The Krone Experiment k-1

by J. Craig Wheeler

  His smile put some life back in his face. “Of course. Besides, I’m hungry as a bear. I always pick at that airline food I had for lunch.”

  Phillips, Runyan, and Gantt awaited them in the foyer. Runyan’s attention immediately focused on Danielson.

  “I’ve suggested a little Japanese place downtown. Not your flashy knife-juggling kind, but excellent sashimi and tempura. And not so expensive that it will do violence to our government per diems.”

  Danielson’s eyes swept him quickly. He had swapped his beach clothes for loafers, dark slacks and an expensive Italian shirt unbuttoned to show matted grey hair on his chest.

  “That sounds fine,” she responded.

  Runyan busied himself herding the group out. When they reached the car, he insisted that Phillips ride in front, in deference to his age. He ushered first Isaacs then Danielson into the back seat and then squeezed his own limber form in next to Danielson. He leaned forward to back-seat drive until Gantt had the Thunderbird safely headed southward on the interstate. Then he leaned back and drew Phillips into a good natured, if somewhat embarrassed, reminiscence of Phillips’ encounter with a lady of the evening at one of their scientific meetings.

  The meeting had been held in a hotel dominated at the time by a convention of salesmen. In the bar, Phillips had mistaken the woman for a waitress and the call girl had mistaken him for one of the salesmen with whom she had previously made an appointment. Runyan related both sides of the conversation that had proceeded at total cross purposes before the misunderstanding was revealed.

  Gantt had seen Runyan use this tack before, relating a story with sexy overtones to check the reaction of a new female acquaintance. Seems to be working, he thought. He glanced in the rear view mirror and could see Danielson’s broad grin as she followed Runyan’s animated delivery.

  “And do you remember that look she gave you as she was leaving and patted you on the head? I think she would have preferred you to her paying client.”

  “Now, Alex,” Phillips chuckled with embarrassment.

  “Whoops—here’s Washington Avenue; turn off here,” Runyan directed at Gantt, reverting to navigator. “Okay, now left under the interstate. There it is, on the left, just beyond. See it? I’m not sure where to park. You always have to scrounge a place here.”

  “Well, why don’t I let you out here while I go find a place,” volunteered Gantt.

  They piled out of the car and then crossed the street. There was a small queue on the sidewalk, but they were admitted shortly after Gantt rejoined them, having left the car in the lot of a gas station that was closed for the night.

  Despite the somewhat crowded space, Runyan managed adroitly to get them seated around a table intended for four, drawing up a fifth chair for himself at the end of the table by Danielson and Phillips.

  The meal was all Runyan had advertised. Dish followed excellent dish and when they all felt full, a new and interesting plate would arrive, served by a quiet, cheerful woman in traditional geisha garb. Runyan ordered a steady flow of saki and Japanese beer and always ensured that Danielson was liberally supplied. He helped her with playful solicitation to mix the cube of wasabi into the tiny dish of soy sauce to make the dip for the bits of raw fish. He was very adroit with chopsticks and insisted on feeding her a bite from every new dish as it arrived.

  Danielson found herself basking in the attention Runyan lavished on her and greatly enjoying his company. She mused to herself that, although he was about forty-five, as close in age to her father as to herself, in terms of physique he reminded her of the beach bum whom she had thought of marrying so long ago. She realized she was greatly attracted to Runyan’s radiant sense of well-being and self-confidence, the spirit that had drawn her to Allan. But Allan had no purpose in life, no goal beyond mastering the next wave. Runyan was completely different in that regard. He operated on an intellectual plane Allan would never even glimpse. She was also fascinated by the inner security she thought Runyan must possess that enabled him to range from the terrifying creative tour de force he had displayed that afternoon to the wellspring of joie de vivre presently at her side.

  As they left the restaurant, Runyan tried to drum up enthusiasm to go dancing. Danielson was in a mood to go along, but quickly followed Isaacs’ lead when he demurred.

