On Deception Watch
(A World Federation Novel)
David H. Spielberg
2015 David H. Spielberg
Palm Beach Gardens, FL
Preface
This is a work of fiction. The science described here is accurate and either already demonstrated or considered by experts to be plausible. The characters are mostly fictional. However, the character Arthur J. Cranshaw is modeled after the late Keeve M. Siegel, a professor of physics at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor and successful entrepreneur. He was the founder of KMS Fusion, the first and only private sector company to achieve controlled thermonuclear fusion using laser implosion technology. On May 1, May 3, and again, on May 9, 1974, KMS Fusion achieved—to the embarrassment of federal government laboratories—the world’s only successful laser-induced nuclear fusion ignition. The fictitious company, AJC Fusion, is modeled after KMS Fusion.
Professor Siegel died on March 14, 1975, under mysterious circumstances while testifying before the Joint Congressional Committee on Atomic Energy. He was testifying about government obstruction of his company’s (successful) research efforts. With his death the property rights of KMS Fusion were essentially looted by the federal government, and its race to achieving controlled nuclear fusion was fatally crippled. No laboratory has yet achieved what KMS Fusion achieved in 1975.
The rest of the story is the plausible prediction of how the World Federation might come to be.
On Deception Watch
1
The two boys, one seventeen and the other nineteen, left their car parked on the grass, under a tree off East Absecon Boulevard, and walked with their buckets and rakes to the water’s edge. No one would bother their car as this was a well-known clamming area and was a more or less understood sanctuary from crime. The police would leave their car alone as well. Especially on Saturdays. It was an informal neighborhood understanding. The day was starting out warm and sunny, and the boys quickly kicked off their sandals and with their clamming gear waded into the shallow water.
They quickly adjusted to the slight chill of the shallow Absecon Bay water and moved out until they were about waist-deep. They separated, working with about twenty yards between them, moving their feet into the sandy bottom, feeling for clams with their toes that had grown experienced and discriminating. When they felt the hard lump of a quahog shell, they took their rake and scooped it up, the sand and muck falling away between the tines. Cherrystones were what they were getting, the main ingredient in their mother’s New England clam chowder.
The older brother filled his bucket first and walked back to the shore to place his haul in the cooler they had left in the car. As he was putting his sandals back on to walk to the car, he noticed something shining in the cordgrass, about ten feet from where he was standing. Looking closer, he found it was only a pair glasses. Bending down to pick them up, he saw about ten more feet into the cordgrass what looked like a shoe. Walking over to it, he was startled to see that it was a shoe, but connected to a foot and to the rest of the body as well. It was the body of a well-dressed middle-aged man lying face up among the floppy, broad green blades. The young man went to his car to retrieve his cell phone and called 911. He called to his brother to come out of the water. He wanted to show him something, he said. Then they waited for the police.
The newspapers the next day reported that the body of Brian Sorenson, an optical design engineer working for AJC Fusion, a New Jersey–based high-tech company, washed ashore Saturday morning along the edge of Absecon Bay, just north of Atlantic City. The sheriff’s spokesperson said the body showed signs of a struggle. There were several broken bones. The police speculated that it was probably a homicide related to sizable winnings by the victim at the Tropicana where he had been playing until the early hours of the morning of the day his body was discovered. No money was found with the body, according to a police spokesperson.
2
James Marshall was disappointed as he pulled into the visitors’ parking area of AJC Fusion. He had hoped for something more impressive. The office building was located in an undistinguished, backwater New Jersey industrial park. Poorly tended turf surrounded the vinyl-clad building. Brush and weeds spread thickly beyond the tired-looking lawn surrounding the building with its unfulfilled promise. Several dumpsters and a border of tall chain-link fencing clarified any possible misconception of the type of tenant using this buildingan unimpressive, industrial operation like scores of others in the park.
