Prizes

by Erich Segal

  Two secretaries—one male and one female—guarded the inner sanctum: the first was a blond beach-boy type, the second an elegantly groomed woman in her mid-thirties.

  “Well, hello, Professor Raven,” she greeted him with an expert smile. “I’m Eleanor, Miss Tower’s secretary. My my, you’re just like your father. The family resemblance is quite striking. Miss Tower is tied up in a phone call, but you’re next on her schedule. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “No thank you,” Sandy replied tersely.

  “Tea? A soft drink perhaps?”

  In his anger, Sandy wanted to refuse even the tiniest gesture of hospitality from anyone associated with Rochelle. Yet, feeling inexplicably tired, he nodded at the suggestion of a Diet Coke.

  “With or without caffeine?” Eleanor asked.

  Sandy opted for the stimulant, thinking it would help him in what he expected would be at most a ninety-second encounter.

  Moments later the intercom buzzed and he heard Rochelle’s voice asking whether he had arrived.

  “Yes, Miss Tower. Shall I show him in?”

  “No, no,” said the voice. “He’s an old friend. I’ll come out and greet him personally.”

  One deep breath later, the inner door opened and there, in all her power and glory, stood Rochelle Taubman.

  Sandy had never paid much attention to women’s fashions. His sartorial observations had been limited to telling Judy that she looked nice or, under extreme duress, responding with candor as to why he really did not like what she was wearing.

  But he knew from all the interviews that Rochelle bought her clothes at a place called Milestones, which specialized in making good bodies look better, and great bodies radioactive.

  She smiled. “Sandy, what a marvelous surprise. I’m so happy to see you. Do come in.”

  Thankfully, she did not offer her hand, nor—as he had worried during the nigh—did she offer her cheek to kiss.

  “Sit down,” she said, motioning to one of the Barcelona chairs that formed a semicircle in front of her enormous marble desk. She returned to her own leather throne. “Gosh, it’s nice to see you,” she remarked, a smile playing on her face. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” Sandy answered quietly. “Eleanor was a charming hostess.”

  There was a sudden silence, during which Sandy stared at her, wondering if she would give the minutest sign of anxiety. Or any emotion.

  Finally, she asked, “What brings you to Tinseltown?”

  Christ, he thought to himself, the L.A. Times announced my university appointment, but she probably doesn’t read anything but Variety.

  “Actually, I’m based out here,” he replied. “I mean, I’m at Cal Tech. In fact, I’m part of their new genetic engineering program.”

  “Genetic engineering? That must be thrilling work. I wish I had the time to read more, but I’m fascinated by the whole subject of DNA.”

  “You know about DNA?” he asked with surprise and a tinge of condescension.

  “Just a bit. We had Jim Watson’s Double Helix in development. But the screenwriters couldn’t lick it.”

  The second silence was longer.

  Even Rochelle could sense that the magic of her beauty, the opulence of her office, its shelves lined with Oscars, was ceasing to mesmerize Sandy.

  Wisely, she took the initiative. “I’m sorry about your father.…”

  Unbelievable, he shouted inwardly. She’s acting as if he was in a car accident, when she was the one who ran him down.

  “I’m sorry too.” Sandy frowned. “But neither of us feels as bad as the man who gave twenty years of his life to this studio.”

  “And lost almost that many millions,” she added in subdued but emphatic tones.

  “I don’t believe that, Rochelle,” he countered. “I mean, those pictures he made during the first years were real gushers—and on a tight budget.”

  “I’ll give you that,” she said. “Sidney was an asset to the studio—in a different era. Sandy, you work in science. God knows that’s changed since we were kids.”

  Her civility was killing him. He was determined not to be the one to raise his voice.

  “Excuse me, Miss Taubman, but to the best of my knowledge, motion pictures are not an exact science.”

  “That’s just the point.” She leaned over her desk for emphasis. “In this business the most important quality is intuition. Our statistics tell us that the vast majority of our audience are teenagers. Now how can you expect a man in his sixties to understand today’s youth culture?”

