Einstein's Bridge

by Cramer, John

  “I’d like to know one other thing,” said Larry. “Why is an FSU law student so interested in an oil man with a business in Texas and land purchases in Alabama?”

  Steve frowned. “It’s personal,” he said. “Look, I’ve got a long drive back to Tallahassee. I’ve gotta’ go.” He stood.

  Larry gathered up the sheets that Steve had placed on his desk. “I’ll do some further checking,” he said. “Perhaps when things develop a bit further, there may be a story here.” He extended his hand, and shook Steve’s. “Keep in touch, Steve,” he said. You know where to find me.”

  When Steve reached his car, there was a parking ticket under the wiper. He cursed and tore the yellow paper into small pieces. He’d show the bastards yet, he thought.

  CHAPTER 8.9

  Victory Party

  GEORGE and Alice sat in the spacious inner office of Congressman Matthews. Joe had seated them here while they awaited the outcome of the House floor vote on the Joint Committee Report that would decide the fate of the SSC.

  Congressman Matthews had organized a coalition of about eighty of the first termers and formed an alliance with the traditional budget-cutting fiscal conservatives and others to stage a House floor fight opposing the SSC project. They had garnered lots of media coverage by denouncing the SSC management for their shameful squandering of taxpayers money on what they called “The Four P’s”: plants, paintings, pizzas, and parties. The House Appropriations Committee had voted to approve the SSC budget and proceed with construction, but on the floor of the House Matthews’ Mavericks had overruled the Appropriations Committee recommendation and succeeded in defeating the SSC appropriation by a 280 to 150 margin.

  A similar initiative in the Senate, led by Senator Dale Bumpers of Arkansas, had failed by a vote of 42 to 57, and the Senate had approved the SSC appropriation. Since there were differences in the House and Senate versions of the Department of Energy appropriations bill which centered on the SSC, it was the responsibility of the Conference Committee to iron out their differences and produce a compromise. But, as it had been the year before, the Conference Committee had been rigged. Speaker Foley had appointed only SSC advocates to represent the House, and, like last year, the Conference Committee had accepted the Senate version of the DOE bill, preserving the SSC funding.

  Matthews’ group of freshman had vowed that this time the agreement would not be allowed to stand. The Conference Committee report had to be ratified by the House, and Matthews’ Mavericks were staging a floor fight to reject the agreement.

  George looked at his watch. The House vote on the Conference Committee report was scheduled for late today. It was now almost 5:00 PM. He and Alice had been waiting here since 4, and they might have to wait a lot longer.

  George heard voices in the outer office. Joe Ramsey opened the door, and Congressman Matthews, followed by about a dozen other House members, the maverick ring leaders of the SSC opposition, filed into the large office.

  Alice and George stood and he looked inquiringly at Matthews. “How did it go, Congressman?” he asked.

  “We, by God, won!” said Matthews. “The vote was 282 to 143. We killed the fucker! We drove a stake through its heart. The SSC Project, as of about ten minutes ago, is dead as a doornail.” He walked across the room and shook hands with both of them, slapping George on the shoulder.

  “We plan to submit a House Resolution,” said one of the other members, “that will require the DOE dickheads to fill in the whole goddamned tunnel!” He laughed loudly.

  Joe opened a false book-front wall, behind which was a bar, consulted a list of preferences, and began dispensing drinks to the Members, mostly tall glasses of straight scotch or bourbon. Alice asked for a ginger ale. Joe looked at George and raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll have a small cognac, Joe,” said George. “And I’m afraid that Alice and I need to talk to Jon in private. It won’t take long.”

  Matthews spoke briefly to Joe and then led them into a small conference room adjoining the office.

  “Your group did very well this afternoon, Congressman.” George said. “You saw an opportunity for political advantage, and you grasped it. You killed a big expensive project that had a relatively small constituency, just a few scientists, the Texas delegation, some miscellaneous contractors, and the usual science enthusiasts.”

  Matthews smiled. “And we deeply appreciate your support of our efforts, Mr. Preston.”

  “To you, I know, the SSC was just another porkbarrel project, a particularly big one that didn’t happen to be in your state. Somehow those Texas bastards had corralled a 10 billion dollar project, and your group decided to slap their hands for being greedy. Ten or twenty million for a pork project now and then is OK, but 10 billion is way out of line.”

  Matthews nodded.

  “Well, I need to explain two things to you, Congressman. The first is that your vote today was a very destructive thing for the nation. You have broken the central social contract with the scientific community of this country that has been in existence for the past five decades. For the scientists, the contract required that they work long hours, sixteen hour days and nights and weekends, go to graduate school and live like paupers for six to ten years while they studied and worked essentially flat-out, and then move into relatively low-paying jobs, often with almost no job security, so that they can help to move forward the state of human knowledge, to gain an improved understanding of how the universe works and how we can manipulate its laws and restrictions to do new, interesting, and useful things. And they’ve been outrageously successful in this activity. The fruits of their basic research have become the mainspring of the US economy.”

