Wormholes

by Dennis Meredith

  “Excuse me,” said George in his typically polite tone. “But those holes can cut through about anything. I saw the results and so did the two gentlemen from San Francisco. That control has to be absolutely perfect. What if a hole escapes when you’re trying to persuade it to be captured?”

  “It’s risky. We’ve just got to reduce the risk as much as possible. Listen, I think it’s important enough that I’m willing to be in one of the vehicles.”

  “Okay, so you’ve got two hole-grabbers. But there’s another tiny problem,” said Dacey. “These things don’t come to you. I mean they pop up all over the place. You got some sort of hole-attractant?”

  Gerald frowned. “I don’t know. Only thing I can figure out is to go where we have the best shot of finding out about them the minute they pop up. In major cities.” He looked expectantly at Mullins, who shrugged in resigned agreement. “So, we just build enough of these systems to place in some major cities, where we know we’ll hear about them.”

  “Gotta be a better way,” said Dacey. “You’ve got to have some kind of warning. I can just see a couple of tanks with these big dish doohickies on the front, trying to get through a bunch of downtown streets when there’s some disaster like the one in Gillard.”

  Mullins folded his beefy arms and leaned against the window. “Well, maybe one of these holes pops up in some big city, they’ll be happy to let us try to catch it. Give us right-of-way, like an ambulance or something.”

  “Next big question.” Dacey looked through the window at the large sphere and the small metal ball visible inside. “How much money? Where do you get it?”

  “That’s two questions,” said Gerald. “The answers are a couple hundred million dollars and a high-tech company that wants to control the most incredible phenomenon in the world. Deus can provide R&D funds, but nowhere near that amount. But I think some smart company would go for it. The holes might prove an unlimited energy source; maybe a way to dispose of hazardous waste, maybe a path to new physics. We can’t even imagine the possibilities.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t imagine any company I’ve dealt with going for it,” said Cooper. “The CEO would say ‘here’s this guy with this theory that was ridiculed by the best physicists in the business. And he wants millions of dollars to put tanks in the streets of American cities to catch something that probably doesn’t exist.’”

  Gerald’s face took on an expression that Dacey had never seen before — an odd mixture of smoldering anger, determination, and reverie.

  “We just can’t let this go by. This is too big a chance. Too big a danger if we just let these holes appear with no controls.”

  After some persuasion, Cooper agreed to pitch the Shell Oil vice president Gordon Haggerty to finance the project. Haggerty arrived at Boston Logan airport the next day, watched the spheres trap the little ball. He immediately launched into a Scottish-accented tirade about how he’d lost a tanker and his consultant hired some guy who’d come up with a theory that even the most daring underwriters at Lloyd’s of London would laugh out of the office.

  Haggerty turned his ire onto Gerald. “Do you know what the Daily Mail said about you and your theory of the accident? They bloody well said you had a wormhole in your head!” As he left, he threatened never to use Cooper again, to which Cooper responded by promising never to buy his gasoline again.

  Over the next month a succession of potential investors visited the lab, saw the trapping of the little metal ball, and reacted more or less the same.

  “Really quite fascinating,” said a vice president from General Electric, who asked a few questions, then took his entourage to Anthony’s Pier Four restaurant to make boozy fun of the demonstration over plates of lobsters.

  “Extremely interesting,” said a polite research director from Mitsubishi. “We thank you very much for your time. We will certainly consider your proposal.” He flew out the following morning, leaving no message.

  “I’m afraid our board finds it quite controversial,” said a program officer from the National Science Foundation.

  “The science advisor regrets that he will be unable to visit your company when he is in town, but he wishes you the best of luck with your venture,” read the form letter from the White House.

  The same brush-off came from IBM, Motorola, Standard Oil, Keck Foundation, Rockefeller Foundation, and the Department of Energy, all of whose scientists listened to the theory and witnessed the little ball being trapped. Actually, they came to enjoy the carnival. Word had gotten out that the presentation was an amusing way to spend a couple of hours between appointments or before catching a plane.