  The ride back to La Jolla was, nevertheless, made in good spirits. Danielson mostly listened as the men traded anecdotes about Washington politics. The perspective of the three scientists was similar, deriving from the National Academy of Sciences and experience with certain congressional liaison committees. They were highly entertained, therefore, by the different view Isaacs provided from his wife’s exploits as a lawyer.

  When they arrived back at the Bishop’s School, their spirit of camaraderie spilled out of the car into the absorbing stillness of the campus. Runyan locked arms with Danielson and escorted her up the stairs of the dormitory to her door. Isaacs followed along behind. He had enjoyed the evening, but had continued to view with some jaundice Runyan’s attention to Danielson and her ready response. He forced a grin as Runyan stopped with Danielson at her door and proceeded with comic formality to kiss her hand in farewell. Isaacs made sure Danielson was safely in her room, then walked on down to his.

  Runyan climbed the stairs to his own room. He switched on the light and stood for a moment viewing the casual disarray. The desk was strewn with books. Many were opened face down, others were face up with any convenient object—calculator, coffee cup, pencil—used as a place holder. Soiled and clean clothes were intermingled in a pattern discernable only to the occupant.

  The evening’s look of merriment was gone from Runyan’s face. He relieved himself in the bathroom and then sat at the desk. His first thoughts were of Pat Danielson. Bright woman. He unquestionably wanted to get in the sack with her. He pondered the dilemma of the modern age. How do you treat a competent woman professionally when your cave-man hormones are singing their atavistic song? In Danielson’s case, he could sense she was ripe. If the circumstances had been a little different, a chance for some intimacy, one of them might at this very moment be sneaking down the hall toward the other’s room. He pictured her face as he gently unbuttoned the blouse she had worn today. Whoa! He shook his head. Enough torture of that sort. Let’s try another. He rummaged for a pencil and a pad of lined paper on which he began to scratch a long series of calculations. After an hour he rose and stretched and then moved to a softer chair next to a reading lamp. A journal devoted to astrophysics lay open on the arm, draped face down. He retrieved it and began to read. As he read, he half consciously waited for someone to come and explain where he had gone wrong in his thinking. No one did.

  By three in the morning, his fatigue ran deep. He tried to replace the journal on the chair arm, but he was well over half through, and the unbalanced volume slipped to the floor. He swore, straightened the pages and marked his place with a dirty sock. Then he undressed, fell into bed, thought briefly again of Pat Danielson, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

  Nine o’clock the next morning found the group reassembled in Gantt’s room. Danielson and Runyan were talking in quiet tones on the sofa. Gantt had conferred his swivel desk chair to Phillips and taken the seat near the door. The others took their accustomed places.

  Phillips broke off his conversation with Isaacs, who was seated next to him, as Noldt, the last to arrive, came in swinging the door against Gantt’s chair and causing him to slosh some of his post-breakfast coffee into his lap. Noldt dithered in helpless apology while Gantt waved him off and dabbed the spot with a handkerchief. After Noldt took his chair, Phillips cleared his throat and began.

  “We have no formal agenda this morning. Would anyone care to add to yesterday afternoon’s discussions?”

  “That is to say,” broke in Runyan, “can anyone put a quick and merciful end to Runyan’s folly?”

  There were several chuckles that died away into silence as it became clear that no one was about to volunteer a viabl
e counterhypothesis or cite an obvious failure in Runyan’s logic.

  “With all due respect to you as our resident astrophysical pundit, Alex,” said Fletcher, breaking the silence, “if you’re on the right track, don’t we need to call in some expert help on this problem, someone who knows about this particular subject of small black holes?”

  “Absolutely,” answered Runyan. “There are several individuals whose advice would be invaluable, for instance, Korolev in Russia or Pearlby in England. I’d love to discuss this problem with Korolev over a glass of vodka.”

  Isaacs straightened perceptibly, startled by this sudden injection of Korolev’s name. But of course, he thought, these people are probably old friends, cronies.

  Phillips saw Isaacs start and took the lead.

  “There is, ah, a question of security here, of course,” Phillips said.

