The God Particle

by Daniel Danser

  He had already managed to disassemble the generators, had dried each component and was in the process of reassembling them, when he heard the alarm. Meltdown was imminent. There was just no way of knowing exactly how long he had left. Theoretical scenarios could predict the system’s anticipated breaking point but, in reality, there were too many factors that could affect the outcome.

  His clothes under his protective overalls were wet through, his hair was matted to his scalp and beads of sweat formed on his top lip, but he reasoned that every second counted. As long as his protective suit didn’t impede him, then he could put up with the discomfort rather than taking the time to strip off.

  A loud bang, followed by a hiss of steam, made him jump and he dropped his wrench into the water, beneath the generators. Fumbling around on the floor, his hands sieved through the layers of silt, trying desperately to locate the tool. He adjusted his position so he could reach further under the generators. His fingertips nudged something hard. He stretched his hand out as far as he could and felt the cold steel of the spanner.

  That was the last thing he ever felt. Katashi wouldn’t have felt the shockwave of the nuclear blast as it ripped open the reactor. He wouldn’t have felt his protective clothing evaporate in an instant, as the expanding fireball, three times hotter than the Sun’s surface, burst through the containment chamber. He wouldn’t have seen the flash of light, so intense that it melted his eyeballs. And he wouldn’t have felt his blood boil and his body vaporise, leaving only his shadow etched on the wall, before it too disintegrated into shrapnel, as the shockwave continued its lethally destructive path.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Okay, who can tell me how we calculate the interaction between charged particles, in quantum electrodynamics?’ Tom Halligan stared at each one of the twenty-two blank faces that stared back at him in turn. He may as well have just asked the question in Cantonese. The reaction would have been the same, he thought.

  ‘Anybody?’ he encouraged.

  A pimply adolescent, who was wearing a cardigan that looked as though it had been knitted by his grandmother, raised his hand hesitantly. ‘Is it Einstein’s theory of relativity?’

  Halligan exhaled slowly, looking down at his feet. He raised his head and addressed the class in general.

  ‘Has anybody heard of Halligan’s theory?’ The same blank expressions. ‘Halligan’s theory states that, if you use that specific answer every time somebody asks you a question, one day it will be the right answer. Unfortunately, today isn’t that day.’

  Smirks appeared on all the blank faces, apart from the pimply adolescent’s, who blushed with embarrassment.

  ‘The answer this time, my friends, is Feynman Diagrams.’ The bell rang signalling the end of class. Halligan had to shout over the top of it to make himself heard. ‘Which is what I want you to write an essay on, as part of tonight’s homework assignment. Two thousand words, on my desk, the day after tomorrow.’

  With that, the class filtered out of the door, leaving Tom Halligan to pack his notes and stationery into his battered, brown, leather briefcase.

  He looked up, expecting to see an empty classroom, but instead was rather surprised to see an elderly gentleman sitting on the back row.

  ‘Hello, can I help you? I take it you’re not one of my undergraduates?’

  ‘No, Professor Halligan, and I’m sorry if I startled you,’ replied the older man. ‘My name is Frederick Volker. I am President of the CERN Council.’

  Tom recognised the name, but had never met the man in person.

  ‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ Tom queried.

  Frederick rose, rather slowly, from his seat at the back of the auditorium and made his way, cautiously, down the stairs to where Tom was standing.

  ‘The honour is all mine, I assure you, Professor Halligan,’ Frederick said warmly, grasping Tom’s hand and shaking it effusively. ‘I have been following your career rather closely.’

  The man reminded Tom of his favourite grandfather. His hands were soft, but his grip was firm. His round face was framed by neatly-trimmed hair and beard that were alabaster white. When he smiled, his whole face lit up and his eyes changed colour from sea-green to azure blue. His tall, slender figure had a slight stoop, yet he looked the reverse of feeble. He was dressed immaculately, in a three-piece tweed suit that had obviously been designed by one of the leading fashion houses. His shoes were of the finest Italian leather, his shirt Savile Row. Frederick Volker certainly had expensive tastes when it came to couture, Tom mused.

  ‘Is there somewhere a little more private we could go?’ Frederick enquired.

  ‘Of course,’ Tom replied. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’ With that, Tom picked up his briefcase and led the elderly gentleman out of the room and down the corridor to his office.

  As an Institute Professor, he was entitled to a corner office, which afforded windows on two sides and was larger than the normal faculty offices. The position of Institute Professor was the highest possible honour that could be awarded by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and it put Tom in a group of elite academics, who had ‘Demonstrated exceptional distinction by a combination of leadership, accomplishment and service in the scholarly, educational and general intellectual life of the Institute or wider academic community,’ according to MIT's policy manual. In reality, Tom had been rewarded for what he enjoyed doing the most, namely teaching and research.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ said Tom gesturing to one of the high-backed leather Chesterfields.

  ‘Thank you, Professor Halligan,’ said Frederick, lowering himself into the sumptuous armchair.

  ‘Please, call me Tom.’

  ‘Thank you, and you must call me Frederick. By the way, Charles Brannigan sends his regards.’

  ‘You know Charles?’