  Sandy was outraged by her sophistry—and yet amazed by her resilience and the dexterity with which she continued to hit the ball over the net.

  “By that reasoning, Rochelle,” he rejoined, “all pediatricians should be little kids.”

  She was stymied for a moment, then chose humor as the medium of response. “That’s very clever, Sandy. I mean that.”

  She glanced at her Rolex and stood up.

  “Oh my God, I’m late for a screening, and I know Sergio hates to be kept waiting. Give me a ring sometime and we’ll do lunch.”

  Then Sandy exploded. “Rochelle!”

  There was a barely susceptible flash of triumph in her eyes: she had finally cracked him. And dealing with hostility was not only her forte, but one of the prime secrets of her success in Hollywood.

  “Yes?” she answered primly.

  “Forget his loyalty and all the years he broke his back for this studio. Think about just one thing—your own career.”

  She did not react, leaving him off balance to continue his tirade.

  “I mean if it hadn’t been for my father, you wouldn’t be in this office right now.”

  Perhaps she was unaccustomed to being told the truth. But suddenly her temper flared. “That’s your opinion,” she said with a hostile smile. “Personally, I think it’s a considerable overstatement. Anyway, it was nice seeing you, Sandy.”

  With that she disappeared. Leaving him still consumed with rage.

  How could he have ever loved this monster?

  50

  ISABEL

  Some of the greatest scientific discoveries are not made, but stumbled upon.

  Columbus, seeking a new route to the Indies, and happening upon America. Sir Alexander Fleming, finding that a mold he had left in his lab over the weekend accidentally contaminated a staphylococcus culture and stopped the bacteria growth, thus giving the world penicillin—and earning him the Nobel Prize.

  Many investigators report sudden apocalyptic answers to questions that have plagued them for years—when they are least expecting them: on the golf course, in the shower … and still more mundane places.

  Isabel would forever ascribe her great brainstorm to some scientific fairy godmother.

  Rising early one morning in her third summer at MIT, she splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, made a cup of coffee, sat down at her desk, pencil in hand, and began to think.

  With her mental faculties still half slumbering, Isabel started to doodle, just to bring thoughts into focus. Then, suddenly, she began to write figures, which gradually became equations.

  Continuing to work furiously, she felt a sudden craving for carbohydrates. Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she took out two frozen waffles, toasted them, saturated them with maple syrup, and carried them back to the desk for a high-calorie breakfast.

  Gobbling the rich food, she glanced at the paper again. It suddenly looked like someone else’s work. She could scarcely believe that the entire formulation had come to her complete, in a single burst of inspiration, like a great melody coming whole to a composer’s imagination. As flawless as a snowflake.

  She thought to herself: This could be it.

  But how could it be so simple? I made a few basic calculations and it all poured out. Did everyone just overlook such an obvious idea?

  Forty-five minutes later she poked her head into Pracht’s office.

  “Karl, can
you spare me a few minutes?”

  “Sure, of course.” He smiled. “What brings you here so bright and early?”

  “An idea has just popped into my head. Can I walk you through it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Without another word she hastened to the whiteboard, picked up a colored marker and began by setting out the first principles from which she developed the theory, explaining all her assumptions and showing where she had deviated down a new path.

  Finally she concluded. “Well, what do you think, Karl?”

  “Frankly, I’m having trouble making it sink in. I mean, a theory in physics always tries to be the simplest explanation, and your hypothesis is an exquisite example. It’s also extremely elegant and self-consistent and agrees with earlier work. In other words, it’s magnificent.”

  “Thanks.” Isabel smiled with elation.

  And yet, Pracht’s brow was furrowed.

  “What’s bothering you, Karl?” she asked.

  “Well actually, Isabel, my mind’s already rushed to phase two. I mean there’s no question this will cause a stir because of its sheer beauty. But there’ll always be doubters. After all, there were objections to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, only it was verified by a solar eclipse in 1919. And you don’t make any predictions that are observable. If only we could come up with a way of demonstrating that you’re right.”