A modest false stone facade at the entrance provided an unimaginative decorative touch to the otherwise drab appearance of this surprisingly small one-story AJC Fusion building. Marshall counted only twenty parking spaces in the lot adjacent to the building. He was told that about eighty employees worked here. He couldn’t understand where they all were or where their cars could be. In fact, he couldn’t understand why Dick Scully would even want him to interview this man, Cranshaw. Marshall assumed Arthur Cranshaw was no more than the crackpot chairman of a half-baked company with delusions of grandeur, and he said exactly that to his editor. Scully must have been running short of ideas for the Sunday science supplement.
Marshall parked his car, grabbed his briefcase from the backseat, and walked quickly through the brisk New Jersey air to the entrance of the building. An assignment is an assignment, he thought, and you do what you’re told. You never know what might become interesting in this business.
A pleasant-enough male receptionist greeted him with a warm and welcoming smile, though Marshall couldn’t imagine he had many opportunities to use it.
“Good morning. My name is James Marshall. With the Washington Courier?” he said, introducing himself. “I’m here to see Mr. Cranshaw.”
“Good morning, sir. May I ask if Dr. Cranshaw is expecting you?” Friendly, but firm, in control, Marshall thought. No emphasis on the “doctor.” Just matter of fact.
“Yes, he is.”
“Thank you, sir. Would you mind signing in and having a seat for a moment?” After confirming Marshall’s visit, the receptionist informed him that an escort would be coming to get him in a few moments.
Marshall studied the reception area. It was perfectly nondescript. Canvas wallpaper, gray carpeting, watercolor still-lifes, coffee table with sporting, business, and news magazines, a couple of potted plants, and the company name on the wall in large brass letters. Nothing that indicated what AJC Fusion actually did for a living.
This was very surprising for a so-called high-tech company. In James Marshall’s experience small companies like to tout their successes with photos, plaques, magazine articles, even their pipe dreams framed on the walls. But nothing showed here.
Meanwhile the receptionist had busied himself preparing an identifying security label for Marshall. As he was handing it to him, the door to the interior of the building opened, and a trim, attractive black woman entered the reception area.
Smiling, she offered her hand to Marshall as she introduced herself. “How good that you were able to come on such short notice, Mr. Marshall. My name is Sylvia Carlyle, Dr. Cranshaw’s executive administrator. Dr. Cranshaw is delighted to be able to meet you. He’s read many of your articles. I know he has an interesting interview planned for you.”
Her handshake was firm and businesslike. She was about twenty-five years old and dressed in black slacks and white blouse with a tight, high collar that emphasized her long and slender neck. Her hair was pulled lightly back, with the few errant strands adding a touch of abandon, complementing her smooth face and broad, sensual mouth. She wore no jewelry except for a cameo pin on her blouse.
She had a way of looking directly at his eyes that made Marshall wonder what she was really thinking while her face
was smiling.
Turning to the receptionist she asked, “Are we all set?” Receiving a nod of confirmation, she turned again to Marshall, helping him attach his security badge. “Shall we go? I hope your trip from Washington was uneventful.”
Passing through the door, they entered a long carpeted hallway that seemed to go the length of the building. The hallway was lit with muted, low-intensity lighting.
Once they were well into the hallway, Marshall stopped for a moment. “Ms Carlyle—it is Ms, isn’t it?—I’d like to ask you something before we see your boss.”
“Yes, it’s ‘Ms’ and fire away.”
“A moment ago you said you were glad I could come on such short notice. Who is interviewing whom here? Did we call you or did you call us?” Marshall asked, trying to read her face.
“An interesting question. I would like to suggest that you save it until you’ve met Dr. Cranshaw. I’m not trying to be evasive, Mr. Marshall, but it really would be best.”
They continued down the hall. “If you say so. Let me try again from another direction. My reputation as a reporter is at stake now, you know. I’m supposed to get answers to questions,” Marshall said, smiling. “How about you? How did you come to work for AJC Fusion?”
