A Ruby Beam of Light

by Tom DeMarco

  The present administration was in tizzy over the Freedom of Information Act filings. Rupert Paule turned purple whenever the subject of the Act came up. The last thing Chandler needed was a published letter from his own daughter recalling that he had voted for the damn bill. Why had he voted for the stupid thing anyway? Had he been horse-trading with Massachusetts he wondered, or had he just pushed the wrong button? Who could remember after all these years?

  Oops, sounds of life upstairs. The Senator hopped up, stuffing the paper back into its wrapper. What to do now with the paper? Best to throw it back out onto the drive so Williams wouldn’t know he gone out to get it himself. He stepped out the door, glanced up at the sorority, and headed out into the circle. He’d have to go out a little way into the drive to be able to throw it as far as its usual position. Just as he was about to give it a heave, a runner in sweat togs turned in from University Avenue and started down the drive. Oh shit, caught in his deshabille. He turned to run back into the house, but was frozen in his tracks by a cheerful “Yoo Hoo!” from the runner. She trotted up to him, all out breath.

  “Are you Chandler Hopkins?”

  The Senator turned around to see a slightly pudgy coed with a damp sweat band across her forehead.

  “Um, yes. I am.”

  “Swell, I’ve got a message here for you.” She set to work on the Velcro of one pocket to get the message out. “It comes from Mr. Layton. You know, the wacky one.” She smiled up at Chandler. He would have been considerably relieved to know that without her glasses she couldn’t tell that he was in his pajamas. Even though she couldn’t see very well, this was a big moment for the coed. She offered Chandler her hand. “I’m Marcie Phillips, by the way.”

  “Charmed.”

  “Mr. Layton, you know the one I mean, not the physicist…the brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “He seems to think that all the runners around campus are, well, you know, runners, like at the stock exchange or something. He thinks its a service provided by the town. So nearly every morning he’s standing out by his mailbox on Wyckoff Avenue with an envelope in his hand. He flags you down if you run by that way and hands you the envelope for delivery. He’s kind of sweet, actually. Nobody ever wants to tell him. So we deliver his notes for him. He said I should put this into your paper.”

  Chandler held out the paper numbly. Marcie Phillips slid the note inside the plastic wrapper.

  “Well, have a nice day.” She ran back out the drive. Chandler tossed the paper in under the rhododendrons and scooted back to the house.

  At 7:45 on the dot, Williams arrived with his tray. The Senator sat up in his bed, producing a yawn.

  “Morning Williams.”

  “Good morning, sir. Your breakfast and paper.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  As soon as Williams was gone, he found Claymore’s light blue envelope tucked into the paper and slit it open. Inside were two pieces of blue note paper. Each one had a message, stamped on it by an oversized rubber stamp. The first one said:

  BREAD AND BUTTER NOTE

  Thanks for having us over to your place for dinner on April 4.

  Sincerely,

  C. and H. Layton.

  The hand-written date referred to the Senator’s dinner party the previous Sunday. The second sheet had a dinner invitation stamped onto it with time and date filled in for this very evening. Claymore had written “Senator and Mrs. Chandler Hopkins and Miss Stacey Hopkins” across the top. Chandler sighed. He hated to be invited on such short notice, hated the thought that anyone would think they would not be booked months in advance. But their calendar for this evening was empty, he knew. And it would be a useful opportunity to get Dr. Layton off for the brief chat that he had been planning. He scratched a note to Williams to call and accept.

  That morning, on his walk back from Clark Hall, Homer had made two firm resolutions: One was to get more sleep and the other, to lie low and avoid interaction with anyone from the university administration or from the government contracting agencies. It was no secret that some of the results of the war game simulations were unpopular in Washington. He had the feeling that they were just lining up to put pressure on him. He was only now coming to understand what the Pentagon had really expected of Simula7: It wasn’t intended to predict what would happen, but rather what the establishment would like to think would happen. So they would soon be after him to doctor it up, to make it simulate unreality instead of reality, an altogether unsatisfying bit of work. Time to hunker down, and while he was at it, to make up for all the lost shut-eye. So, when he was aroused from a sound sleep by his brother in the late afternoon, it was to doubly unwelcome news: The Hopkins were expected for dinner. They would be arriving in just an hour. Homer shuffled sleepily into the bathroom. Letting Claymore manage his social life led to a lot of surprises, but it was fruitless to resist.

  By half past six, he was dressed and had the table set. When the bell sounded, he went to the door to admit their three guests. Stacey, who was all dressed up and prepared to be on her very best behavior, stepped forward with her hand extended.

  “Doctor Layton. So good of you to have us.”

  “Ah. Miss Hopkins.” Homer bent low over her hand. “The pleasure is all ours.”

  This provoked a sputter of giggles from Stacey. The idea of being formal with Homer was too funny. She was in the sailing class that he conducted summers on Lake Cayuga, and like all the other kids, was used to calling him Homer. Homer, for his part, thought of Stacey as a sensible young person, the sort you could depend on to herd the little girls off to the ladies room and be sure they all went before getting into the boats.

