(1961) The Prize

by Irving Wallace

  The episode on the ship had proved him right. That last night at sea, even Emily’s slight security had been proved wanting. What on earth had possessed her to encourage that young man to violate her privacy, knowing full well that she was incapable of accepting his attentions? Ach, the distortions of the human head, forever substituting wish for reality. No doubt, it had been an irrational effort by Emily to stand on her own two feet, mature and independent of her Uncle Max, to cut the final umbilical cord. The not unexpected disaster had been a setback. Now, in Stockholm, she was edgier than at home, more withdrawn, and the evening before had even turned down the invitation of a gallant Swedish attaché to escort her to the opera. Yes, the episode on the ship had been the setback. It had reminded Emily that she was helpless, and certainly, Stratman told himself, it had reminded him of her need and his responsibility.

  Dimly, he heard his name, and then realized that he had another responsibility, and that to perform attentively for his generous Nobel hosts.

  ‘Professor Stratman,’ the Stockholm Aftonbladet journalist was repeating, ‘would you not say that the Nobel Prize was given you more for an invention than for a discovery?’

  ‘I would put it this way, more precisely—I made a discovery, and then I made an invention.’

  ‘But it was the invention that won the prize, nevertheless.’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘Do you believe that this is in strict observance of Alfred Nobel’s wishes? While it is a fact that, according to his 1895 will, he offered one part of his money “to the person who shall have made the most important discovery or invention within the field of physics”, the Swedish Academy of Science has traditionally ignored inventions. After all, your American, Thomas Edison, who died only in 1931, did not win the Nobel Prize for that reason. How do you feel about this?’

  Stratman studied his meerschaum a moment, then looked up. ‘It would be presumptous of me, a guest as well as a beneficiary of Mr. Nobel’s will, to comment on how the Academy of Science chooses to interpret that will.’ He paused, reconsidered, then resumed. ‘I think it would be fair to say this much. To the best of my knowledge, the prize in physics has frequently been given to inventions in physics. The Academy of Science has in no way ignored Mr. Nobel’s desires. Several examples come to mind. I think of Herr Guglielmo Marconi. In 1895, he invented the wireless telegraph. In England, using a kite as an aerial, he demonstrated that this invention worked. Soon he was building a radio station for the Pope and amassing a fortune of twenty-five million dollars for himself. In 1909, I believe, he was awarded half of the Nobel Prize for “services in the development of wireless telegraphy”. That is one case. I give you another, in another field. In 1903, my friend Willem Einthoven began constructing an instrument to detect heart ailments. In 1924, he won the Nobel Prize “for his discovery of the mechanism of the electrocardiogram”. That was an invention, pure and simple. A more recent case comes to my mind. In 1956, three Americans, William Shockley, John Bardeen, Walter Brattain, all of the Bell Telephone Laboratories, shared the Nobel physics prize for “their discovery of transistor effects”. This, too, was an invention, the invention of the transistor to replace vacuum tubes. It turned upside down the world of electronics. In those terms, is the photochemical system I have discovered to convert and store solar energy an invention? The answer is yes—it is an invention. Does this kind of invention fall within the boundaries of the Nobel awards? Again, evaluating against historical precedent, the answer is yes.’

  Someone in the middle row raised his hand and began to ask another question, but Stratman held up his pipe for further attention. He was not through, and again he addressed himself to the busily writing Aftonbladet journalist.

  ‘I might add—in honesty, I might add one more point,’ said Stratman. ‘You made mention of the neglect of Thomas Alva Edison by the Nobel Committee. Strictly speaking, Herr Edison was not a physicist, not a chemist, not a physician. He was entirely the inventor. I do not know, but possibly this made him ineligible for a Nobel Prize. I want to say, I think he was one of the most remarkable scientists that the world ever produced. He took out over one thousand patents—he invented the phonograph, the electric lamp, the mimeograph, the alkaline storage battery, the kinetograph—but he conceived only one scientific discovery as such, the Edison effect, so vital to radio and television. Perhaps I am, as my colleagues call it, sticking my neck out to speak further, but at my age, such things do not matter. It is my opinion that between 1901 and 1931 Herr Edison should have received a Nobel Prize in physics. This is not an adverse commentary on the judges of those days. Their task was not an easy one. Indeed, they had to give themselves limitations. Omissions are understandable to me. I only make an opinion, with the comfort of hindsight. Herr Edison should have won the prize.