  “Wait a damn minute,” objected Matthews. “Look at my record, George. I’ve consistently supported research, as long as it wasn’t corporate welfare or a damned Texas porkbarrel project. My vote helped to save the space station!”

  George shook his head. “The space station is not a scientific project, or even a good engineering project. Its construction was opposed by every major scientific professional society.

  “You just don’t seem to get it, Congressman,” said George. “For people like you, the social contract with scientists required that you support real scientific activity, not aerospace contractor welfare thinly disguised as science. As a fraction of gross national product, the support of real science in the US is quite small, considerably less than in Europe or Japan, but it has been sufficient up to now. If and when a project had been properly peer-reviewed by impartial experts and checked out for feasibility, cost-effectiveness, and likelihood of success, you’re supposed to support it. Once a project was started, you’re supposed to see it through to completion. And you’re supposed to be smart enough to distinguish between pork and valid science. In the case of the SSC, you’ve failed these tests miserably.

  “You’ve blighted the plans and careers of thousands of scientists who had bet their futures on the SSC project. You’ve left graduate students without a thesis project, postdocs without a job or job prospects, and senior scientists without the possibility of support for their research. These people, most of whom have little understanding of politics but who have had a basic trust that good science will be supported by our government, you have betrayed.”

  “I’ve betrayed?” Matthews roared. “You two have been prancing around our chambers ever since I took office, pushing us to kill the SSC. Now suddenly it’s us who have done a terrible thing.”

  “It is true that Alice and I have opposed the SSC. We had to, but not because it was a bad project. I can’t explain to you why it was necessary for our group to oppose it. But none of our reasons apply to you. Your opposition was rooted in greed, narrow political interests, and bull-headed refusal to look objectively at the project or to consider the overall long-term good of the nation. You were wrong in your opposition, and I’m ashamed
that we had to use your venality for our own purposes.”

  There another roar of outrage from Matthews, but George shouted him down. “Please let me finish, Congressman, so you can get back to your celebration,” he said. “I realize that I’m destroying a carefully cultivated political relationship by telling you this, but it’s necessary that at least one member of your group understands what you’ve done and what the consequences will be.

  “You’re a first-term Congressmen. If I have anything to do with it, you will not be a second term Congressman. Whether you’re aware of it or not, your campaign received very large contributions from several political action committees under my control. Next year during the mid-term elections you’ll face stiff competition in the Democratic primary and a new and very capable Republican opponent in the final election. Your opponents’ campaigns will receive very large contributions from my PACs, and you’ll receive none.

  “I hope you have nothing to hide, Congressman. Skillful investigators will be going over your records and background in meticulous detail. If nothing else, your opponents will hang your role in killing the SSC around your neck like an albatross.

  “Bullshit!” said Matthews. “Nobody in Oregon gives a good God damn about the SSC. My advisors made sure of that before we mounted our opposition to it.”

  “Perhaps,” said George, “but my organization’s polling data shows that intrinsic public support of science runs much deeper in Oregon than you imagine. Congressman, I’m really distressed that my government is run by people like you. I want you thrown out of office, as an example to your peers that worthy but poorly defended scientific projects should not be exploited as targets of political opportunity. And I will see that all of your celebrating colleagues outside receive the same treatment as you do.”

  Matthews glared at George. “You’re a crazy man. And you’re through in this town, Preston. I know what you’ve been up to. I know all about your little scheme in Alabama, and it’s fucking dead. All you’ve accomplished by your little speech is to make yourself a political pariah.”

  “You mean I’ll never do lunch in this town again?,” asked George, smiling. “I devoutly hope that you’re correct. Aside from making sure that as many as possible of you are defeated for re-election next year, I no longer have a political agenda to promote. Thank you for listening to me, Congressman. I hope you’ll tell the rest of your group about this conversation. And I want you to think of this conversation in November of next year as you watch the election results come in and wonder what hit you.”

  George held up his cognac glass, as if making a toast. “When you’re defeated for re-election in 1994, Congressman, remember the ‘Curse of the SSC.’”

  George and Alice left quickly after that. Matthews cursed them from the doorway as they threaded their way through the revelry in the outer office and out into the hallway.

  “I hadn’t expected that,” said Alice, looking at him. “You just dynamited our carefully constructed bridges.”

  George smiled. “The person you’re looking at is not going to be around much longer, in any case. I’ve been very visible of late, and at least two reporters, guys with the Houston Chronicle and Washington Post, are poking into my background in far too much detail. This George Preston is going into early retirement, and a new persona with a different face and background is going replace him. Those burned bridges of yours have served their purpose and were about to collapse under their own weight.” He paused and smiled. “And, by God, Alice, that little speech has made me feel amazingly good.”

  She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

  As they reached the outer building lobby, a figure in a dark coat stepped out from the wall to block their path.

  “Steve!” said Alice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, I’ve been waiting for you, Alice,” Steve said. “I wanted to share in the fun.”

