Dark Matter

by S. W. Ahmed

  Academic probation is a serious matter. I trust you will give this notice its due attention, and I hope that we will have reason to keep you as a valued member of the academic community at Cornell.

  Regards,

  Jonathan Becker

  Director of Graduate Studies

  Chapter 2

  Disaster had finally struck. Marc’s face turned pale, as the full consequences of the letter he was holding sank into his mind. His first instinct was to argue with Graham, but it was obvious that nothing was going to convince Graham or the rest of the department anymore to give him another chance. At this point, the only thing that would make a difference was a breakthrough in his research.

  He knew it wasn’t just about his lack of progress. As with any other university department, politics was at play here as well. Others on the committee didn’t like him for one reason or the other, and wanted him gone from Cornell. He knew for a fact that Professor Thomson was very threatened by his potential and track record, worried that he might one day disprove her controversial claims on superstring theory. Then there was Poloski, who had a tremendous rivalry with Graham and didn’t want any of Graham’s students to succeed. Not to mention Robson, who just didn’t like Asians, it seemed. Come to think of it, Graham probably was the closest friend he had on the committee and the whole faculty.

  In any case, he generally preferred to avoid confrontations. That was unless someone really drew him over the edge by upsetting him time and again, but he had no reason to feel that way about Graham at the moment. Graham had generally been patient with him, and had supported him through failure after failure over the past few years.

  Right now, however, Graham was looking at his watch, clearly late for his next meeting.

  “Well then, I’ll just get back to it,” Marc said, taking the hint. “I will try to have some results for you within the next week or two.”

  “That would be a good idea.” A ghost of a smile appeared across Graham’s lips.

  Marc left without saying goodbye. He decided not to go to his lab. After a meeting like that, he needed some time to recuperate. He was heading back home.

  Although it was reaching midday, it felt like it had gotten even colder and darker in the past half hour. It had started snowing again, but not heavily. A thin sheet had already formed on the ground, and the wind was still strong. He remembered the weather forecast he had heard on the radio in the morning – snow flurries all day, with no letup for the rest of the week either. Wheezing, he tightened the scarf around his neck and headed down East Avenue back towards Collegetown.

  “If only I could make them understand,” he kept saying to himself. None of the people on the faculty committee knew what it was like to lose everyone who was dear to them, one after the other. They couldn’t possibly fathom why his research was so important to him.

  Probably the biggest shock to him of all had been the death of his mother four years earlier. She had developed kidney cancer, and by the time of its detection, it had already reached such advanced stages that the doctors had given up within a few weeks of treatment. This had all happened right after his graduation from MIT. After learning of his mother’s cancer, he had deferred starting the MS/PhD program at Cornell for six months, and had spent that time with her back home in Vancouver, Canada.

  Those months had been the hardest of his life, seeing his mother’s health rapidly deteriorate right in front of his eyes. As a child, he had always imagined himself as a hero. He had often spent hours daydreaming about his adventures, helping weak, powerless victims against crafty, evil gangsters. Yet, years later as an adult, he had been unable to save even his own mother.

  She had died within five months of the detection of her cancer, leaving Marc as the only surviving family member. He had no siblings, and had never been close to any of his uncles, aunts or cousins. Not that he had many relatives to begin with, but those that he had he had never liked. His grandparents on both sides had died a long time ago, and his father he had never met. He had died in a car accident before Marc’s birth, returning home to Vancouver one winter’s morning in 1979 from a skiing trip to Whistler with some friends. Marc’s mother had only been six months pregnant at the time of the accident, an accident that had abruptly ended both his father’s life and a very happy four year marriage.

  After his mother’s death, Marc had come to Ithaca to begin his graduate studies. Depressed and lonely, he had just not been able to get over his loss. Eventually he had come up with the idea to use his knowledge of physics and mathematics to build a time machine for his PhD thesis, so that he could go back in time to save his mother. If that turned out to be successful, he would then travel even further back in time to save his father as well.

  Marc returned to Collegetown and, after picking up a sandwich at a nearby deli for lunch, went up to his room. He lived on the second floor of an old 3 story house, where individual students rented rooms from the owner. They shared the common areas, including the kitchen on the first floor and a bathroom on each floor. The landlady didn’t do a good job maintaining the place or keeping it clean, something he really hated. She would always promise to clean it up that week, but then never did. There was always a disgusting smell of uncooked fish and rotten eggs coming out of the kitchen, an excuse he used to never even try to walk in there to cook anything. At least the rent was low, though, and as far as he was concerned, that was all that really mattered.

  The answering machine was beeping. He ignored it, took off his coat and sprawled over the bed. It was probably somebody he didn’t want to talk to, like one of his few friends wondering where he had been the night before. It was unlikely to be Cheryl at this time of day.

  The beeps continued, every 10 seconds, and he could only ignore the sound for so long before it began getting on his nerves. Cursing the machine, he finally got up, walked over to the desk and pressed the “Play” button.

