by Tom DeMarco
COPYRIGHT (VERSION 2.19, APRIL, 2019)
A Ruby Beam of Light
Copyright © 2019, 2016 by Tom DeMarco
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Artful Press, Camden Maine.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Tom DeMarco: [email protected].
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ruby Beam of Light was originally published in the United States by Double Dragon Publishing Inc., Markham, Ontario Canada.
Book Layout and
Cover Art by Deron Douglas
www.derondouglas.ca
Armageddon is about to happen, but it’s not what you think. This war is not going to blow anything up, it’s only going to turn everything off…
PART I
ANDRONESCU’S PARADOX
1
SENATOR HOPKINS
Chandler Hopkins is a man of considerable distinction. These very words were running through his mind as he stood before the wide oak-framed mirror in his dressing room. Williams passed behind him silently and ran a soft brush over the shoulders of the new, dark blue velvet jacket, causing the Senator to sigh contentedly. For the duration of one long moment, he didn’t want for anything. Williams, he reflected, had worked out beautifully. He was the soul of discretion, always there when you needed him and gone when you wanted him gone. Senator Hopkins loved having coloreds on his household staff, or “people of color” as they now wanted to be called for some reason that had escaped him. Their presence established one’s liberal credentials and gave the household a comfortable plantation manor luxury. That luxury was only what properly befitted the dignity of his position as president of a major university. Senator Hopkins gave a lot of thought to what properly befitted the dignity of his position.
During his time in Washington, his “years on the Hill,” as he thought of them, he had been a guest at the White House on several occasions. The experience had left a lasting impression. Now there was dignity for you. When you wanted a cup of coffee, it simply appeared, served with elegance by an elderly butler. There were silver coffeepots and starchy white cloth napkins and expensive china in deep indigo with a thin gold stripe. Vases of cut flowers were placed everywhere. The President’s library, where most of their meetings took place, was full of morocco leather bindings and walnut paneling and overstuffed Chesterfield easy chairs and couches. If the Senator had any aspiration of one day becoming Chief Executive, it stemmed from no great political ambition, but rather from simple lust for the perks that came with the job.
An extended career in politics, however, had not been in the cards for Chandler Hopkins. His “years on the Hill” had been limited to the twelve and a half months between his appointment to fill the term of his deceased predecessor and his defeat in the next election. Oh well, he wasn’t going to be president of the nation, but at least he was president of something. Since taking up his position at Cornell, he had spent most of a year organizing the best approximation he could manage of life at the White House It was only what properly befitted dignity of his position.
“We will be thirteen for dinner this evening, Williams.”
“Yes, Senator.”
“Doctor Homer Layton is the guest of honor. And General Buxtehude, of course.”
Williams nodded.
“Albert Tomkis will be there from the State Department. Then there are Professors Porter and St. Vincent, plus three members of Dr. Layton’s staff—young physicists, one presumes—plus two wives and Dean of Women, Maria Sawyer.”
“Yes sir.”
The Senator glanced down at his empty martini glass on the dresser, and Williams promptly topped it up. Yes, Williams had been a wise choice. Almost like that wonderful servant—what was him name, Rochester?— that Jack Benny used to have. Williams made a decent martini and excellent coffee, and kept the rest of the staff out of the Senator’s hair. Williams was a key element of the life that was finally taking acceptable shape at 850 North University Avenue.
The house on North University definitely befitted the dignity of the president of a major university. It had been built during the 1870s for wealthy socialite Jeanie McGraw Fiske. Understatement had played no part in Ms. Fiske’s style, as the mansion demonstrated with its elaborate paneling and glittering crystal chandeliers. The living room fireplace was a good nine feet across. Best of all was the utterly presidential library. When he’d first set eyes on the room, the Senator decided that this was the residence for him, and began planning the purchase of a pair of red Chesterfield couches and matching easy chairs.
At the time of his investiture, Fiske House had been occupied by a fraternity. Through a bit of good fortune, the university had purchased the house and grounds back in the 1960s for one dollar, and leased it back for a dollar a year to the fraternity on an extended lease. The lease had been up last year, and Senator Hopkins had acted to take possession of the building on the university’s behalf as a replacement for the decrepit President Arthur residence. Of course, there had been a lot of whining from the brothers and some alums (there was always a lot of whining surrounding any decision that the president made). But that had died down and now Fiske House was his.
Under the kitchen and pantry of Fiske House was a secret room, accessed through a stairway that descended from a hidden panel in the music room. The secret room had served as a chapter hall where the fraternity brothers conducted their mystic rites. Now it was the Senator’s office for what he thought of as Special Affairs. All the records from his year of serving as junior member of the Senate Armed Services Committee were safely housed in the Special Affairs room. So far, no one but the Senator had been allowed into the room. He would slip in through the music room entrance when no one was watching and steal down the stairs to read up on Cornell’s DoD-funded projects or to place his frequent calls to General Buxtehude at the Pentagon. He used a bright red telephone for these calls. In the interest of security, he had wired the phone himself as an extension from the main number.
