around interviews. “Tell me about it, Alice,” he said, trying to remember what the hell this project was. A dam, perhaps?

  “Our group is organizing opposition to the Superconducting Super Collider project in Congress,” she began. “Congressmen Boehlert and Eckart have been opposing it for several years, and Congressman Boehlert is supposed to be on TV tonight talking about his opposition to it. When the project was announced by President Reagan in 1987, it was supposed to cost $4.4 billion, but the price tag has risen to $11 billion and is still going up. Last year the House voted 232 to 181 to kill the project, but the Congressional leadership played some tricks, and it was funded anyway. I’m here to convince you that Congressman Matthews and the other new members of the House should oppose it vigorously as an unnecessary budget-breaking boondoggle.” She explained that high energy physicists were digging a circular 57 mile long tunnel into the subterranean limestone south of Dallas and filling it with a big radioactive accelerator. She gave him a copy of an as-yet unreleased GAO report predicting that the costs would rise above $12 billion.

  Joe fetched a yellow legal pad from his desk and began making notes. Jon might be interested in this one. “This is a Department of Energy project,” he said, phrasing it as if it were a statement instead of a question. She nodded. “Jon is on the Appropriations Subcommittee that handles the DOE budget,” he said. “The Subcommittee on Energy and Water.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s very impressive that a new Congressman was able to land such an important committee assignment,” she added and smiled.

  “Jon was very pleased that the Leadership recognized his ability to contribute in that area,” Joe said, thinking of the marathon bargaining session that had produced the assignment and the unsavory concessions and promises to tobacco-state legislators that had been necessary to get it.

  Joe listened attentively as Alice continued her spiel. She stated that the cost of the project was out of control due to irresponsible management, that the design kept changing and getting more expensive, and that the money would be better spent in more people-oriented sectors of the government. She told Joe about the enormous consumption of electrical energy that the SSC would require, and the amount of oil, natural gas, and coal that would have to be burned to supply that power. She described the impact of the resulting CO2 on the Greenhouse Effect and Global Warming. She described the use of fluorocarbon-based solvents by the project, and how this would damage the Ozone Layer. She described the drain of water from the depleted mid-Texas aquifers to supply the water needs of the machine. She described the vast quantity of limestone that would be removed to make the tunnel and the land-fill problems that this would produce. She described the indigenous rabbits, deer, coyotes, raccoons, javalena pigs, armadillos, and prairie dogs that would be displaced by the SSC construction.

  Joe made a few notes, but he was growing discouraged. Jon was not terribly interested in making speeches in support of displaced pigs, armadillos, and prairie dogs.

  She gave him a graph showing participation by state in contracts for building the SSC. Oregon was near the bottom of the list.

  That was interesting. If nothing else, he should write a letter in Jon’s name to the DOE, demanding an explanation. It might generate some additional contracts in Oregon. Joe put the copy of the chart in the “action” basket on his desk.

  Finally, almost as an afterthought, she mentioned that the SSC management was spending DOE funds on works of art to put on office walls, on decorative plants for reception areas, and on parties for employees.

  “DOE funds? Are you serious?” Joe asked, suddenly alert. “You can prove this?”

  “Of course,” said Alice. “It’s a matter of public record, if you’re willing to dig in the right file cabinets for it.” She produced copies of spreadsheets showing SSC expenditures. “See,” she said, “here are the paintings. And here’s the expenditure for the 1992 Christmas Party, almost $10,000, around $5 per staff member.”

  “Wow!” said Joe. This was good stuff. He understood very well how the federal system was supposed to work, which apparently was more than these SSC jerks did. When you were spending taxpayer money, you never, never, never spent any of it on staff parties or pizzas or office amenities or drinks in topless bars or trips to Tahiti or anything else that you wouldn’t want to see in a newspaper headline. No way! Instead, you asked your contractors to provide the parties and drinks and trips and amenities as a no-cost contribution to the project. That way you got your parties, your ass was covered, and the contractors got a nice tax write-off for their added expenses on the project. These SSC Mister-Science types, for all their white lab coats and slide rules, must have screwed up bigtime.

  “We need to show this stuff to Jon,” Joe told her. “I know he’ll be interested in helping.” He smiled in anticipation.

  CHAPTER 8.6

  Disclosures

  THE Larry Walker scanned the index of Associated Press news items on his terminal. This was going to be a slow day for news, even at the Washington Post. Perhaps today he should make a few phone calls to some of his insider sources and see if he could stir up anything.

  The telephone beeped. “Walker,” he answered.

  “Larry,” said Samantha, the front entrance receptionist, “do you have time to talk to a walk-in? There’s a young lady here who says she wants to talk to a political reporter about some Department of Energy memo.”

  “Um, sure,” said Larry, “send her up.” He found an extra chair nearby and brought it back to his desk. As he was putting it down, he saw a pretty young woman in a gray business suit making her way past the rows of newsroom desks.

  “Hi,” he said, “I’m Larry Walker. What can I do for you?” He indicated the chair, sat down himself, and selected a new yellow legal pad from his desk drawer. He also put his small tape recorder conspicuously on the desktop and started it.

  “I’m Alice Lang,” she said, sitting down. “I’m with a group called the Citizen’s Project for Government Oversight.” She gave him a neatly printed business card.

  Larry wedged the card in the top edge of the notepad. “Never heard of your group,” he said. “What do you do?”

  “We actively support openness in government,” she said. “We’re a non-profit watchdog group that keeps an eye on the activities of the Federal Government. We also provide a secure conduit for ‘whistle blowers’ to provide inside information to the public without endangering their government jobs. That’s wha
t I’m here about today. An internal Department of Energy memorandum has come into our possession which I think will interest you. It’s a communication to Energy Secretary Hazel O’Leary from Jasper Siciliano, a DOE field office administrator in Dallas. It’s about the Superconducting Super Collider project in Texas. Siciliano has the title of ‘SSC Project Leader’ within the DOE.”

  “Interesting,” said Larry. “That’s the big over-budget accelerator project that the House voted to kill back in June, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Alice. “The vote was 280 to 150 to kill the project. They had a similar vote last year, but this time the margin was bigger. The project was saved last year by a favorable Senate vote and some devious maneuvering by the Congressional leadership.”

  Larry nodded. “What’s going to happen this year? The same thing?”

  Alice shrugged. “The Senate vote is coming very soon, and the DOE seems to be getting a little crazy. Siciliano wants to fire the SSC Director and do some major revisions of the project’s funding profile, effectively crippling the project but saving his own job.” She handed him a letter-size manila envelope. “It’s all in here.”

  Larry placed the envelope on his desk without opening it. “What do you know about this Siciliano person?” he asked.

  “I’ve heard plenty about him that you couldn’t print, from the scientists at the SSC. He was elevated to a position of power when Admiral Watkins became Secretary of Energy. The Admiral wanted a direct line of information on the SSC, and Siciliano, who was already at the Dallas DOE office, provided it. His empire in the DOE has grown and grown. He now directs ninety-six mean-spirited paper-shuffling bureaucrats, all making life miserable for the scientists and technical people at the SSC project. Roy Schwitters, the SSC Director, was recently quoted as calling Siciliano’s operation ‘the revenge of the C students’.”