“Oh, that was very simple. I was a graduate student at Columbia University. Dr. Cranshaw was one of my professors. You know black women doing graduate work in physics are not so common, so I stood out from the crowd, I guess you’d say. Dr. Cranshaw offered me a part-time position with AJC Fusion, and it blossomed, happily. That was three years ago.”
“You said that your boss has read my articles. Like what, for instance, or was that just polite talk?”
She smiled at Marshall. “Like your master’s thesis, your three technical publications in the Physics Review Letters, your two publications in the Physical Review, authored jointly with your advisor, Professor Tilden, and all your feature articles with the Courier for the last nine months. He even read your book on physics games for children. You have quite a wide readership, Mr. Marshall.”
Marshall was stunned. He couldn’t think of another question to ask for the moment. He couldn’t decide if he was more impressed by her for knowing all this or Cranshaw for allegedly reading it all. But why would she say he read it if he didn’t? Just be professional, he told himself. Stop prejudging. These people are serious.
They walked on silently. Arriving at Cranshaw’s office, Sylvia Carlyle knocked on the door, awaited the response to enter, and ushered Marshall in. She quickly made the introductions and left the office.
It was an elegant office, richly paneled in dark mahogany. The carpet was deep and thick. The desk was massive, but uncluttered. Ceiling-to-floor bookshelves lined one wall. The visitor furniture was ornate and overstuffed. The wing chair Marshall was ushered to by Sylvia Carlyle when he had entered was accompanied by an ebony end table.
The office did not give the appearance of a working office. It had more of the feel of a retreat. There was no phone, no computer terminal, and no file cabinet. These deficiencies were luxuries only a chairman could allow himselfor be allowed.
Yet nothing in the room or in his preliminary conversation with Ms. Carlyle had prepared him for the physical reality of Arthur Cranshaw. He was the closest thing Marshall had ever seen to a human sphere. Cranshaw sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair, hands folded together and resting on his belly or rather just above the equator of his girth. He was dressed in a perfectly cut, dark blue, pinstripe suit, white shirt, and tie. French cuffs with Chinese gold panda-coin cufflinks showed from the jacket sleeves. His hands were small and bloated. His fingers also were corpulent but pink and immaculately manicured. He had no neck. His face was round and smooth and surprisingly youngish-looking and seemed to be attached directly to the trunk of his body.
Cranshaw presented a strange combination of personal excess and fastidious attention to superficial appearances. Marshall was not happy with his own initial revulsion at Cranshaw’s appearance. After a few moments of pleasantries, he wished to get the interview over with, and so bantering became more focused.
“So, Dr. Cranshaw, then it was you who called Dick Scully. You must have told him something very interesting for him to pay to send me here. This is a little far from my usual beat,” Marshall said as he opened his briefcase and retrieved his steno pad.
“Oh, Dick knows a good story when he hears it. I think you will too. Shall we begin?” He leaned a notch further back in his chair, looking directly at Marshall.
“Fine. To begin with, what exactly are you making here?”
Cranshaw thought for a moment. “History, Mr. Marshall. History.” He closed his eyes, and his head rolled back slightly, giving the impression he was slipping into a meditative state. This was an obsessed man, Marshall thought. Obsessed people made Marshall nervous. He waited.
Cranshaw continued slowly, “Mr. Marshall, do you know what will be the most important quest for mankind in this century? It will not be the search for alien life or the grand unification theory of quantum mechanics and relativity nor will it be the endless search for the cure for cancer. No, Mr. Marshall, it will be for energy. Such a small word—energy. It is totally inadequate to its importance.
“Without dependable energy civilization as we know it would cease. As with our own deaths, Mr. Marshall, we cannot fully contemplate the consequences of a worldwide energy deficit. Yet that is what we are rapidly approaching. We consume energy in huge amounts in our modern world. And each emerging nation adds significantly to the energy drain.