  A voice crackled over the speaker. “Marc, can you call me when you get this message? I need to ask you something. Bye.”

  The voice was female. It was Cheryl.

  “Should I call her back right away?” he wondered. “No, let her wait a little. After all, I mustn’t let her think I’m desperate to talk to her.”

  As always, however, he picked up the phone within seconds and dialed her number. His heart began beating faster, and it seemed to beat faster with every ring. Finally, after three rings, he heard the familiar voice. “Hello?”

  “Hey there, it’s me, Marc.”

  “Hey, where’ve you been?” That was Cheryl alright - curt and straight to the point. Her voice had a hint of sensuality to it, something he definitely found to be a plus.

  “I had a meeting with Graham this morning,” he replied.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot! How’d it go?”

  “Horribly. Things aren’t going well at all. My days here might be numbered.” He let out a heavy sigh.

  “That’s too bad. Hey, so listen, I need some help with my new math assignment. Can I meet you later today?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  They decided to meet for dinner. Afterwards, he would help her with the assignment. With that, he put the phone down and walked to the window. The wind was blowing hard outside, and the snow was falling heavily now. A few brave souls were trying to confront the wind, hoping to still get to class on time. Someone was trying to get his car out of a parking spot, but it wouldn’t budge in the piled up snow.

  His head turned back to face the inside of the room. It was very modestly furnished, nothing unusual for a poor graduate student. It did have a very tidy and clean air about it, more so than probably any other room in the house. There was a small, twin size bed in the corner, with an old mattress on it that squeaked with every motion. A heavy comforter on top neatly covered the whole bed. The gray desk facing the windows was quite large, and appeared to be slanted to one side. It had a lot of drawer space for stashing books and papers, leaving the top free for a desktop computer and a small
stereo system. The closet on the far wall had no doors, revealing a small collection of rather ordinary clothes – jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, a few dress shirts, a couple of jackets, one pair of boots and two pairs of downtrodden sneakers. The floor was covered by a thick, dark brown carpet that was probably as old as Marc himself. The walls were off-white, with large paint chips evident everywhere.

  A few posters were placed symmetrically on the walls, all of them displaying pictures of stars, planets and various scientific phenomena. But there was one outstanding, oversized poster that was different. Plastered on the inside of the door, it was a homemade collage of different faces, faces of some of the most famous astronomers, mathematicians and physicists of the modern day, including Stephen Hawking, Roger Penrose, Albert Einstein, J. Richard Gott, Michio Kaku and Nicolai Kardashev. All of the scientists on the poster had one thing in common – their work had led to groundbreaking advancements in the theories of time and space travel. Famous quotes from each scientist were displayed under his or her respective photo.

  Marc’s eyes rested on another photo on his desk. As usual, he had forgotten to put it back in the drawer. It was a picture of him, a few years younger, standing in front of the famed dome of the Maclaurin buildings at MIT. His hair appeared longer than it was now, he seemed a little bigger and fitter too, and he definitely looked much happier. The reason why he looked at that picture so often, though, was the person in it standing next to him.

  She was absolutely beautiful, with long auburn hair, big brown eyes and tan skin. About 5’6” tall, she had a nice, slender figure. Her face was sweet and soft, but the features were sharp, giving her the air of both innocence and experience, of humbleness and confidence. In the picture, she was wearing a black blouse and a loose red skirt. She looked of Middle Eastern descent.

  She was originally from Jordan, and her name was Iman. He had dated her during his junior and senior years at MIT. She had been an undergraduate student at Harvard at the time, studying history. He still could not forget her, even though it had been over four years since their breakup.

  They had shared a deep friendship, and had been able to discuss anything and everything. She had been his girlfriend, best friend and soul mate, all in one. Losing her had been a big shock to him, one which had taken him a long time to recover from. The timing could not have been worse either, just months before losing his mother to cancer.

  This was yet another major reason to build the time machine. For various reasons, going into the past and altering events still would not be able to keep him and Iman together, but perhaps he could prevent the existence of their relationship altogether. He was convinced he would be a far happier person today as a result.

  During their time together, Iman had changed Marc’s perspectives on a lot of things. Before meeting her, he had always been a very scientifically minded person, tackling all ideas and issues with logic and mathematics, never once acknowledging the existence of anything supernatural or inexplicable by science. Iman, on the other hand, was a much more spiritual and philosophically minded person. She had introduced him to a world he had barely touched before, opening for the first time questions in his head about the reasons for the existence of mankind, of the universe and even the possibility of the existence of God.

  It was many a discussion with Iman that had eventually led him to develop a stronger interest in spirituality and religion. Through her vivid storytelling ability, she had also opened his eyes to the world outside North America, to the Middle East, Europe and Asia, where she had extensively traveled and lived with her family. He had, in fact, never traveled anywhere outside North America, having lived all his life in Vancouver until his move to Boston to attend college. Neither he nor his mother had ever been able to afford such a trip. Although he did have Chinese blood in him, since his father was originally from Hong Kong, he had never had much involvement with Chinese culture. His mother was a white Canadian, and as his only living parent, had pretty much raised him as such.