  Charles had been Tom’s mentor at the Brookhaven National Laboratory, on Long Island, New York when he was doing his dissertation there. At the time, it was the location of the world’s largest collider before being superseded by the one at CERN.

  ‘Yes, we bump into each other now and again, conferences, seminars, that sort of thing,’ Frederick replied, vaguely.

  Tom wondered what could have instigated a conversation between these two eminent figures that involved him, but decided not to say anything.

  With the pleasantries out of the way, Tom was becoming anxious to know what had brought this distinguished gentleman all the way to New England, in person, to see him.

  ‘So, what can I do for you, Frederick?’

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Frederick replied, sensing Tom’s anxiety. ‘Are you aware that we recently lost our Director General?’

  Tom had read in the newspapers about the death of Professor Morantz. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. It must have been a shock. Suicide, wasn’t it?’

  Sadness clouded the older man’s gaze. ‘Yes, Professor Morantz had been under a great deal of pressure, for some time. There had been various setbacks with the collider which, I understand, he took personally.’

  Tom could tell by the inflection in his voice that Frederick was finding it difficult to discuss the circumstances surrounding Professor Morantz’s death.

  ‘He has left a void that can only be filled by somebody with exceptional credentials,’ continued Frederick. ‘After much deliberation, the council would like to offer the position to you, Tom.’

  ‘Me! Why me?’ said Tom, astonished.

  ‘As I said earlier,’ Frederick replied, ‘I’ve been following your career closely and I believe that you have everything we are looking for. Academically, you are regarded as the definitive authority on subatomic particles, by your peers. The research that you have done on quantum electrodynamics has advanced the way forward in terms of our own search for the God particle, while your published articles expound theories that go far beyond our current understanding of the origins of the universe. In short, you are a visionary with the passion and knowledge to support your hypothese
s, and that’s exactly what we need to drive the project to the next level at CERN.’

  ‘I... I’m flattered, if not a little taken aback,’ stuttered Tom.

  ‘I know this is all very sudden,’ replied Frederick, ‘and I don’t expect a decision straight away. But we are at a very critical point. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that we are on the verge of a breakthrough, the outcome of which could hold the key to how the universe and everything in it was created.’ He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tom. ‘I’ll leave you to your deliberations. I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston if you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll phone you in two days for your decision.’ He then shook Tom’s hand, turned on his heels and left.

  Tom stood there, speechless.

  The day had started off as unremarkable as any other day. His alarm woke him just before 6 am. He poured himself a coffee and stared out of his window at the campus as it came to life. He was living in Ashdown House, one of the undergraduate apartment blocks, normally reserved for students with families.

  He had been there for nearly six months, since leaving his marital home after discovering his wife was having an affair with one of his colleagues. There was no drama or culpability; he and Susan had just drifted apart. If anybody was to blame, Tom blamed himself; the number of nights spent in his research lab or at his computer, creating theoretical models or typing up a new paper, must have contributed to the act of driving his wife into the arms of another man.

  He finished his coffee and donned his tracksuit. He was learning to take an intrinsic pride in his appearance. He had to admit that he had let himself go a little, especially around the midriff; this fact was pointed out by Susan in one of their ‘heart to heart’ discussions shortly after their breakup, along with the fact that his haircut and most of his clothes made him look older than his 36 years.

  The hair was the easiest to resolve. He had gone to the on-campus hairdresser, sat down in one of the barber’s chairs and said simply, ‘Make me look younger!’ It had worked. The stylist, used to giving the students the latest fashion haircut, had moderated her urge to replicate the most commonly requested ‘messy bed-head’ look and, instead, went for a more George Clooney meets Matt Damon, sophisticated but sporty, style. It had taken years off him and had even elicited the odd wolf-whistle from some of his female undergraduates.

  The clothes were next; not such an easy fix. He had never been a follower of fashion per se; the latest trends were as alien to him as a sub-atomic particle would be to a football coach. Luckily, that wasn't the case with his brother, Matt, who would always buy him a designer shirt for Christmas or his birthday. It was to him he turned for advice as his fashion guru.

  Growing up, the two brothers had always been like chalk and cheese. Tom's fascination for science stemmed from a chemistry set bought for him by one of his uncles. At school he would always get top grades in chemistry, physics and mathematics, so by the time he was eighteen it was inevitable that he would go to university.

  Matt, on the other hand, was the archetypal athlete. At school, there wasn’t a sport that he didn’t excel in, but it was baseball where he really shone. Whilst captaining the local youth team, he was spotted by a New York Yankees’ talent scout and signed up to a four-year apprenticeship. Leaving home at sixteen, he moved into dormitories on the outskirts of Manhattan, where he spent twelve hours a day practising and perfecting his swing until, finally, he was called up to play in the Major League.

  Tom's hand-eye coordination was non-existent. He was always the last to be picked for any team sport at school. He did have a certain amount of kudos for having a brother who won every cup there was to win, but that didn’t detract from his own humiliation of being left on the sidelines. Instead, he found solace in science.

  ‘Matt. Hi, it's Tom. How do you fancy a shopping spree this weekend, just the two of us?’