“It cannot go on indefinitely, Mr. Marshall, since fossil fuels are our primary source of energy and they are rapidly being depleted. Nuclear fission reactors provide only partial relief and uranium is a far from unlimited and inexpensive fuel.
“Energy depletion is only a matter of time. And we can calculate that time now and it is nearer than we admit publicly, Mr. Marshall.” He stopped, closed his eyes again, and this time began to speak while apparently in communion with a higher presence than James Marshall.
“It is a problem of historic proportions. And we are making history here. Now.” He leaned forward in his chair, hands now on the desktop, looking at Marshall.
“You asked me what we make here. We make solutions. We have solved the problem of unlimited energy, Mr. Marshall.”
Marshall was not impressed with the histrionic presentation or with the claim.
“Excuse me, Dr. Cranshaw, but this claim has been made before. But perpetual motion machines have gone out of style this century.”
“No, not a perpetual motion machine. That is for the application of energy. I am talking about the creation of unlimited energy, the answer to this century’s dream of power from water, of controlled nuclear fusion. That is what we make here, Mr. Marshall, to answer your question directly. We make fusion happen and we get neutrons and with neutrons we make methane from the air and from the methane we strip off the hydrogen atoms to use as fuel in a fuel cell, and the fuel cell makes electricity, and the electricity is energy.
“Think of it, Mr. Marshall, we use the abundant neutrons produced by the fusion reaction and the carbon dioxide free to us in the air and we make methane. Yes but synthetic methane. We actually will be reducing the amount of carbon dioxide in the air as we make methane. But even synthetic methane is still methane—a kind of ‘nonfossil’ fossil fuel. But only if you burn it. We don’t burn the methane. We use it as a source of hydrogen atoms. We use genetically engineered cyanobacteria and our proprietary cocktail of enzymes to strip the hydrogen, which we collect from the methane, leaving a carbon- and nitrogen-rich slurry that can be used as a fertilizer. A fertilizer. Do you see? Reduced carbon dioxide, low-cost, low-energy hydrogen production, high-efficiency fuel-cell-generated electricity, and a fertilizer by-product, not poisonous chemical waste. Is it not amazing! We don’t contribute to greenhouse gases and we get more energy more safely with an energy economy based on hydrogen. And as you know, the
only product from a hydrogen fuel cell is water. We know how to do it and we have done it.”
Marshall remained silent, inhibited by Cranshaw’s vehemence. He was not sure if he was physically safe or whether Cranshaw was mad but harmless.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Cranshaw said, reading his skepticism on Marshall’s face.
Grateful for the opening, Marshall asked, “Well, as a reporter, I’m sure you can appreciate that there is a big difference between claiming and doing. But let me ask you one question before we get too far. Why you? If you don’t mind my saying so, a lot smarter people with a lot of government money have been working on fusion all over the world and haven’t even come close. It’s a little hard to accept what you are claiming.”
“We shall see. I anticipated this question, of course. Do you know why these other researchers have not succeeded while I have? They have the wrong goal. Their goal is to pursue truth to uncover the mysteries of nature. Mine is more mundane. It is to make money. My goal was to find a process that will work. Not the best or most elegant process, but one that will suffice. And if I succeed I do not lose my reason for being, I begin selling my product. It is not the end for me and my life-work, as it would be for the national labs working this same problem. It is the beginning.
“And you are wrong about a very important point, Mr. Marshall. There are no smarter people working on this project than those working here for me. You find this hard to believe so I will explain. The vast institutional fusion effort supported by major governmental funding—and I mean hundreds of millions of dollars—is directed toward magnetic confinement. We are using laser implosion. Magnetic confinement means nothing to us. We do not compete for these brains. Our problems were optics, laser physics, stable implosion models, nuclear chemistry. Completely different fields, Mr. Marshall, from those of the establishment. We don’t compete for the same people.”
On Deception Watch Page 1