Sounds of guests arriving from below. No hurry. Nothing lacked to complete his preparations, but he was conscious of the timing of his entrance. The guests ought to be given time to get their first drink before he came down. Williams had engaged one of the University singing groups to provide music at the beginning of the evening, and the faint rumor of their harmony was already drifting up from the living room. Because he had selected the program himself, the Senator knew it finished up with the rousing Cornell Victorious. He would come down the curved stairway just at the final chorus.
Alas, his entrance was spoiled by the fact that some of the guests had not yet arrived. Of those who counted, at least General Buxtehude was there, nursing a drink by the fireplace. The Senator went directly over to him, ignoring Dean Sawyer’s “Good evening” or some such inanity. He favored the General with his much practiced small smile — the same smile Reagan used to convey warmth but with an aura of serious concern behind it.
“Good to see you, Gordon.”
“Chandler.”
The Senator placed his left hand over the handshake and maintained strong eye contact. “I see Williams has looked out for your drink all right.”
“Oh yes.”
The General was taller than Senator Hopkins by almost a foot. He was quite bald. In repose, his mouth gaped
partly open, revealing the upper teeth all the way to the gums. His civilian garb this afternoon gave the effect of Army dress tans without insignia or decoration. He left no doubt of his intrinsic generalhood, being every inch the military man except perhaps for that fraction of an inch of visible pink upper gum.
“This promises to be an interesting evening, Gordon. We’ve united all the principals of Dr. Layton’s research group. You’ll have a chance to size up some of his young people. Well, you know all about them from the reports. But it will be your first opportunity, I believe, to meet them in person. An impressive staff.”
“I expect so. I expect so.” The General looked sour. “Chandler, I won’t conceal from you that I have some real reservations about this Simula-7 project. Real reservations. I mean, there’s no faulting Layton’s academic credentials…”
“I should think not. You don’t come away with the Enrico Fermi Award without doing some very high powered thinking. I daresay there isn’t a finer mind than his in the physics department of any university.”
“Mmmmmm. My concern was not with his mind, but rather his…”
“Good evening, Senator Hopkins.” It was Dean Sawyer, insufferable woman.
“Yes. Good evening, Maria. Is there something…?”
“Just good evening and thanks for having me in such illustrious company. I’m Maria Sawyer,” she said, offering her hand to the General.
Senator Hopkins did his duty. “Oh yes. This is General Buxtehude of the Joint Chiefs. Maria Sawyer, our dean of women.”
The General didn’t seem annoyed by the interruption. “Dean Sawyer.” He gave her a smile as warm as her own. The General had an eye for beauty, and Dean Sawyer was still a beautiful woman in spite of her sixty-some years.
“Yes, well. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted while I see to my other guests. We’ll chat about that little matter a bit later, Gordon.”
Chandler headed back toward the foyer. What the hell could be on Buxtehude’s mind now? He had never seemed entirely comfortable with the Simula project. Bother. And it was Chandler’s absolute favorite. It had romance, high visibility in Washington, and lots of funding. It was even comprehensible, the kind of thing you could wrap your mind around without knowing a whole lot of Scientific American stuff. The other physics department projects were simply off the wall. You had to have an advanced degree just to read the grants. But Simula-7 was nothing more than a big computer program, like a simulation of the weather or the economy—ambitious enough but not beyond understanding by ordinary mortals.
The study of anything that ordinary mortals could fathom was something new for Homer Layton. He had made his name in particle physics with something called “peculiar motion.” It was certainly peculiar enough to Chandler’s way of thinking. After the Enrico Fermi prize, Layton was appointed Special Adviser for Science to the President of the United States, and a grant for $17 million of new Pentagon research funds dropped suddenly into Cornell’s lap. Senator Hopkins could feel the dollar signs in his eyes whenever he thought of that amount.
“April really is the cruelest month, isn’t it, Senator?” The Senator looked up to see Professor Porter of the history department.
“What?!?”
“I said, April is the cruelest month.” He nodded out the library window where a cold rain was falling.
“Yes, I daresay.” Who would have thought a sensible fellow like Porter would be having income tax trouble?
“April…breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/ Memory and desire, stirring/ Dull roots with spring rain.”
“Quite. Quite. You must excuse me, Porter, I need to welcome our guest from the State Department.”
Williams was keeping track of Mrs. Hopkins’s martinis. The one she had just lifted off his silver tray was her fourth. He had seen her several times before with five under her belt. The more she had to drink, the more inclined she was to finish up her sentences with her eyelids drooped closed, though she did usually manage to remain lucid. But this evening promised opportunities for new records. It was still early and she was already more than half in the bag. And the guest of honor had still not arrived. It could be hours before they sat down to dinner. Williams suspected that with six martinis in her, she might do something spectacular, like plant her face into the Waldorf salad.
