“The painting was a landscape by one of the Old Masters. Nothing particularly special. A wide, sunny field with trees here and there, a horizon shaded with mountains, a sky flecked with clouds. There were a few buildings tucked on the edges of the scene, and some figures, going about ordinary, mundane tasks.
“As I stood there, enjoying the imagery, a thought occurred to me. How different was the image presented in that painting from the actual world in which I was standing? In all its elemental essentials it was virtually the same.
“If I were to take an object, any object, a piece of paper, for example, and peer at it closely enough, I would not see a collected total mass that my mind would interpret as a piece of paper. If I managed to get close enough, I would see molecules. And if I could look even closer, I’d see atoms, and beyond that, the tiny specks that make up those atoms.
“If I were to do the same thing with any one of you, I would not see you as an eminent colleague, a rival explorer into the nature of the universe. I would see first individual cells, then closer, the molecules that made up those cells, then the atoms, and finally the quarks that made up the protons, neutrons and so on. I would not see a person or a conscious mind. I would instead simply be looking at ordinary matter, moving and reacting to stimuli in pre-determined ways, according to the principles of physics as we understand them.
“I realized that, in its essentials, as viewed by physics, there was no difference between the universe in which I existed, and the universe inside that painting. Certainly, the painting had only two dimensions and the universe has three… that we can be reasonably sure of…”
This drew some quiet chuckles from the audience. Vernon smiled and continued.
“…but in all other respects they followed the exact same laws and principles. Subatomic particles conjoined into atoms, atoms conjoined into molecules, molecules collected into objects. On the micro and macro levels, both were identical.
“That was when it struck me that, in fact, there was a singular, basic and radical difference between the world in which I stood viewing the painting and the world of the painting itself. That difference was the canvas.”
He paused to sweep his eyes over the audience.
“I realized that the existence of that painting depended entirely on the existence of the canvas onto which those molecules of pigment had been adhered. Take away that canvas and you would be left with merely unanchored, drifting globs of formless, shapeless paint, with no meaning beyond their own occupation of a location in what we have come to call reality.
“We think we can break down the universe into layers. On the macro level we have everything we can see, everything we can interact with. Stars, planets, molecules, atoms of matter and bursts of energy. Beneath us is the quantum level. We are painted onto that, made from it. But what, I asked myself, was the quantum level painted on?”
He paused again, trying to sense a change in the concentration of the assembled audience.
“We already know,” he continued, “That the visible universe actually makes up only a tiny portion of what is. What exists. The vast majority, over six times more, is composed of something we can’t see, can’t hear, can’t detect in any way. Light passes straight through it, uninterrupted. And we and any mechanism we might construct to extend our senses to see more, hear more, capture more data, would be useless to detect it, because both we and those mechanisms are composed of matter to which that… whatever it is, cannot interact in any way."
“The only way we are even aware of its existence is because of the gravitational effect it exerts on the motion of the most massive objects in the universe, stars and galaxies. It pulls on them, coaxes them, nudges them. It causes them to behave in ways that our mathematics predict they shouldn’t be able to. It is only when we change certain numbers in the mathematics related to the effects of mass on the motions of these bodies in space, that the formulas correct themselves. Our only possible conclusion is that there is something there, something real and palpable that is simply beyond our ability to ever see or directly experience.
“But what if we could experience it? What if we could strip away the paint that is the matter composing our observable universe and make actual contact with the very canvas itself? What would we find?
“Would it be the basic place out of which our universe sprang at the Big Bang? Some substantial, actual location onto which our universe of matter and energy was superimposed? That perhaps our entire universe burst out of it back at the beginning of what we call time?
“Is it infinite, going on forever, existing everywhere, but outside what we have always thought was the sum total of all that is, was and ever will be? Could this entire universe be nothing more than an immeasurably tiny blob of something stuck to this cosmic canvas, of absolutely no more significance to it than a speck of dust?”
Once more he paused, giving the assembled minds a moment to absorb the concept.
“For years, we knew of the existence of neutrinos, having seen their effect on the universe we could observe. But they were so small, their mass so insubstantial, their speed as they shoot through the universe so great, that they literally pass through the entire volume of the planet without ever interacting with a single atom of it. Yet we could not capture one, witness one, make it stand still long enough for us to examine its properties.
“Now we can. Experiments located in deep mines, using the miles of mass above them, strip away much of the radiation that normally hides these neutrinos and we are at last able to detect them as they zip through the planet.
“I intend to create an experiment that will, hopefully, allow us to isolate, capture and actually interact with that unseeable portion of the universe we have labeled Dark Matter. If my current calculations are correct, it should be possible to construct actual mechanisms that will allow us to not only observe the effects of this mysterious substance, but actually, physically interact with it.
