The Soul of the Matter

by Bruce Buff

  Of course, scientists had known for some time the incredibly precise balance of the physical constants, the relative proportions between gravitational, electromagnetic, strong nuclear, and weak nuclear forces. The smallest change in just one of these, almost to the quadrillionth decimal place, and nothing would exist. If a tape measure spanned the whole universe, twenty-eight billion light-years, and the point in front of him was the value for gravitational force, a change of just one inch in either direction would have been enough to keep the universe from forming. That’s how precise things needed to be for life to exist.

  Stephen was relieved when he realized Alex could help him interpret what the equations meant. That was one dilemma solved. In the morning, he’d share everything with him.

  Preparing to start the last processing, he entered the necessary instructions and codes, and then initiated the command to generate what could be a third and final set of results. Their contents, if they even existed, were unknown, but their potential impact was even more astounding than the first two.

  As a bell chimed in the distance, announcing the late hour, he entered commands to transfer the first and second sets of results onto his computer. He would need a lot of time, and assistance, to analyze and understand them. Tonight was for completing as much decoding as possible.

  With time to kill before the final processing completed, and exhausted, he lowered his face into his hands. Slowly, he sank deeper into his chair, and his upper body slumped forward. The excitement and fatigue had become too much. Overcome, he drifted into a restless sleep.

  • • •

  Stephen woke with a start. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had nodded off, but he snapped alert and looked at the computer display. An error message filled the screen, indicating that the processing had aborted. With a sly smile, Stephen realized that Alex had put a time limit on the security keys they were using to protect their work. In the morning, he’d have Alex supply the keys needed to complete the processing.

  Just as he was about to shut everything down, one line appeared at the bottom of the screen. Maybe it was randomly generated from the partially completed processing, maybe not. In plain text, in language that stunned him, were two short words. He had been ready for almost anything, but not this.

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  DAY 1

  FIVE MONTHS LATER, FRIDAY MORNING BEFORE MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

  Viktor Weisman had spent most of his life pursuing the power of the sun. Few people understood it as he did. None was as close to recreating it.

  As Director of MIT’s Plasma Science and Fusion Center, he led a team of the world’s top physicists in an effort to develop fusion energy as a major power source. Unlike today’s fission power plants, fusion energy promised unlimited, safe, and virtually waste-free power.

  Viktor had been working on fusion research for more than fifty years. In the early days, he had shared the belief, then common among physicists, that plentiful, clean, cheap fusion energy would be a reality within a generation or two. The goal had proved far more elusive. A fusion-powered world was still decades away, and he would never live to see it. Yet even in his old age, he continued to work to ensure that the research was funded and the program unlike him wouldn’t die out.

  That was yesterday’s world.

  Ever since Stephen had approached him four months ago, he’d known that fusion power was within reach.

  Now he was only weeks from realizing his lifetime goal—that and much more.

  Even the sun itself seemed to realize that the chase was almost over as it darted in and out from behind the few clouds still left in the early morning sky. It amused him.

  Viktor crossed the Harvard Bridge over the Charles River toward Cambridge and paused at Memorial Drive to observe people walking, running, and biking on the wide, tree-lined strip that ran between the parkway and the north bank of the river. He enjoyed watching people happy, experiencing life.

  Smiling to himself, he reflected on how he had gotten to this point.

  Somehow, John Welch, an up-and-coming theoretical physicist with good connections to academia, industry, and government communities, had access to research and discoveries that gave him insights apparently only few knew about. And for reasons that continued to puzzle Viktor, Stephen Bishop had introduced them and seemed to be coordinating their research.

  Weeks ago, Viktor had questioned Stephen about it. Stephen had answered, “Of course I’m not involved in physics research. Because of relationships I have, I’m simply the intermediary for a number of private, leading-edge initiatives.” He’d been cool and confident, and Viktor had been inclined to trust him as he continued, “Due to the wide-ranging implications, they need to understand and prove out some of the capabilities before making them public or involving others. For that, they need the use of your reactor. Knowing our relationship, and since I was already working with them on other research, they asked me to contact you, hoping that you’d be willing to work with them via me, under the necessary conditions, including keeping everything absolutely secret.”

  If it had been anyone but Stephen, Viktor would probably have declined to participate and not allowed the reactor to be used for his experiments. But over the years, Stephen and Viktor had become close friends, despite the differences in age and scientific fields. He had come to learn that Stephen was one of the highest-principled people there were, though whether that was a good benchmark remained to be determined.

  Ultimately, though Viktor had some reservations, he had decided that he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his position in the project. Success meant a key role in one of the most important scientific breakthroughs the world had yet seen. Fusion energy could be a near-term reality. After agreeing to Stephen’s conditions, Viktor had spent months working with Welch, figuring out how to apply Stephen’s astonishing physics theories and prepare for the upcoming fusion energy experiments.