Williams entertained this thought without malice. He didn’t dislike Mrs. Hopkins particularly. She was distant but not unkind. He had the sense that there was a lot about Mrs. Hopkins that people missed. In the year at North University Avenue, he had never heard her first name pronounced. He knew it was Candace, but it was never spoken. The Senator referred to her as Mrs. Hopkins or, to her face, “my dear.” Perhaps there was no one on earth who called her by her first name. Anyone who tried it, he imagined, might be fixed with that icy stare of hers.
Mrs. Hopkins was distant, but that gave Williams no interest in seeing her embarrass herself with drink. It was just that the possibility of her overindulgence was the only likely amusement that the evening offered. He inclined his head toward her for instructions on the seating at table.
“I think we’d best place Mrs. St. Vincent next to one of the physicists, Williams. I had thought she might go on the General’s right hand side, but she really is impossible. I can’t think what anyone could talk to her about. Maybe she’ll have an interest in relativity or something.” She waited, eyes drooped closed, for his reply.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“The young woman from Dr. Layton’s staff…”
“Dr. Duryea, Ma’am.”
“Yes. I’d like her on my husband’s left, immediately opposite the General. She is quite striking to look at. I think that should help the General’s digestion. It is most essential that the General enjoy his evening.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“We’ll put Dean Sawyer on the General’s right hand, and then Professor Potter…”
“Porter, Ma’am.”
“Yes. We’ll have him next.” She finished off her drink. “Ah, the bell. The complement of our party, at last. See them in, Williams.” She glanced down at her watch. “REE-yu-lee! You might display a little coolness for their late arrival.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Williams hurried to open the door for the guest of honor and his three young assistants. There was an unexpected fifth person in the group as well, an elderly gentleman in a complete set of yellow foul weather gear and sou’wester hat. Williams made sure they were being properly helped with their wet wraps by the French maid, Elise, then headed back toward the library to find the Senator.
“There is an extra person in the Layton party, sir,” Williams whispered when their paths crossed. “A Mr. Claymore Layton. It appears that Dr. Layton took the liberty of inviting him along.”
“Damn.” The Senator frowned.
“He is the Professor’s younger brother, sir. I believe he has a deficit.”
“A deficit? Can’t anyone on this campus manage his finances?”
“A mental deficit, sir.”
“Oh.” Shit. Who to seat him next to? Oh well, Candace and Williams would figure it out. A matter of the first importance now was to get Dr. Layton away from the others and explain to him that some deference toward the General would be in order. Senator Hopkins put on his small Reagan smile, warm but with just an overtone of serious concern. He intercepted the guest of honor on his way to the bathroom and led him off toward the downstairs parlor.
Claymore Layton’s “deficit,” was made up of two seemingly independent problems. First of all, his memory was prone to sudden lapses. He would be in the middle of a conversation and then, abruptly, not be able to remember what the subject was. Lapse of memory was certainly not unique to Claymore. Lyndon Johnson, for instance, suffered from the exact same thing. He would summon his secretary in the middle of a conference with some cabinet official and show her a note that read, “Who the hell is this guy?” The difference with Claymore was that he didn’t have a secretary
to cover his lapses.
Claymore’s second problem was an inability to deal with imagery. If you said that someone had “hit the ceiling,” he’d look up for damage to the plaster. The literal-mindedness and his memory discontinuities were not debilitating. Claymore was intelligent, by nearly any definition of the term, just a bit odd. He kept house for Dr. Layton in the old Victorian they shared on Wyckoff Avenue. He read a lot, and it was said that he was a wonderful cook. There was one final thing about Claymore, a simple idiosyncrasy: When he had no need for his reading glasses, he would turn them around and wear them square on the back of his head. That way he always knew where to find them. The earpieces of the glasses came over the tops of his ears, back to front, and nestled down into his gray sideburns.
At Claymore’s side was Loren Martine, Dr. Layton’s youngest PhD, a recent recruit from the University of Salamanca. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent. “Now admit it, Clay, doesn’t this look like a nice party?”
“Too many people.”
“You’re going to like them all, Claymore. I’m sure you are. Don’t you want to take off your hat?”
“Nope.”
“It’s all drippy.”
“Don’t want to.”
Loren turned to Sonia Duryea for help. “Sonia, Claymore’s being complicated again. Work your magic on him.”
Sonia stepped up to Clay and began adjusting his tie. “Claymore’s an old reprobate. He thinks he’s going to disgrace us all by wearing his yellow rain hat through the whole party and dripping on this nice rug.” She arranged his jacket and managed to give him a little tickle under the arms. Clay smiled broadly. He was a pushover for Sonia. She untied the straps that ran under his chin. “But I’m going to take this hat off and ruin his whole wicked scheme.”