  Cheryl didn’t come close in most aspects to Iman, Marc felt. She also seemed quite selfish at heart, something his friends repeatedly reminded him about. She was, however, the only woman he had in his life right now, if it could be said that he actually “had” Cheryl.

  “Well,” he thought, as he looked at the clock on his desk, “maybe I’ll finally find out tonight.”

  Chapter 3

  Ithaca was a small town. Its total population, according to a census done in the year 2000, was less than 30,000. The nearest cities were more than an hour and a half away. CornellUniversity, taking up a significant percentage of the town’s population, was situated on top of a group of hills overlooking the downtown area in the valley below.

  Like most students, Marc rarely ventured downtown. He didn’t have a car because he couldn’t afford one, and walking the steep trek back up the hills just wasn’t his idea of a fun time. Taking the bus was simply too time-consuming. Moreover, the Collegetown area where he lived had a small grocery store and a few restaurants with different cuisines. He just never had a need to go downtown.

  It was in one of the Collegetown restaurants that he sat that evening, waiting for Cheryl to show up. Called DelhiPalace, it was the only Indian restaurant in all of Ithaca. Although the quality of the food didn’t come close to the good Indian restaurants he had been to in Vancouver or Boston, it was decent and unique enough to warrant an occasional visit.

  “Would you be wanting something to drink, Sir?” the waiter asked in a thick Indian accent. A tall man, probably in his early 30’s, he was dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and black trousers. The restaurant had a nice décor, with pictures of Indian landmarks on the walls and exotic artifacts situated in different corners. The smell of curry and spice hung low over the entire room, and sweet sounding sitar music emanated from speakers mounted to the ceiling.

  “I’ll just wait till my friend arrives, thanks,” Marc replied. He glanced at his watch and frowned. Cheryl was already twenty minutes late.

  She finally showed up at the restaurant. “Hey! Sorry I’m late, but my Psych study group meeting ran over. We were having this really interesting discussion about mind conditioning.”

  “No problem at all,” he lied, “I just got here myself.”

  She was attractive, no doubt. She had white skin, with short blond hair that she kept nicely styled in flowing curls, and blue eyes that had a mischievous twinkle about them. Her figure was full and quite voluptuous, something he enthusiastically observed every time he saw her. He definitely preferred the full bodied figure in a woman, as long as she wasn’t overweight.

  Cheryl was wearing tight blue jeans and brown boots, and a white sweater that hung loose over her upper body. “In the mood for Indian food, huh?” she remarked, as she began looking at the menu.

  “I thought you liked Indian food?” he said, a little surprised. She had loved it the week before, and had eaten a ton of lamb curry and naan bread.

  “It’s okay. Don’t always like the spicy smell though. Not really in the mood today.”

  “Would you rather go somewhere else, then?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll just pick something light.”

  She ordered a mulligatawny soup and a small salad, while he ordered the chicken tandoori dinner for himself.

  As they waited for their entrees, she began talking about her coursework like she usually did.

  “That Janet just drives me up the wall!” she cried. “You know what she did today?”

  Before he had a chance to respond, she kept on talking. “She actually had the nerve to cut me off twice in class, while I was making important points. What’s more, she never even thanked me for allowing her to copy my math assignment word for word.”

  “No mention that I helped you do the assignment a couple of days earlier,” he thought.

  As she kept on talking, the food finally arrived. After a few sips of the soup, she began picking up pieces of chicken from his plate.

 
; He asked her about her different classes, and she kept on chatting about each of them. She was a Psychology major at Cornell, in her senior year as an undergrad. Her area of focus was the mathematical formulation of human behavior patterns, which required her to take a number of higher level math courses. Some of the material was quite difficult for her to grasp, which was why she depended on him to help her out with her assignments and in understanding complicated mathematical concepts.

  As they finished their food, Marc was hoping she would finally ask him about his problems of the day, problems that were clearly much larger than hers. But she didn’t. Eventually he brought up the topic by himself. “I got a real bashing from my advisor today,” he said with a sigh.

  “Oh yeah, you mentioned that on the phone,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Well, in a nutshell, I may be out of here in a month.”

  “What?” She looked genuinely surprised.

  “They aren’t happy with my research,” he explained. “So they’re giving me a month within which to come up with something that will change their minds. If not, then they’re kicking me out of the program.”

  “Oh, wow! I thought you were working on some really exciting, pioneering stuff?”

  “I am, but convincing those bozos of that is a different story.”

  “You know,” she said with a ponderous expression, “I never really understood what it is you’re working on anyway.”

  He looked down at his plate. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if she truly was like this by nature, or if she just put on this cold façade for her own protection. Although his friends kept telling him it was the former, he had faith it was the latter. He had faith that he would one day break through to the real, caring Cheryl.