  “Well,” she replied, not daunted, “we’re neither of us on the experimental side. But if you’ve got time, we could kick around some ideas.”

  “Isabel, for you, I’ve always got time.”

  Just then Pracht’s intercom buzzed. “What is it, Alma?”

  An unexpected voice preempted his secretary. “Dad, Isa’s not in her office.”

  She fairly bounded from her seat. “My God, Karl, it’s Jerry—isn’t he supposed to be flying to England?”

  “Are you out there?” the professor shouted into his machine.

  “No, I’m right here.” His smiling son practically walked through the door without opening it.

  Isabel was so excited she unabashedly threw her arms around him and they kissed.

  Without letting go, Jerry smiled mischievously. “Hi, Dad. Am I interrupting?”

  “On the contrary. I think I am,” his father joked. Then: “Aren’t you supposed to be in Wimbledon?”

  “I routed myself through Boston so I could see my special friends here. I’ve got till the day after tomorrow.”

  “Great. By the way, nice going with Becker.”

  “Thanks, but don’t expect an encore. I was just lucky. Anyway, were you guys working?”

  “We certainly were,” Karl pronounced. “You arrived at a historic moment—Isabel has just come up with a new Unified Field Theory.”

  Jerry was staggered. “You’re putting me on.”

  “Have I ever exaggerated as far as Isabel is concerned?”

  “No,” Jerry conceded. He turned to her. “This is fantastic, Isa. Congratulations. Can I take you to dinner?”

  “I’ll have to check with my social secretary,” she replied playfully. “Now, why don’t you take a walk around the block while your dad and I talk business?”

  “No,” he smiled. “I want to hear this for myself. I probably won’t understand it, but can I at least listen?”

  “Fine,” the elder Pracht agreed, warning, “Some of this may be a little abstruse, but I’ll explain it to you later.”

  Jerry smiled broadly. “I’m sure Isa will take care of that.”

  She returned to the whiteboard and repeated her earlier performance—with a few more refinements that came to her on the fly. At the end of her exposition, Jerry clapped.

  “Brava, brava,” he exclaimed. “That’s a guaranteed Nobel winner.”

  “Your dad’s pressing me for even more,” Isabel complained with mock frustration.

  “What else do you want, for heaven’s sake?” Jerry demanded.

  “Well,” the elder Pracht replied amiably, “a demonstration would be kind of nice.”

  “Come on,” Jerry rejoined. “Didn’t Weinberg win the Nobel in ’76 for his version of the UFT? I don’t recall your mentioning any experimental proofs either then or since.”

  “That’s precisely why it would be great to have Isabel go him one better,” Karl said, gesturing with a professional index finger.

  “Well,” Jerry turned to Isabel, “what sort of conditions do you need?”

  “A monster source of energy—and not even the five-hundred-GeV accelerator at CERN in Geneva could rev up enough.”

  Jerry thought for a moment and then his face suddenly lit up. “How about a supernova?” he asked excitedly. “When a star collapses there’s a tremendous gravity field and a massive amount of energy.”

  He stepped to the board and quickly listed some of the conditions at the core of a star just after it implodes.

  “It’s lucky I’m usually knocked out in the early rounds,” he joked. “I’ve had plenty of time to read.”

  Isabel brightened. “I think you’re on to something, my stargazing friend.” And now, pad in hand, she eagerly buried herself in fresh calculations.

  “Wait a minute,” Pracht interposed, waving his hands like a basketball referee. “I don’t think this is going to work. Admittedly, the ion temperature in a supernova is high, but it’s only a hundred KeV or so. You need a million times that. And if that weren’t bad enough, there’s so much hot matter around, no light or other signal from the core could get through—except the neutrinos, of course.”

  “Hold it, Dad, hold it,” Jerry shouted. “What about the shock wave?”