  Although the sunshine felt wonderful, Viktor still checked, as he often did, that his golf jacket was zipped all the way up and that his shoes were securely tied. Ever since he’d been a frail six-year-old, shivering barefoot in the camp yard, he had been obsessed with warmth.

  He was a Holocaust survivor who still remembered. A minority of a minority of a minority. In 1944, his family’s hiding spot in Belgium had been found, and they had been shipped off, like refuse, to Auschwitz. There they had seen things, some under the guise of medical experiments, that he could never have imagined. Whatever arguments there were for the innate goodness and dignity of man, Auschwitz had emphatically refuted them.

  After the camp was liberated, Viktor made it to America with the shattered remnants of his family: his father and one of his three older brothers.

  It was then that he dedicated himself to providing people with warmth in all its forms, to try to wipe out the conditions that led to evil. Science was his way to reduce suffering. If people felt secure, had what they needed, perhaps things as terrible as holocausts and world wars wouldn’t happen again.

  Resuming his walk, he headed to the old three-story, redbrick building on the MIT campus where Nabisco ovens used to bake cookies. Now it housed the hottest oven in the world, the superconducting Alcator-E, the world’s most powerful experimental nuclear fusion reactor.

  Viktor had secured its funding, headed up the research and teams that had led to its development, and controlled its use. Alcator-E was why he was still working at seventy-eight.

  Entering the lab, Viktor saw Sousan Ghardi standing outside his office. Sousan led the plasma research group. Viktor was surprised to see her, as she was supposed to be taking the day off. In fact, he had been counting on it.

  She was a top-notch physicist, forty-eight years old, attractive though she played it down, and was well regarded by everyone at the center. Her father had been a well-off scientist in Iran before the revolution. Afterward,
he brought his family to America to give his inquisitive, rational daughter the same opportunities and intellectual freedom that had benefited him.

  In America, Sousan had carved out a strong academic career, then had come to the lab ten years ago. More than just a valued coworker, she had become a good friend.

  Spotting Viktor, Sousan walked briskly toward him. “Viktor, what’s this I hear about experimental shots this morning?” She was referring to the term they used to describe experiments in the fusion reactor. “There’s nothing on the calendar, and almost all of the staff are gone for the holiday weekend.”

  “Sousan, I’m glad you’re here, though I hope you didn’t come in just for this.” Viktor forced a weary smile. “All we’re doing is calibrating the measurement equipment you’ve seen being installed. Since the Alcator is going offline next week for six months of maintenance, it made sense to fit in whatever we could.” He lied with extreme discomfort. The Friday before Memorial Day should have been the perfect opportunity for him to conduct his unusual experiments without unwanted eyes around.

  “Well, the calibrations, as you call them, should have been added to the calendar, and the staff should have been notified in case anyone wanted to observe. And, as director of plasma research, overseeing a new reactor, I definitely should be here, and you know that,” said Sousan.

  “All the data will be available to anyone who wants to see it. Stay if you like, whatever you prefer. It looks like a great day to be outdoors. But if you’re inquisitive, please stay.”

  Using an even voice ringing with fake pleasantness, Sousan replied, “Of course I’ll stay. You’re short-staffed, and I would love to get in a few more shots while we can.” She paused, her lips pulling back into a devious smile. “By the way, the reason I’m here is to prepare for a last-minute tour I’m supposed to give shortly to students from Newton High School. It’s a favor for a board member; one of the kids is her daughter. Unfortunately, since I now need to get ready for today’s opportunistic experiments, somebody else will have to give the tour. Sorry, but I think that will have to be you.”

  Viktor noted the pleasure this gave her. It was well known that he didn’t like giving tours.

  He tried to appear sincere as he replied, “For you, Sousan, I would be happy to do it.”

  • • •

  Viktor entered his office and found John Welch, and a pot of coffee, waiting for him.

  Viktor greeted him with a thin smile. “Looks like we’ll have more company than we planned on.” He took off his jacket, combed his thin, gray hair, and poured himself a cup.

  “It should be fine. She won’t know what’s really happening. The good news is that I finished setting everything up.”

  “Great. Let’s take a look,” Viktor said with palpable excitement.

  Together, they walked briskly down the hall into the reactor room. It was an open space, sixty square feet, two floors high, with second-level metal walkways on the left. Various elaborate-looking pipes, wires, and devices were interspersed around the room’s perimeter. All were to support the superconducting, experimental fusion reactor located in the center of the room. The Alcator-E was circular, twenty-three feet in diameter and just as tall, though it was partially recessed into the floor, with about ten feet showing. Wrapped in light-gray foam, the reactor that generated the highest temperatures and pressures on earth, outside of a hydrogen bomb, didn’t look like much.

  Welch walked over to a three-foot cube, black metal box set five feet back from the reactor. Fifteen others were similarly placed evenly around the reactor’s perimeter. Bending down and opening the top cover, he pointed inside at the thick coils. “These will generate the pulses that will help tune the fields.”

  Viktor took a look at them and then pointed at the microwave generators along the outer perimeter of the reactor, eyebrows raised.