“It is my belief that it may be possible to touch that untouchable realm. Perhaps even affect it. Change it. Manipulate it.
“Some people I’ve discussed this with already have had the graciousness to politely point out that while it would certainly be a major breakthrough in terms of our understanding of the universe, it would be mind-bogglingly expensive to accomplish. They also questioned whether or not it was necessary. Surely, they said, as long as we can understand enough to determine the mathematical and physical principles of how we interact with it, would we not have enough knowledge to at last solve the one great mystery that has ruled physics for more than a century? Would we not be able to tie together Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity and the quantum universe in a single unified theory of the basic functioning of all existence?
“I believe we would. But I am seeking something more. I believe that if we can open up some kind of transition to that realm where Dark Matter exists as a substantial thing, enough to observe it, study it… then it would be possible to take an even further step.
“I believe that what we would find on the other side of that impenetrable veil is the one thing all human beings have been longing for and seeking since we first developed the capacity to recognize our individual existence as conscious creatures.
“I believe that what we would find there is nothing less than the thing that caused all that we know, see, and experience in our entire universe in the first place. I believe we would at last observe God. Not merely observe, but interact with it, directly.
“If I am correct, one day I hope to stand here and at long last give the world the one thing it has been reaching for since the beginnings of human civilization. Metaphorically speaking, I hope to give you God’s phone number.”
The silence in the great room was absolute.
Joe Franklin stood looking down at the long, wide table, his eyes casting slowly over the large top page of the schematics. They were yellow with age and bore small smudges of dirt or perhaps ink, indicating extensive previous display in a working en
vironment.
Currently his gaze was fixed on one particular section, an exploded view of a fist-sized sub-circuit that would eventually jut from the side of the completed device, and would contain most of the controls.
“Go on,” the voice issuing from the speaker phone prompted calmly.
“Well,” Joe responded, with a faint sigh of resignation, “Like I told you, I can’t do the main control circuitry unless I know what the impedance rating of the central power coupling is supposed to be. Otherwise, if it’s not right, if we use the wrong materials, it could burn out as soon as the current is applied.”
“And that information,” the voice replied, “Is not shown on the schematics?”
“No, it’s not,” Joe responded. “There’s a reference here to another document which, I assume, is detail on the required metallurgy of all the power-bearing components. I don’t suppose you have a copy of that?”
“Alas, no,” the voice said thoughtfully.
Joe nodded slowly, despite the fact that the man with whom he was talking was at the other end of a phone.
“Yeah, I kind of thought so,” Joe said resignedly.
“So how do we correct this?” the voice said.
Joe took a further moment to let his gaze sweep over the aging paper containing its myriad sharply etched lines, text and symbols.
The entire project was quickly approaching the point at which he would prefer to abandon it rather than put up with any additional frustration and his growing sense of discomfort.
This set of plans, fifty four pages in all, had arrived rolled up tightly in a shipping tube a little over three weeks ago, the day after he’d received that first mysterious phone call. The client, who had only identified himself as Dr. Walter Montgomery, had said Joe had been recommended to him as a capable independent electrical engineer who made much of his living by fabricating prototype electronic devices for various clients. He had worked for major corporations, constructing experimental equipment for testing, and had a growing reputation with a few development companies who would receive bright ideas for new devices of various kinds from eager, hopeful, would-be amateur inventors, who had no clue how to transform their brainstorms into working models. The companies would pass them along to Joe and, for a fee, he would see if these products of imagination could be made, and if they would actually function as intended.
One of his key attractions for doing such work was his discretion. He made it a flat, unbending rule that what he did, how he did it and any other information about anything he did, was strictly between himself and his client. If the client paid his fee, then what happened to his work was none of his business once he turned it over to them.
As a result, over the years, he had found himself constructing a few devices that could easily be used as components of weapons, and one time he had actually taken a stab at building a crude electromagnetic rail gun, intended to propel a one-inch diameter metal bolt at tremendous speed using only the power of a magnetic field. That project had been abandoned by the client when he was informed of just how much power would be needed to make the thing function properly.
But this project was beginning to make him feel a growing sense of discomfort. For one thing, the plans were old, having originally been drawn decades ago, and clearly having spent at least some time spread out on a long table, just like the one before which he now stood, and poured over by who knows how many people. For another, the notations and text were in Russian Cyrillic.
“Dr. Montgomery,” he said at last, his tone cautious, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” the voice responded.
Joe hesitated, searching for a delicate way to pose the question.
“Can you tell me the specific purpose of this device? What its function is supposed to be?”
“Is it important that you know that?” the voice replied, and now the tone was quiet, cautious.
“It would certainly help,” Joe countered. “I mean, if it’s meant for sustained, continuous operation, then that would be one thing. But if its function is, say, as some sort of… initiator, that would be something else entirely.”