  Even as the refusals mounted, strange, violent phenomena peppered the earth and the heavens. Gerald contended they lent support for his wormhole theory. Others asserted very publically that Mother Nature was simply displaying examples of well-known principles. Same old geology; same old astronomy; same old science, declared the most senior of physicists, with ill-concealed disdain.

  A gargantuan blast in the Ural Mountains flattened the forest for fifty miles around, snapping trees like matchsticks. Caltech astronomers insisted it was a replay of the 1908 Tunguska incident — a simple meteor slamming into the atmosphere.

  A large round hole appeared through Ayer’s rock in Australia. The district constable there called it the work of religious fanatics, out to produce a fake miracle to promote their cult. He did not explain how they had transported a gigantic rock borer there, made the hole with no witnesses, and disappeared.

  On Jupiter, a second swirling whirlpool-like structure disrupted the planets colored bands, briefly rivaling the Great Red Spot in prominence, only to disappear. MIT planetary scientists judged it a transient storm that was nothing unusual in the great planet’s history.

  A small village near Sussex, England, was almost totally demolished by some great roaring storm that came in the night. Entire buildings disappeared. British meteorologists called it an extremely unusual, but perfectly explicable, tornado.

  “These things happen,” Aaron Cohen was quoted as saying in a New York Times article on the Meier theory. “You just don’t have to go and invent an exotic phenomenon to explain them. Just extend existing science a bit.”

  Science magazine also quoted Cohen and a coterie of other scientists on the theory. Some agreed that the theory might be worth considering, but most dismissed it. “It’s the abominable snowman of science,” quipped the president of the American Physical Society.

  The National Enquirer published proof that space aliens had come through the holes and mated with earth women, and theorized that Gerald Meier was one of the offspring.

  People magazine printed a profile on Gerald and Dacey entitled, “The Stargazer and the Rockhound.” The story’s subhead was, “An intense young physicist and a beautiful geologist buck the scientific system.”

  • • •

  “You need somebody who doesn’t give a damn,” said Dacey, sitting across from Gerald in the small Cambridge cafe. She sipped her wine and looked out at the thick curtain of snow falling on the sidewalk outside. She’d managed to take off some time during the Christmas holidays to come north to encourage him. He’d invited her, he said, to help him make a decision. She’d also come to help her make a decision herself. He had said he loved her, and she hadn’t answered back.

  “Somebody who doesn’t give a damn about what?”

  “Somebody who’s willing to back a risky venture because he likes long-shots that could pay off big. Somebody who likes the thrill. Somebody who hates corporations.”

  “Well, turns out I do know somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Calvin Lambert.”

  Her eyes widened. “Jesus, you know Calvin Lambert? The oil guy? The multi-billionaire?”

  “Yeah, from a long time ago. He used to live up here. He said he’d meet with me in Houston. He sent a jet.”

  Dacey’s eyebrows raised at the prospect of a private jet trip. “So, why didn’t you
just go see him earlier?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to then. But now I have to. Will you go with me?”

  “Sure, of course. If you think it’ll help.” Dacey looked at him, puzzled. There was an odd emotional tightening in Gerald’s voice she didn’t understand.

  “It will help. You’re a geologist. He knows about geologists. And he’ll be tough to deal with.”

  “Well, I guess we’re going to have to deal with this tough customer together, then.” She raised her wine glass. He smiled slightly and raised his, and they clinked glasses.

  • • •

  They were admitted to Lambert’s penthouse suite that afternoon. The elevator door opened onto a marble-floored foyer the size of a large living room, covered with an Esfahan rug. Flanking two large mahogany doors were antique sculptures of the Greek gods Hermes and Apollo. A clean-cut, blue-eyed young man in a vested suit met them. He nodded to the athletic dark-blazered guard who had escorted them up, and the man pushed the button to close the elevator doors behind them. In a quiet voice, with the precise diction of one educated to discretion, he introduced himself as Lambert’s administrative assistant, Robert Van Alston. He showed them into the living room. It, too, was marble-floored with vast, richly hued oriental rugs and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall looking out over the hazy Houston skyline. A large semicircle of light gray sofas faced an electronics-covered wall, including an array of large video screens. The walls opposite the windows displayed several Frederick Remington paintings of roping cowboys, and of Indians posed nobly on their ponies.