  “And you’ve brought along your esteemed parents. Mrs. Hopkins. Senator Hopkins.” He took their hands, drawing them into the entry.

  “So good of you to have us, Doctor Layton.”

  “The pleasure is ours.”

  Claymore ambled in from the kitchen to say hello. Homer could never guess whether his brother was going to play the part of perfect host or of hired help — sometimes he wouldn’t even sit down to eat with the guests. Tonight, though, it was to be perfect host. He greeted the Hopkins warmly.

  Mrs. Hopkins handed Claymore a small potted plant. “It’s tarragon, Mr. Layton. You put it out in the garden after the last frost and then you have fresh tarragon all summer.”

  Claymore looked perplexed. “But we’re packing up.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I mean we’re leaving. For Florida.”

  “Yes, for the awards ceremony. We’re all going. But you can plant it when you come back.”

  Claymore shrugged and accepted the plant.

  Inside, Stacey sat stiffly on the front of the couch, adjusting her skirt down over her knees as Homer poured sherry for the adults. The room was jammed with things to look at, but she was determined not to appear the child by gaping at anything. She steadfastly ignored her surroundings while deciding what to say next; no use letting the conversation get started on a subject she knew nothing about.

  “It is an extraordinary honor, Doctor Layton, that you have been honored with. To receive the honor of receiving an award from the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. An investiture.”

  “I am further honored that you have noticed, Miss Hopkins.”

  “And I read your book, A Life in Science.”

  “You read A Life in Science? You really did? No kidding?”

  “Yes. I’ve written you a letter with my impressions. You’ll be receiving it shortly in the mail. Charles de Gaulle, you know, read a book every single evening and dictated a letter to its author before going off to bed.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Stacey flushed. “I didn’t read your book in an evening, though. Because I have to go to bed so early. It took me a whole week.”

  “That’s OK. I understand that you will be coming to Fort Lauderdale for the awards dinner, Miss Hopkins. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to join me at
the speakers’ table. You could bring your parents too.” He winked at the senior Hopkins.

  “Well, thank you, Doctor Layton. We would be pleased to accept.”

  “It will be a great comfort to me to have someone there who has actually read the book, a rarity.”

  Stacey had a suspicion that neither of her parents had read Homer’s book and so decided it would be best to change the subject quickly. But keep it lofty and very adult. “Well, Doctor Layton, what do you think of these tempestuous times we live in?”

  “Very tempestuous. Very.”

  “Yes. I understand from my reading that you are a special advisor to the President.”

  Chandler glared at her.

  “I am. That means I give advice to a man who gives advice to a man who gives advice to the President. Anything I should pass along?”

  “Well, actually…”

  “Stacey!” Chandler growled. “I’m afraid my daughter has not yet mastered the art of small talk, Doctor Layton.” He turned to his daughter. “You must try to think of something that doesn’t matter at all, darling, and say that. Something that nobody can disagree with. Instead of whatever you were about to say.”

  “Oh, Father.”

  “Well, darling, that’s the adult way. And you’ll just have to learn it. Now what could you say that no one could disagree with?”

  “Weapons of mass destruction are deplorable.”

  “Yes. Well, perhaps something more upbeat.”

  Stacey ignored him. “Is it true, Doctor Layton, that there is a special clock published by scientists that shows how far they think we are from nuclear confrontation?” She hadn’t meant to ask this, but it was on her mind.

  “Such a grown up question from such a young lady. But yes, they do have a clock like that on the front page of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. It only shows their opinion, though, the opinion of the editorial board. They call it the ’Doomsday Clock’ because…” He glanced uneasily at Senator Hopkins, who was staring at his shoes.

  “And the number of minutes away from 12 shows how close we are?”

  “Uh huh.” Homer turned to the sideboard to get a glass for Stacey.

  “And is it also true that the minute hand is dangerously close to 12? Even though we would seem to be at peace, there is serious danger of a nuclear incident?”

  Homer flinched. As his back was turned, it was possible that no one else had noticed. He hoped not. Where did Stacey learn these things? It was true that the Doomsday Clock was moving toward 12, now only three minutes away. The editors judged the world to be increasingly unstable as the weapons once controlled centrally by Great Powers were being distributed among so many new players. But what to say to the child to reassure her?

  Homer sighed. “Yes, it’s true,” he said.

  He poured some juice from a jar of maraschino cherries into a glass of tonic water over ice and handed it to Stacey. He took her pony tail in one hand, pulled it gently. Stacey looked up into his eyes. Her own eyes were light blue and unafraid. Not clear whether he had reassured her, but he felt a bit reassured himself.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen.” It was Claymore, in from the kitchen. He had never quite caught on to the custom of relaxing over a drink before the meal. “Dinner is served.”

  After dinner, Stacey and Mrs. Hopkins stood up with Claymore to help with the clearing. Chandler put his arm through Homer’s as they went out toward the living room.

  “Perhaps, Doctor Layton, that is, Homer, perhaps we could step into your study for just the briefest chat.”

  “Study. Oh, yes. I guess this way then.”