  ‘Also, while we speak of these matters, I believe Herr Wilbur Wright, who lived until 1912, and Herr Orville Wright, who lived until—think, yes, 1948—both alive during the time of the Nobel Prizes—should have been honoured in physics for developing the first practicable aircraft. Now, my neck is far out, but you see I favour the inventions in physics as much as the discoveries. I think the Swedish Academy of Science does, too—or why would I be here?—and that their sins of omission have been admirably few. The only overall omission I would criticize is the pitifully few prizes given to pure theorists—let us say like Herr Einstein and Herr Bohr and Herr Schrödinger. Experimentalists—discoverers, inventors—are too frequently honoured. They are important, very important, but most discoveries utilize and verify either Einstein’s theory of relativity or the old conversion of momentum theories. At the same time, the abstract theorists, the elite of physics, are too frequently overlooked. To my mind, that is the major defect in Soviet science today. The Russians devote so much effort and money to satellites, nuclear weapons, rockets, that they neglect basic research and abstract theory, and one day, they will suffer for it.’

  Stratman raised his head, seeking the Aftonbladet journalist, and said, ‘I hope that answers your questions’. His eyes swept the hall. ‘You see what happens when you ask me provocative questions? You will be here all the day and tonight. Now, I am ready for more, if you are.’

  The reporter from the Stockholm Dagens Nyheter was standing, and Stratman acknowledged him by adjusting his bifocals and nodding.

  ‘Herr Professor,’ the reporter began, ‘so far we have been discussing discoveries and inventions in general, and of the past, and I should like to bring the interview to a specific point and to the present—’

  ‘Jawohl,’ Stratman agreed.

  ‘You have been awarded the Nobel Prize in physics for the “discovery and invention of a photochemical conversion and storage system for solar energy” and for the “practical application of solar energy to produce synthesized solid rocket propellants”. Except for reading, everywhere, that you have harnessed the rays of the sun, found a way to stock it and transport it, and proved that this kind of energy can help turn out rocket fuels, making obsolete the energy derived from coal and other fossil sources, I nowhere have read or been able to learn precisely what you have done.’

  There was appreciative laughter in the room, and even Stratman responded with an understanding smile.

  The Dagens Nyheter reporter earnestly continued. ‘I am not alone in wanting to know your process, your instrument or container, the means exactly for which you are being honoured. I have asked the Royal Swedish Academy of Science, and they cannot—or will not—tell me. Will you?’

  Stratman peered impishly over his bifocals. ‘They cannot tell you, because they do not know—exactly.’

  ‘Herr Professor, I have no intention of being disrespectful—but how could they honour you for an invention about which they know so little?’

  ‘Because, I am told, your Swedish investigators came to the United States and learned from my government and my colleagues what I had done. They were shown proof of what I have done. They were shown results at our fuel p
lant in the Mojave Desert. But, for reasons of national security, they could not be shown the means, the process, the storage system.’

  A woman from United Press International called out, ‘Professor Stratman, can you give us any detail of your actual discovery?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I am sorry, no.’

  ‘Not so much as a hint? Something to write about?’

  ‘Not even so much. I apologize deeply. It is highly classified military information.’

  The Neues Deutschland man, who was from East Berlin, spoke up. ‘I am surprised they let you out of the country.’

  Stratman smiled. ‘Because they saw I was an old man who needed a holiday. Besides, they agreed that I was an absent-minded professor who would never remember the formula, anyway.’ Suddenly, he was serious. ‘It is an unhappy state of the world, to have this censorship, I agree. It is not an exclusive symptom of my adopted homeland. Secrecy, in certain circles, is a way of life, an attitude towards survival, in your Sweden, your England, your Russia, too, I assure you. No longer can the scientist think of himself as a citizen of the world. The frontiers of his mind, once boundless, are now constricted by nationalist barriers. The fraternity of the past, exchanging ideas and findings, co-operating, is no more, to the detriment of humanity. But that is the fact of the situation. When there is a common effort to halt competition and erase fear from all minds, the international fraternity of science will meet and come to order again. Then, all men and all nations will profit. It is the day I hope to see, still in my lifetime.’