  Calvin Lambert strode in from another room, nodded at Gerald and smiled at Dacey. He was a big man in his sixties, but he moved lightly, as one who kept himself fit. His short hair was steel gray, as was his large moustache. He wore khaki pants and black loafers with no socks, and a dark brown velour pullover with the sleeves pulled up to reveal powerful forearms. He wore a Rolex watch and a large diamond wedding ring on his left hand.

  “Gerald, it’s been a while. What? Five years? Six?” He put out his hand and Gerald took it, but slowly. Gerald introduced Dacey and Lambert’s interest returned to her. “A pleasure. A real pleasure,” he said taking her hand. Gerald explained that Dacey was a geologist and Lambert raised his eyebrows in appreciation of the fact. “Very good. Very nice.”

  “I like to think so,” said Dacey evenly.

  Lambert turned back to Gerald. “So, I’ve been reading about you. You’re still doing the physics stuff. And I see you’ve made quite a hoo-hah there with your theory.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m having lunch. Join me?”

  They stepped into a formal dining room, which also enjoyed floor-to-ceiling views of Houston. The long rosewood table was set for four places at one end, with silver, plates and crystal water goblets. They sat, and a uniformed waiter brought in large segmented platters with tortillas, meat, beans and other components of tacos. The waiter also brought large chilled mugs of beer. Lambert proceeded to assemble soft tacos and they followed suit.

  A young silky-haired blonde woman came in, wearing a sheath dress that showed long, slim, brown legs. She moved with the grace that came of self-confidence and wealth. She placed a manicured left hand on Lambert’s broad shoulder, showing a large wedding ring, and bent to kiss him.

  “Sandy, this is Gerald. And this is his friend, Dacey Livingstone. My wife, Sandy. I thought you were going to join us.”

  “A pleasure,” she said to Dacey and Gerald, taking each of their hands softly in hers. “Calvin, I’ve got to go out to the ranch. The caterer will be there this afternoon. You do your business. Besides, you know I’m not as partial to Mexican food as you.” Then to Dacey and Gerald. “My God, he’s got a stomach like a steel boiler. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Take the small jet, hon,” he said in the way of a goodbye. “I’ll need the big one.” She departed, leaving only the most delicate aroma of perfume, and they resumed eating.

  “So, you want two hundred and fifty million dollars?” Lambert asked casually between bites. Dacey stopped chewing in surprise, but Gerald was apparently used to Lambert’s blunt style.

  “Yes,” Gerald said, still chewing. “I’ve brought some background. I can explain the theory and what we plan to do. I think you’ll find—”

  “Oh, I don’t look at that stuff,” Lambert waved a taco in the air. “I’ve got people to do that. They’ve already thoroughly researched your theory …” He smiled and took a bite, chewing and letting the tension build. “… They say it stinks. They talked to a lot of scientists, and they all say that your idea about Neptune and antimatter galaxies is bunk.”

  Gerald put down his fork and leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about. This theory is the only way to explain what’s been happening. And the best explanation for what happened to Neptune …” Gerald went on to explain his theory point by point.

  Lambert sat back and sipped his beer, a faint smirk on his face letting Gerald argue. He was obviously enjoying the show that Gerald was putting on; the show that he’d incited. Finally, he waved his hand and burped lightly. “You didn’t let me finish. They said it stinks and that’s why I’m inclined toward the project. Every so often I tell my high-priced experts to go take a flying fuck.”

  “Then you’ll give us the money?” asked Gerald coldly. Dacey had never seen him so tense, so resentful.