  “Surely not in the classical sense,” said Noldt with some bewilderment. “This isn’t just a national issue. The whole bloody world is being sucked up.”

  “There’s no proof of that yet, Ted,” reproached Phillips. “In any case, there seems good reason to proceed cautiously at this point.”

  “What about a colleague of mine at Princeton,” suggested Fletcher, “Clarence Humphreys?”

  “Of course,” Runyan enthused, “Clarence could be very helpful. I don’t know about his stand on security matters, but he should be approached.”

  “There seems to be a consensus, then,” summarized Phillips, “that we will proceed on the assumption that Alex has provided the correct explanation of the events reported. We will try to enlist the support of an expert on black holes, particularly the miniature variety—starting with Humphreys. We’ve already established that Gantt will set up a gravimeter experiment to seek direct evidence for or against the black hole theory. Alex, you mentioned the need for detailed orbit calculations. Can you see to that end of things?”

  “The best way to proceed there would be to make use of the computer facilities and programs at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory,” said Runyan. “I could move up to Pasadena for the rest of the summer. As for security, we can’t simply ask them to calculate a black hole orbit inside the Earth. I must have special personal access to the computers, but I’ll need to consult with the experts on the relevant codes that require modification. Someone will have to do some arranging for me.”

  Phillips looked at Isaacs who nodded in confirmation. Phillips then addressed the group again. “Anyone have anything else to add?”

  After a moment Zicek spoke up.

  “Our course of action is just as you have outlined, Wayne— some straightforward steps to better define the situation. Last night I took a different tack and spent a good deal of time pondering Alex’s basic premise. He not only wants a small black hole careening through the Earth, but he led us to the brink of concluding that such a thing must have been artificially manufactured. Despite his logic, like many of us here, I found that idea prima facie absurd. And granting that absurdity, I questioned the whole scheme. My apologies, Alex.”

  Runyan shrugged and waited for the point to which all this was preamble.

  “This morning,” Zicek continued, “I am not so sure.”

  His eyebrows compressed together as he paused to formulate his words.

  “I do not see how to create such a little monster, but I am no longer so positive that to speak of such a process is absurd.

  “As many of you know, I am actively involved in Project Antares at Los Alamos. Our goal is to create controlled thermonuclear reactions by imploding a pellet of deuterium and tritium. The present scheme has six gas lasers the size of locomotives producing seventy-two laser beams that are brought to focus on the pellet. The pellet is drastically compressed, creating high enough temperatures and densities to trigger the fusing of deuterium into helium.

  “This is only one of the projects currently being undertaken by our government and by that of the Soviet Union that appears to me to bear on this problem. The others, given the current political situation, are related to weaponry. I speak of beam weapons of many kinds that unload their destructive power at the speed of light and will render normal missiles and aircraft obsolete and defenseless.

  “I myself have had a role in developing the infrared chemical laser that the Navy is using in their Sea Light lethality verification program and the related Talon Gold pointing and tracking tests. The Air Force has its own parallel program with a carbon dioxide gas laser on an NKC-135 at Kirtland Air Force Base.

  “While I’m not involved with them, except as a competitor for funding, there are several programs developing particle beams. The White Horse project at Los Alamos aims for a space-based neutral beam generator using a radio frequency quadrupole accelerator. The Advanced Test Facility at Liver more is producing an electron beam, and the RADALAC at Sandia can fire electrons, protons, or negative hydrogen ions at near the speed of light. Lord only knows what sort of gadgets the Russians have by now. Most of our ideas were stolen from them. We know they have developed techniques to use chemical explosions to drive magnetic flux compression generators. They have used stupendous electric currents generated by these devices to power rail guns—linear induction motors that can be used to hurl payloads into orbit or drive armor piercing bullets at hypersonic velocities.”

  Zicek leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and interlocking his fingers. “Now my point is, any of these devices—lasers, relativistic electron beams, rail guns—can, in principle, be focused inward to achieve implosions. So far the goal of implosion studies has been to achieve high density and temperature and produce nuclear fusion. Such processes cannot achieve extreme densities because the energy expended to raise both the temperature and the density is too high. Alex and Harvey discussed that yesterday.