  There was a spattering of applause among the reporters, and someone shouted, ‘Hear, hear,’ and Stratman seemed surprised and pleased.

  ‘Herr Professor,’ said the reporter from Svenska Dagbladet, ‘if you cannot give away the secrets of your invention, maybe you can tell us something useful in a general way. Why did you interest yourself in solar energy? What is the value in harnessing the sun’s rays?’

  The press waited, as Stratman weighed his reply. At last, his dome of a head bobbed in the affirmative. ‘Ja, the questions are fair. It would be wrong to send you back to your editors empty-handed. So—the questions. I will try to avoid the lecture room, but speak in such a way that you will understand, at least, what the motive behind my work was, and what it has accomplished.’ He pointed his meerschaum towards the windows. ‘Out there is the sun. It is ninety-three million miles away, yet sun’s outer atmosphere engulfs our earth, and its rays of atomic energy—hydrogen atoms converted into helium atoms—dominate our daily lives. What kind of potential energy, in earth terms, does this sun offer our tiny planet? If our entire earth were covered with an ice layer four hundred and twenty-five feet thick, and if it could be melted—which it could not—the sun’s rays would melt all of it, every inch of it, in twelve months. It would take twenty-one billion tons of coal to match the solar energy that covers the earth every sixty minutes. In the Sahara Desert alone, the solar energy imparted in one day—one single day—is three times as much as all the coal used in the world in three hundred and sixty-six days. In any two days of the year, sunshine offers more energy than may be found in all the coals and other fossil fuels yet untouched beneath the earth’s crust. Potential power fantastic—ja—but how to enslave it?’

  Stratman paused, allowing the interviewers time to absorb and record his remarks. When the heads began to look up, he went on.

  ‘Many men tried to enslave the sun power, and to small degrees, some succeeded. In 1864, a French physicist, Professor Augustin Mouchot, constructed a power boiler that was heated to run by sunrays instead of coal. The sun was funnelled through a truncated cone to the boiler, and it developed steam for use in irrigation. In 1870, a Swedish-American, John Ericsson, who had built the Monitor to fight the Merrimac, constructed a solar plant of mirrors, but the expense became prohibitive for the horsepower generated, and Ericsson quit. Persistent men, some dreamers, some practical, took up the work. The list is too long to recite—Eneas in 1901, Shuman in 1907, and since the First World War, Dr. C. G. Abbot, and a hundred more, with their parabolic mirrors and flat-plate collectors.

  ‘The major problem was always the same—it was intermittence of supply. By that I mean, the sun shone only in the day, and then not every day at that. How could one depend on such erratic power? The solution, of course, was not to depend directly on each new day of sunlight, but to collect the light, convert it into energy, returning more than thirty per cent efficiency, and then store the energy away for use whenever needed. But how to store solar energy? It would take me many hours to relate all the methods that have been tried. Men worked with thermocouples, and with photo-electric cells, and chemical cells. All of these were successful, but efficiency was far too low. Of one hundred per cent sunlight, only ten per cent could be saved and used. The pioneer work was dramatic, challenging, and I could not resist it. I entered the field. I concentrated on the means by which green leaves—plant organisms—flora—store carbohydrates. I wondered if the same process of nature could be simulated mechanically and in closed vessels. By chance, I was fortunate. I was able to improve the known methods of collecting and converting solar energy, both nature’s and man’s methods. More difficult and more important, I was able to find the means to store successfully and cheaply this energy for use when needed. My government colleagues assisted me in applying my findings to manufacturing solid fuels for heavy rocket propulsion.’

  A hand shot up. It belonged to the representative of Berliner Morgenpost. ‘Professor Stratman, do you intend to continue to work in the field?’