The voice did not respond immediately, and when it did, it was flat, slow and thoughtful.
“Is it necessary for you to understand all that in order to complete it?”
Joe paused, thought a long moment.
“I’m going to have to say yes,” he finally stated. Then quickly added, “I know I agreed to do it just based on the schematics, but the… unusual nature of them, and the fact that there is some crucial information missing means I’ll need to understand what its ultimate purpose is supposed to be. If I know that, I can maybe create some kind of work-around when I hit a snag. Like now.”
This time the voice did not respond for several long seconds, and when it did it was somewhat crisp and flat in tone.
“And if you have this information you will be able to create a functioning model?”
“I should be able to, yes.”
This pause was long enough to cause Joe’s discomfort to climb to an itch at the back of his neck.
“Very well. It is a lens for a modified particle accelerator.”
Instantly several perplexing questions dropped into place in Joe’s mind.
“Ah,” he said, quietly, “That would explain a few things. Particles. Not a laser.”
“No,” the voice countered firmly, “The stream will not be photons.”
Again Joe nodded absently.
“Can you tell me what kind of stream it will be?”
The voice seemed to hesitate.
“Something… archaic.”
Thanks, Joe thought sourly, that helps loads.
“So,” the voice continued, “Is that enough information to progress with actual construction?”
“Well, it certainly answers some questions that were bugging me, yes. Okay, then. I can finish up the rest of the components and start construction of this part later in the week.”
“Excellent.”
“There is one additional stumbling block,” Joe added.
“Which is?”
“If my Russian isn’t too rusty, I’m going to need quite a large amount of titanium, and I don’t know if you were aware of it but that is a federally controlled substance. After all, it’s what they build things like fighter jets out of.”
“How much will you need?” the voice responded immediately.
“At least six hundred pounds in sixteenth-inch sheets.”
“I will have it to you by the end of the week,” the voice responded simply.
And it was that statement, more than anything else, that had popped up on this project since he’d first received the plans, that caused a chill to trickle down Joe’s spine.
If this guy, whoever he was, could get his hands on that much titanium, then he must be some sort of major player. Government, maybe?
“Okay,” he responded simply. “In that case I’ll start fabricating the circuitry tomorrow.”
“How long will it take before the prototype is completed?”
Joe considered.
“Give me…. A few weeks. By then you should have a working unit for testing. Another couple of weeks to tune and you’ll be good to go.”
He could hear the long, deep breath being drawn on the other end of the phone line, then the expelling of the air as a decision was made.
“Very well,” the voice said. “Please keep me informed of your progress.”
“And the second payment?” Joe said, trying to sound casual.
“I will wire it tomorrow,” the voice responded, an edge of annoyance in the sound. “Same bank account, I assume?”
“Yes, that should do nicely.”
“Then I shall speak to you again next week, Mr. Franklin.”
“I will expect your call. And I hope you have a good evening.”
“Oh, you can count on it, Mr. Franklin. Goodbye.”
The line clicked off before Joe could toss b
ack his own farewell.
He punched the button to kill the speakerphone.
“Particle accelerator, my ass,” he muttered to himself.
He knew what a particle accelerator was like. He had studied the mechanics of those and a number of other complex scientific devices in graduate school. And this was no particle accelerator. Yes, its function was the collection and channeling of something, but it didn’t use magnetic fields and it was configured all wrong.
A particle accelerator was used to channel subatomic particles along a circular track, moving them at speeds approaching that of light itself. Then those tiny blobs of matter would be deliberately slammed head-on into other particles and blow apart, revealing even smaller bits and pieces of the stuff of nature that could be photographed and studied and catalogued. He’d always thought of the particle accelerator as the biggest possible tool in the world designed to take apart the universe’s smallest possible objects.
But this thing, whatever it was, would be, essentially, inert. Sure, it used a considerable amount of electricity, but to do what? It didn’t convert it to heat, or light or even a magnetic field. It didn’t store it up and release it in one massive electromagnetic pulse. It just routed it around in seemingly meaningless ways. The power went in and simply never came out, in any form.
So what did that mean, he wondered? Would it just heat up and melt? You couldn’t push that many electrons into such a confined space without it attempting to escape in some way. It would have to go somewhere, into something.
Unless, he reasoned, it actually would be expelled, but in a form he wasn’t familiar with. Not light, not heat, not magnetic fields or electromagnetic pulses. Something new? A new force? And if so, what?
It’s a converter, he realized. Power and something else entered at one end, where there would be a lot of stored electrical energy, and something entirely new emerged at the other end. But what?
A weapon, he thought. It’s some kind of weapon. Something new. Something powerful.
Class Fives: Origins Page 6