  Welch nodded. “We’ve increased their power, altered the frequencies, and modified the operational software. We’ll get more efficient results, and then, when the plasma is in the proper configuration, we’ll turn on the coils, providing the compression boost and reducing the proton repulsion that’ll get us a sustained fusion burn with lower input power. At least that’s the theory.”

  “Time to find out if reality can measure up to it,” Viktor said, thinking about all that was at stake if it didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  Life has no meaning once you lose the illusion of being eternal.

  —JEAN-PAUL SARTRE

  Dan Lawson stared out his bedroom window at the cloudless early-morning sky and wondered why everything looked so gray and he felt so cold. It was almost summer, but all he felt was winter.

  He knew that it shouldn’t be this way. There were so many fun things he could be doing: wasn’t that all there was to life for those fortunate enough to experience it that way? With the forecast calling for brilliant sunshine and warm temperatures, he could hang out at the Common, catch the afternoon game at Fenway, row on the Charles River, or head down to the Cape.

  Instead, he sat in a chair by his bed and struggled to find a way to get going for the day before his recent turn inward consumed him and movement became impossible.

  The longer he sat, the less likely he was to move. While he was out in the world, he could get around with relative ease, forget the peculiar void that he sensed in himself, act normal. But when he was alone, he withdrew within himself, with little interest in entering back into the world, as though an energy-absorbing barrier stood between him and normal life.

  If this had been a few months earlier, he would already have finished a long run or a gym workout, and would feel exhilarated.

  Instead, he was increasingly lethargic, finding each day more soul draining than the last.

  Until recently, things had always come easily to him. The future, as far out as he ever viewed it, was promising. He was a financially secure, good-looking, forty-three-year-old, single-by-design man, simply trying to enjoy one day at a time. He lived on the top floor of the brownstone he owned, renting out the ground floor to a couple with a young child and the middle floor to a British expat over on a temporary assignment for his insurance company employer.

  All Dan wanted was for life to be interesting and fun, not too challenging or stressful. He lived by the modern version of the golden rule—You do your thing, I do mine—and when a person could, extend a helping hand to those in need. Over time, he had learned that trying to do any more than that only led to being overwhelmed by the problems of the world, problems he could never solve.

  Now, with all the energy he could muster, he looked at the emails on his smartphone.

  One from two days ago stood out from the rest, annoying him.

  It was from Stephen Bishop. As Stephen had progressed in his career, he’d left his past, and his friends, behind. After ignoring Dan’s attempts to get in touch with him seven months ago, Dan had decided Stephen was no longer worth what to him was a one-way effort of trying to maintain a long-dying friendship. It had been time to recognize the reality that Stephen seemed to have already accepted.

  Given all of that, the subject line in Stephen’s email was certainly bold: “Please come to dinner at my house Friday at seven—it’s important to both of us.”

  No explanations. No apologies. Just summoned to dinner. Though momentarily intrigued, there was no way Dan was going to accept, let alone acknowledge, the request, or the several follow-up messages Stephen had sent.

  Moving on, he noticed a text message from his sister Joanna that he had somehow missed. “Hi Dan. Turns out I have to be in Boston early this morning. I’d like to stop by to say a quick hello. See you soon.”

  Thinking that she’d probably want to discuss his state of mind, he didn’t want to respond. Things had gotten to the point where he didn’t want to talk with even his sister. It bothered him that he wanted to keep his distance from her, yet his desire f
or isolation outweighed his willingness, his ability, to be himself.

  But he knew his sister wouldn’t be put off and he was forced to reply, writing back, “Just got your message. Will be great to see you. How soon?” with an attempt at light-heartedness, an act he intended to continue through her visit.

  A moment later, she answered, “I’m at a shop a few blocks from you. How’s twenty minutes?”

  “That works. See you then.”

  Dan raced to clean up. He emptied the sink of dirty dishes and started the dishwasher. He took the recycling bag, overflowing with bottles, and grabbed the empty wine bottle from the countertop, and put both out on the fire escape. He gathered the clothes strewn around his bedroom and threw them into the hamper in his closet and made his bed for the first time in weeks.

  Stepping back, seeing that things looked presentable, he headed into the bathroom.

  At Laura’s insistence, it had been restored to Victorian perfection. A claw-foot porcelain bathtub dominated the far wall, adorned above with a stained glass window. Rectangular white tiles ran four feet up every wall. To the right was a glass-enclosed, stand-alone shower with porcelain handles.

  As he stepped into the shower, he remembered Laura’s deep and provocative laugh, straight dark hair, and unusual warm brown eyes with glints of gold. He felt a tinge of regret over their breakup but told himself she deserved more than someone just to pass the time with.

  Well, their relationship was over and done with, and there was nothing he could do about it. Looking back was a waste of time and energy. He was proud of his ability to seal off the past without having to reach closure or come to terms with whatever had transpired. He had worked hard to develop that skill.