  “But suppose our goal was not high temperature, but just high density— very high density. It is true that I cannot see how to reach densities where self-gravity plays a role and a black hole becomes feasible. I can, however, imagine a few tricks in principle to keep the temperature relatively low even as the density rises.”

  He unlaced his fingers and gestured with open palms.

  “I’m sorry to be so long-winded. What I am trying to say is that our technology is moving even now in a direction where such a thing becomes imaginable. Technological and scientific advances are growing exponentially. Who knows what comes next?”

  Zicek looked around the confines of the small room, eyeing his colleagues.

  “Are you inviting us to conclude,” asked Fletcher in a voice of deliberate calm, “that, while we cannot now do such a thing, perhaps a society only somewhat advanced from ours could?”

  “Never mind a very advanced society,” put in Noldt more excitedly.

  “Oh, hold on,” said Leems disgustedly. “Granted, Vlad, we’re inventing a cornucopia of implosion machinery. There is still an immense jump to making black holes. Just because we’ve launched a space probe out of the solar system doesn’t mean that intergalactic space travel will be possible for us or for any advanced civilizations that might be out there. Sometimes practical limits can erect just as solid a barrier as physical impossibility. You damn well can’t strike a match on a wet cake of soap. I still find the whole black hole business preposterous.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Harvey,” admitted Zicek, “but I feel we should not jump to a conclusion either way. No one has really thought seriously about how hard or how easy making a black hole might be if one really tried. I’m just saying such a thing may be possible. Our knowledge of the behavior of matter at only slightly greater than nuclear density is very sparse.”

  “Well, what we don’t know, we can’t use to reach any conclusions,” said Leems, still sounding disgusted.

  “Of course, of course,” placated Zicek. He addressed himself to Phillips again. “My thoughts in this direction lead me to one concrete suggestion you may want to consider.”

  “Yes, what is that?” inquired Phillips.


  “We have discussed bringing in other experts to help us deal with the particulars of this problem. Carl suggested Humphreys,” he waved toward Fletcher. “I think we should consider more carefully this question of how such a thing might be made. One person comes to mind who would be uniquely qualified in terms of both experience and creative insight.”

  “I’ll bet you’re thinking of Paul Krone,” said Runyan.

  “Yes, in fact, I was,” replied Zicek.

  Isaacs looked up sharply at this reference. He had heard of Paul Krone, and he was not the kind of man Isaacs would be keen to bring into this effort. Not exactly stable.

  Leems made clear where he stood.

  “That horse’s ass? Surely you don’t want to set that bull loose in this china shop?”

  “You’re being unfair,” Zicek replied tensely. “I know there are people jealous of Paul’s successes because they don’t understand his methods, but he has great insight that could serve us well and he’s currently deeply involved in these questions.”

  “Jealous?” Leems waved a hand in dismissal. “He can’t even keep a job. Half his ideas are fantasy—sheer gibberish. And who knows what other troubles he would bring.”

  Isaacs thought Leems probably was jealous. Krone had worked his way through a couple of universities, private industry and various government labs, a maverick always on the move, but he had a midas touch. A dozen times during his career he had started a little company on the side, working on some development or other. If the idea worked, Krone would keep a controlling interest, but turn the company over to professional managers and never look back. The scientists he worked with were always suspicious because he made so much money. Businessmen couldn’t understand how he could throw it all over and go back to tinkering in some laboratory or doodling equations.

  Krone was a man of great appetites as well as great talent. There had been some trouble getting him a security clearance for one government consulting job, and the case had come to Isaacs’ attention informally through an acquaintance with the FBI. There had been questions of drugs and women, a year or two ago he had taken up with an expatriate Russian of all things, and legal entanglements concerning the proprietary rights to some of his developments. In looking over the file, Isaacs had been amazed to see the number of well- known companies, three of them on the Fortune 500, that Krone controlled, directly or indirectly.