  Matt could never resist an invitation from his little brother and caught the next plane out of JFK to Boston.

  The resulting transformation, from dour professor to stylish academic, was remarkable. Out went the cardigans, beige chinos and loafers, and in came merino wool sweaters, Armani trousers and designer shoes. His black, thick-framed glasses were replaced by rimless Gucci bifocals.

  Tom had to admit that the makeover did give him a certain gravitas, as he caught his reflection in the mirror on the way out of his apartment to start his morning jog.

  ***

  ‘How did it go?’ The voice on the other end of the line came straight to the point.

  ‘Good. I think he was taken a little aback by our offer, but I could tell he was definitely intrigued,’ Frederick responded. He was now back in his hotel room, having spent the afternoon since leaving Tom at the Hayden Planetarium, a short walk from where he was staying.

  ‘Did he ask about Professor Morantz?’

  ‘No. He had read about his death in the papers, but I suspect, with his inquisitive mind, that that won't be enough to satisfy his curiosity,’ Frederick replied.

  ‘There is nothing that...’

  ‘Just one moment, I've another call coming through,’ Frederick interrupted, putting the call on hold.

  ‘Hello, Frederick Volker here.’

  ‘Frederick, it's Tom Halligan.’

  ‘Tom! Nice to hear from you, although I have to admit I didn’t expect you to call so soon.’

  Tom gave a short laugh. ‘When you left, it took me all of ten minutes to make up my mind. It would be a privilege and a pleasure to accept your offer. When do you want me to start?’

  CHAPTER 5

  The flight from Logan Airport in Boston to Geneva had taken a little over ten hours, with a scheduled stop at London Heathrow.

  Tom was relieved to be finally on his way, as the endless goodbyes and parties were taking its toll. By nature he wasn’t used to being the centre of attention; but, when he announced his departure to friends, family and colleagues, he had no choice and was thrust into the limelight. The university delivered a moving eulogy of the academic contribution he had made to his department, which was applauded by students and fellow lecturers alike; his brother professed his undying love for him in a bar downtown after far too many brandies, while his close circle of friends organised a French-themed party (he didn’t have the heart to tell them that Geneva was actually in Switzerland), which involved a French maid kissogram, a meal in Brasserie Jo’s and far too many brandies.

  His parents invited the whole extended family around – including Susan, his ex, but not Jeff, her new partner – for a lavish Sunday roast dinner. His mother didn’t have the greatest culinary skills, but she could certainly pull out all the stops when it came to a family gathering.

  His anxiety about starting a new life in Switzerland was tempered by the university offering to keep his position open for as long as he needed it, and his brother promising to visit him at every opportunity, ‘outside the baseball season, of course’.

  Susan, on the other hand, was more apathetic. However, the fact that he didn’t have to keep bumping into Jeff at work, who had once said to him, rather melodramatically, ‘This University isn’t big enough for the both of us’, more than compensated for her lack of interest.

  All in all, it had taken him a month to say his goodbyes and tie up any loose ends at work. CERN had provided him with an American Airlines First Class ticket to Geneva and told him that he would be greeted at the airport on his arrival. He had managed to get a night flight and was able to grab a few hours’ sleep, in between the turbulence; as a result, when he landed in the morning, he was feeling relatively fresh.

  He collected his suitcases from the carousel and headed for the ‘nothing to declare’ channel, dreading the solitary walk down the line of waiting relatives on the other side of the glass partition. He always felt like he was emerging onto a catwalk. As the glass doors slid open, he self-consciously scanned the apprehensive crowd, searching for his name on a plaque. It didn’t take him long to spot
the CERN logo on a laminated card being held aloft by a genial-looking man with a dark complexion, who smiled expectantly at each of the disembarking passengers as they approached him.

  ‘Hi, I’m Professor Halligan. Are you here to meet me?’ Tom, unsure of his new organisation’s preferred salutation, reverted to his formal title.

  ‘Yes, Professor, sahib,’ beamed the man, using the Indian word as a mark of respect for his master.

  ‘Please, call me Tom,’ said the professor, putting his suitcases down and extending his hand.

  ‘I am Anjit Gopal Bose,’ said the man, shaking the proffered hand vigorously. ‘But most people call me Ajay. Welcome to Geneva, Profess… er, Tom,’ Ajay said, still holding onto Tom’s hand. ‘Please follow me.’

  Tom recovered his hand and reached for his suitcases, but Ajay was there first. Picking the luggage up with surprising ease, given his diminutive stature, he set off towards the car park at a brisk pace.

  Tom followed on behind carrying his flight bag over his shoulder. He couldn’t help but notice that Ajay’s dark blue suit was slightly too big for him and suspected that it may be his only one, or borrowed to wear on special occasions, such as collecting visitors from the airport. His boyish face was made to look prematurely older by the thick horseshoe moustache he was trying to grow, but this too looked too big for his slender features. His shock of thick black hair was neatly groomed and as shiny as his suit.

  ‘Where are you from, Ajay?’ Tom enquired, trying to keep pace with him.

  ‘My family are originally from Kolkata, or Calcutta as you probably know it.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home. What brings you all the way to Switzerland?’