  Homer led him into a wide sun-room where Claymore kept his exercise equipment. He sat down on the seat of a rowing machine, and gestured Chandler toward a padded bench backed up to a rack of bar bells. The Senator sat down there.

  “Um, I wonder what your brother meant when he said ‘We’re packing up.’” Chandler had a dread of losing his prize physicist to Princeton or Harvard.

  “I don’t know. That’s Claymore. He gets some odd ideas.”

  “But you wouldn’t be thinking…?”

  “Oh no. It’s just Claymore. Funny ideas.”

  “He’s a damn fine cook, though. I mean, that chocolate soufflé….”

  “Yes.”

  “A work of art, really.”

  “My brother is very pleased with his chocolate soufflé. He likes it so much that he sometimes serves it as a first course. It took a bit of intervention this evening to have it served as dessert.”

  “I’m glad we’re having this little chat, Homer. Glad for the opportunity.”

  “Oh, me too. Very glad.”

  “Well, the fact is that I’ve been wanting to chat with you for some time.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “To pass along some things that General Buxtehude shared with me over the past weekend. Perhaps you noticed that we got off by ourselves for a bit with Mr. Tomkis of State.”

  “Yes.”

  Chandler paused to think out his phrasing. There was a sudden sound of loud Latin music from the living room. “The Pentagon, of course, is just very pleased to be able to work with Cornell on this project, on these projects. In fact they have even bumped up the funding. Oh, I didn’t tell you that, did I? Well, they did. The check arrived this A.M. and has been deposited. Quite a generous increase.”

  “Nice.”

  “Very nice. Well, the General wanted me to impress upon you that there is no hurry for any results at all. He was very adamant about not putting the simulation staff under even the least bit of pressure. People really aren’t at their best under pressure. I mean, you could take even a few years before sending in any more scenarios, not that they aren’t interested.”

  “I see.”

  “Myself, I would take advantage of the situation to shift more of the resources out of the war-game simulations and into the Peculiar Motion study. Now that is what is really essential. The most important thing is Peculiar Motion. I mean, Peculiar Motion is extremely…” The Senator racked his brain for an adjective, any adjective that could be applied to Peculiar Motion. “It is extremely important, I guess one could say.”

  “Oh extremely”

  “Well, now, hasn’t this been a productive chat?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And I’d been hoping to have it. And we did.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.” What the hell was all that racket from the living room? Castanets and trumpets and drums. Sounded like a bull fight. “Well, perhaps we should be joining the wives, I mean, the others.”

  “Oh sure.”

  They arrived near the end of the tango, sultry and sexy and loud. Stacey was by the record player cranking up the volume. Claymore and Mrs. Hopkins were dancing. They had their cheeks together, absolute deadpan expressions, their hips undulating with the music, their bodies moving in synch. Turn, step, step, step, step, turn. At the final bar, Claymore whirled his partner around and she flung one arm into the air with abandon.

  “My word,” said Chandler.

  “Wow!” said Stacey.

  “Olé,” said Claymore.

  7

  THE RUBY MASER

  As usual, Homer was late. Loren wandered through the empty offices, looking for signs of life. Finally he settled down with the daybook in the big easy chair opposite Homer’s desk. A good guess was that Homer was catnapping somewhere, maybe at Dean Sawyer’s. He was running behind on sleep as much as Loren and Sonia were, and for exactly the same reasons.

  Homer’s office was, depending on your point of view, an interesting and thought-provocative turmoil or just an awful mess. Loren looked around at the clutter. To be entirely truthful, it wasn’t just clutter; there was a lot of dirt too. Homer’s eyes had failed when it came to noticing dirt, and the cleaning staff had declared that they wouldn’t touch the place until a few tons of junk were removed. The two crooked pathways through the mess were almost the only places where the floor was visible. Everywher
e else was a jumble of cartons of papers or electronics or demonstration gear from the physics laboratory courses that Homer used to teach. Homer and Claymore campaigned an old Star boat during the racing season on the lake, and most of the boat’s paraphernalia wintered over in Homer’s office, including jibs and coils of line and kapok lifesavers and a dismantled winch. The desk was piled up with papers. If you came into the room with a cup of coffee in your hand, there was simply no place to set it down.

  Of all the treasures in the room, Loren’s favorite was a huge device, nearly eight feet long, mounted on top of the bookshelf behind the desk. It was a piece of experimental equipment used in the late 1950s to generate coherent light streams. The device was an ancestor of the modern laser. But it worked on a slightly different principle from the laser. It was called a maser. Masers had been in vogue for only a few years before the more efficient laser generators made them obsolete. This particular device was a ruby maser, so called because its light stream was focused through a tiny ruby crystal. It was functional, all connected and ready to go.

  Loren dropped the daybook on a stack of listings by the desk and went over to the maser. He ran his hand along the channel and its support, made of polished hardwood. He turned the wide round knob to the On position. The device hummed for a moment. Then, with a soft pop it suddenly projected a sharply defined, clear red beam of light all the way from the emitter at one end to the receiver six feet away. The sides of the beam were perfectly parallel, to within a few angstroms, he knew. The thin beam of colored light never failed to captivate Loren.