  Isabel pondered briefly and then exploded with joy. “Jerry, you’re unbelievable. Now, both you guys follow me.”

  In an instant she was at the whiteboard once more, a veritable geyser of ideas.

  “The star shrinks down incredibly fast, until it reaches a point where it hits bottom and rebounds, sending this really fast shock wave,” she began. “Now, theoretically, we’ve got all the needed elements present—we’ve provided the energy, as well as huge magnetic and gravitational fields. I calculate that there should be some telltale signature of unification by the release of microwaves, something in the nature of a wavelength of about four centimeters.”

  Pracht, who was reveling in these youngsters’ animated dialogue, played the troublemaker. “This is all very well, but I don’t think I’ll live long enough till the next supernova.”

  “You don’t have to,” Jerry replied. “There was one in February 1987—”

  “—when the blue star Sanduleak detonated,” Isabel finished his thought.

  “Bingo!” The elder Pracht cheered as his son regained center stage.

  “Astronomers in Chile caught onto it really early,” Jerry explained, “and studied it with every possible instrument. But the most sophisticated data would have been at CISRO in Australia. I mean, their hemisphere got the best view of it. It just so happens that one of my old buddies from the Astronomy Club is working there. I can call and persuade him to send us the tapes.”

  “Can we have ’em do it Federal Express?” Isabel asked excitedly. “I’ll pay the freight.”

  “No, no, no,” Jerry overruled her. “This is my treat.” He picked up the phone and grinned at his father. “Dad can pay for this call.”

  Since there is always someone awake at the Observatory, in a matter of minutes Jerry had determined that the team at CISRO did indeed have numerous twelve-inch reels of tape covering the history of Sanduleak on their old VAX780 computer, and were happy to oblige him by making copies.

  “That’s absolutely brilliant,” Isabel beamed. “Do you want to write this up with me, Jerry?”

  “No way,” the young man answered. “This part is fun, but that would be like work. And you know my allergy to anything academic.”

  “Jerry,” Karl admonished his son good-naturedly. “If you don’t stop playing the eccentric, I’m going to tell Isabel your deep, dark sec
ret.”

  “No, Dad. Please.”

  “What’s this?” Isabel demanded, her curiosity aroused to fever pitch.

  There was now no holding back. Pracht disclosed the classified information.

  “Jerry’s actually not a high school dropout.”

  “I am too,” Jerry insisted perversely.

  Ignoring him, his father spoke directly to Isabel. “What really happened is that he was kicked out for conduct unbecoming—”

  “See?” Jerry interposed.

  “But with his courses at the Planetarium, he’d already earned enough credits to graduate, so they gave him a diploma as a going-away present.”

  “Is this true?” Isabel demanded.

  Jerry shrugged uneasily. “Well, kind of …”

  “Listen,” Karl suggested. “Why don’t you sit down and tell Isabel all about it, while I get on the phone and see about having her theory published.”

  She slumped into a chair and breathed a weary sigh. “Must we, Karl? Maybe this is so outrageous some people might be hesitant to print it.”

  “You’re right, and even if they aren’t, there are so many guys out there waiting to shoot down whatever you do next. That’s why we need a strategy. Now, everything submitted to Physical Review is subject to peer evaluation—and even then the editors could still make hamburger meat of any article they wanted to savage.”

  But he knew his politics.

  “Make it short and concise so we can send it in as a letter. That way no reviewer can get his claws into it. And you can go public without being mugged or muzzled. It’s almost axiomatic—the biggest discoveries in modern science have had the smallest write-ups.”

  Isabel broke her silence. “Do you think this can wait a day, Karl?” she asked with a touch of melancholy.

  “What’s another twenty-four hours?” Pracht replied. “It’s waited since Sir Isaac Newton. But this is so uncharacteristic of you, Isabel. Are you getting cold feet?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s just that whenever we announce this, the whole carnival will start again. Frankly, that’s the only part of my scientific career that I’ve really hated. All I care about is the work.”