  Lambert nodded at the waiter, who left the room. Van Alston appeared instantly with a notebook and pen, as if he had been listening to the conversation. Dacey had begun to think of the assistant almost as a minor trophy Lambert kept to remind him of his influence. But Lambert kept his eyes on Gerald and Dacey.

  “I’m not just going to hand it to you, son. Here’s the deal. I invest two hundred and fifty million dollars in a corporation we set up to catch these things. That is, if your theory really doesn’t stink. We patent your technology and I get fifty-one percent of any royalties. I also get seventy-five percent of the stock and a guarantee that I control any applications for these things. Like for waste disposal or energy production … or whatever-the-hell else my people come up with.” Van Alston bent over his notebooks, busily recording Lambert’s proposal.

  Gerald pitched his napkin onto the table. “Look, Calvin, these are perhaps the most important objects that we’ve ever encountered. Who knows where they will lead us? These holes could change the destiny of our species. Or maybe destroy us. We can’t launch into applications immediately. We have to do research on them! We have to understand them! They’re not simply garbage disposals or power sources to run electric shavers!”

  “Hell, partner, you can do all the damned research you want. But I’m in this for profit. That’s what I do.” Lambert wiped his mouth and stood up, stretching his large frame. “That’s it. Take it or leave it. By the way, I’ve also had my people research how likely you’ll get funding somewhere else. My people are damned good, they are.” He leaned his hands on the back of his chair. “They say your chances are piss poor. So, you take my offer, or you sit up there in Boston with a bunch of equations on paper and little balls and magnets that won’t be worth a shit.”

  Dacey looked back and forth between Gerald and Lambert, who regarded each other with cold stares. She broke the ice. “I can tell right now, it’d be a real joy working with you two.”

  Finally, Gerald stood up and without expression stuck out his hand. Lambert grinned in triumph and took it. He waved at Van Alston to show them out, and picked up a phone, turning away from them. The meeting was over.

  Back in the wide foyer, waiting for the elevator’s polished brass doors to open, Dacey patted Gerald’s shoulder.

  “What was going on in there? What’s your background with this guy? This was more than business. You two seemed to have a mutual animosity going on.”

  Gerald looked down at the floor, then over at her. He clenched his jaw. “I guess I should have to
ld you. He’s my father.”

  The reporters sat on the folding metal chairs out of the desert sun under the large tent, drinking soft drinks, eating sandwiches from the buffet and grousing about having to drive all the way out into the Nevada desert. But they had still instantly agreed to come. What’s more, they displayed that edgy eagerness for a juicy story that they could sell big to editors. Some of the science writers had already opened their laptop computers and typed in preliminary leads and boilerplate descriptions of the project. The Newsday writer had begun work on a commentary observing tartly that the only newsworthy hole here was the one in Calvin Lambert’s head for spending two hundred and fifty million dollars to capture something that most reputable scientists didn’t believe existed.

  But it was a big story in any case, so they sat and squinted against the glare, watching sweating television crews recording establishing shots of the isolated complex of sandblasted hangars that had once been an Air Force test site for classified aircraft and rockets.

  After four months of work, the complex was operational, complete with a freshly painted Deus, Inc. logo on the gate and refurbished hangars and blast-proof blockhouses. In the guard shack by the highway only a single unarmed guard stood where once squads of soldiers had patrolled with M-16s and dogs. Lambert’s lawyers had negotiated shrewdly with the government to buy the site, as well as to equip it with the masses of instruments needed for the project.

  Gerald and Dacey stood in the deep shade of one of the smaller hangars, talking with the San Francisco criminalists Jimmy Cameron and Ralph Gaston. They’d eagerly taken leaves of absence to join the project. After all, a hole that could penetrate any matter would be the biggest ballistics phenomenon in history.

  The doctor George Voigt — clad in a suit and tie even in the heat — stood with them. They all peered into the hangars, fascinated as the rotund, sweating Andy Mullins and his Megamag engineers tinkered final adjustments on the huge machines to be activated today.