  ‘Definitely. We have not even scratched the surface.’

  ‘What more can be done?’ asked the journalist from Jerusalem Post.

  ‘Infinite possibilities. We want to learn how to run factories with solar energy, and give inexpensive power and heat to homes through cheap roof collectors and individual power suppliers. We want to irrigate deserts with it, and illuminate entire cities by night. There is no end, and it all lies ahead. We are at the primitive beginning.’

  The reporter from the Oslo Aftenposten made himself heard. ‘Does Soviet Russia have a similar invention?’

  Stratman shook his head. ‘No comment.’ Then he added quickly, ‘Of course, they have been in the solar energy field since 1933. It is known that they built a power plant in the Uzbeck Soviet Republic. Today, they have a Russian Solar Power Institute. They have made great advances all along the line. As to their possessing what is now in our possession—of this I cannot speak further.’ He scanned the room. ‘I prefer not to discuss national policies. I will be co-operative in answering all general questions about science—or myself.’

  ‘Herr Professor.’ It was the Stockholm Expressen journalist. ‘You were at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute in Berlin throughout the Second World War, were you not?’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Why did you not leave Germany?’

  ‘I could not. I am a Jew.’

  ‘We all met Dr. Fritz Lipmann, the biochemist, when he came here to receive the Nobel Prize in medicine during 1953. He was at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, and he also was a Jew. He got out to Copenhagen, and later to Boston. He did not work for Hitler. It is a matter of curiosity to many of us why so many of you Jewish scientists stayed behind.’

  Stratman sat very quietly. He was tempted to say to the Swedish journalist: So many of my American colleagues fought Hitler, why not you? But it was foolish. The man was a journalist. He wanted a story. You provoked, and this way, you obtained a story. ‘I do not know Dr. Lipmann’s circumstances at the time,’ said Stratman slowly. ‘I know my own. Those dearest to me were in concentration camps. As long as I co-operated, they were kept alive. That is all I wish to say on that subject.’

  A new voice, rather loud from the rear row, was heard. It was the Tass Agency man speaking. ‘Is it not true, Professor, that you were kidnapped by the Americans in Berlin, and taken to the United States at gunpoint?’

  ‘It is not true,’ said
Stratman forcefully. ‘What is true is that I had been coerced into working for one totalitarian state, and I did not wish to be coerced into working for another. I went with the Americans voluntarily, and I have never been sorry.’

  He wondered if they would publish that statement in Pravda or lzvestia. His heart hammered with old resentments. Control, he told himself, control. He must remember Dr. Ilman. He must think of Emily. He thought of Emily, and waited for the next question.

  With an air both curious and troubled, Count Bertil Jacobsson stood inside the door of the confined reading-room and watched and listened to the third press conference taking place, now half over.

  After eight minutes in the room, what bothered Jacobsson was this: if an innocent bystander had stood in his place, and seen what he had seen, he would surely have believed that only one person had won the Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine, and not two, and he would have been convinced that one laureate was being interviewed, instead of a pair.

  The group of journalists in the room, a smaller group than those in the previous two sections of the hall because both winners had already been so widely publicized for their dramatic discovery, had been aiming almost all of their questions at Dr. Carlo Farelli, of Rome, while Dr. John Garrett, of Pasadena, California, sat beside him like an inanimate piece of sculpture that needed the dustcloth.

  Jacobsson asked himself why this was so, but the question was purely rhetorical. Dr. Farelli’s presence, as he leaned forward from the sofa, intimately addressing his audience, made the answer obvious. He was an attractive, dynamic human being. Dr. Farelli was a large man, not in height, but in width of face, and neck, and shoulders, and chest, and in the breadth of his gestures. Dr. Farelli conveyed the confidence of raw power. From some depth of academic memory, Jacobsson resurrected an image of the twenty-seventh Emperor of Rome, Maximinus I (A.D. 235–238), a giant of eight feet who was half Goth, half Alan, a giant who wore his wife’s bracelet on his thumb as a ring and consumed forty pounds of meat and ten gallons of wine daily. The comparison was inaccurate, even absurd, but it came to mind, nevertheless.