  “Fun?” said Alice. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the sleazy shenanigans of you and your sugar daddy, here. The business of sneaking around, manipulating Congress, killing big projects, and making loads of money in the process.” He turned and shook his finger in George’s face. “I want you to know that I’m on to you, you bastard! I know why you’ve been trying to kill the SSC project. I know all about your fake identity and your get-rich-quick schemes. You’re a fucking con artist.”

  George smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said. “I presume that you’re Alice’s friend Steve Brown. I thought that you were supposed to be at Florida State working on a law degree. Why aren’t you in Tallahassee attending classes and studying for exams?”

  “Because I’m learning more here, checking up on sleazeballs like you,” Steve said. “I’ve put off my studies for a year, because I have things to do here that are more important.”

  “And those are ... ?” said George.

  “Exposing your cynical manipulations of our political system for your own purposes and profits,” said Steve. “You see, I’ve found out about your land deals in Alabama. I know about the Tombigbee caper, and I know what you’re up to. And I’m going to expose you, Preston. I’ll make sure you don’t get a damned cent of profit from all your wheelings and dealings.”

  “Tombigbee? Profits?” said George, frowning. Then his face brightened. “Ah, I see. Of course!” He began to laugh. “You must think ...” He shook his head as he chuckled.

  “What is it, George?” Alice asked. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well,” said George finally, “it seems that Steve here has managed to discovered Roger’s wacko cover scheme. Roger thought that we would do better in our political opposition to the SSC if we had something obvious to gain from its cancellation. His theory is that politicians don’t feel comfortable with you unless they can see that your motives are just as greedy as theirs. So Roger cooked up this goofy scheme. We bought some land on a river in Alabama, and then we planted stories that PetroGen wanted to kill the SSC so that money could be moved over to a water project on that river to increase the land values.”

  Steve took a step back, as if he had been struck.

  “I never believed it would work,” George continued, looking closely at Steve, “but apparently it did. Matthews just referred to it a minute ago, and Steve here seems to have bought the story, lock, stock, and barrel. I must apologize to Roger, next time I see him.”

  George and Alice were still laughing as they descended the broad staircase and caught a cab at the curb. Inside, he glanced back at Steve, who still stood at the entrance of the Rayburn House Office Building, a look of profound puzzlement on this face.

  “Steve confirms the wisdom of my decision,” George said. “The distinguished George Preston, founder and President of PetroGen, will soon announce that, having made his killing in the new bio-petroleum industry and having been the trusted advisor to Presidents, he plans to donate much of his wealth to the Iris Foundation and retire to an island in the Caribbean to live out his twilight years in the tranquil seclusion of the formerly rich and famous. The ‘George Preston’ identity was my first attempt at constructing a new persona, and I made a few mistakes. For example, I stupidly used my own birthdate as his, which under the wrong circumstances could be a dead giveaway. Roger and I have become much more skillful at the construction of identities. Those reporters and your friend Steve have been getting uncomfortably close to this one.”

  Alice looked out the rear window as their taxi pulled away from the curb. “I don’t know what I ever saw in that jerk,” she said. “In your universe, I actually married him?”

  “And you put him through law school,” said George.

  “That’s crazy,” said Alice. “The world has too many lawyers as it is. I much prefer physicists.” She turned to George and kissed him soundly.

  CHAPTER 8.10

&n
bsp; Breakout

  THE Roger turned up the wiper speed to high and increased the window-defroster’s heat setting a notch. He had flown from Frankfurt to Detroit and rented a car, expecting a pleasant drive west on Interstate 69 to East Lansing across the meadows, forests, and farmland of Michigan. Instead he had headed into the teeth of a blizzard that seemed to grow in intensity as he approached his destination. He almost missed the East Lansing exit from the Interstate and managed to slither into the exit lane at the last possible instant.

  The Michigan State University campus was even larger than that of Stony Brook, and much of it seemed to be devoted to agricultural activities. He passed an impressive building with a large “MSU - Swine Husbandry” sign near the front entrance. He smiled, recalling that his mother had accused his father of that, once or twice. Consulting his map, he saw that the physics building must be off to the left, near the massive football stadium that loomed on the horizon. He turned the car in that direction.

  The wind cut through his clothing as he walked from the semicircular driveway to the building’s entrance. At least the uncomfortable beard kept his chin warm, he thought. Professor Hernando Garcia’s laboratory was on the ground floor of the large limestone building. The door bore yellow signs with magenta letters warning of laser hazards and radioactivity . Roger knocked at the door, and almost immediately it opened.

  “Dr. Wilkins, how good to see you,” Garcia greeted him. “How was your trip?”

  “Hello, Hernando,” said Roger. “The trip was fine until I reached this frozen wasteland you call Michigan. The drive here from Detroit was, shall we say, memorable.”

  Garcia smiled. “Well,” he said, “I think you’ll find that the trip was worth it.”

  Roger took off his coat, gloves, and knitted cap and hung them on the rack by the door. “Where’s this ramjet of yours?” he asked, looking around.