Angles & Demons

by Dan Brown

  "Mr. Langdon," Vittoria said, turning, "I assume you are familiar with the Big Bang Theory?"

  Langdon shrugged. "More or less." The Big Bang, he knew, was the scientifically accepted model for the creation of the universe. He didn’t really understand it, but according to the theory, a single point of intensely focused energy erupted in a cataclysmic explosion, expanding outward to form the universe. Or something like that.

  Vittoria continued. "When the Catholic Church first proposed the Big Bang Theory in 1927, the—"

  "I’m sorry?" Langdon interrupted, before he could stop himself. "You say the Big Bang was a Catholic idea?"

  Vittoria looked surprised by his question "Of course. Proposed by a Catholic monk, Georges Lemaître in 1927."

  "But, I thought . . ." he hesitated. "Wasn’t the Big Bang proposed by Harvard astronomer Edwin Hubble?"

  Kohler glowered. "Again, American scientific arrogance. Hubble published in 1929, two years after Lemaître."

  Langdon scowled. It’s called the Hubble Telescope, sir—I’ve never heard of any Lemaître Telescope!

  "Mr. Kohler is right," Vittoria said, "the idea belonged to Lemaître. Hubble only confirmed it by gathering the hard evidence that proved the Big Bang was scientifically probable."

  "Oh," Langdon said, wondering if the Hubble-fanatics in the Harvard Astronomy Department ever mentioned Lemaître in their lectures.

  "When Lemaître first proposed the Big Bang Theory," Vittoria continued, "scientists claimed it was utterly ridiculous. Matter, science said, could not be created out of nothing. So, when Hubble shocked the world by scientifically proving the Big Bang was accurate, the church claimed victory, heralding this as proof that the Bible was scientifically accurate. The divine truth."

  Langdon nodded, focusing intently now.

  "Of course scientists did not appreciate having their discoveries used by the church to promote religion, so they immediately mathematicized the Big Bang Theory, removed all religious overtones, and claimed it as their own. Unfortunately for science, however, their equations, even today, have one serious deficiency that the church likes to point out."

  Kohler grunted. "The singularity." He spoke the word as if it were the bane of his existence.

  "Yes, the singularity," Vittoria said. "The exact moment of creation. Time zero." She looked at Langdon. "Even today, science cannot grasp the initial moment of creation. Our equations explain the early universe quite effectively, but as we move back in time, approaching time zero, suddenly our mathematics disintegrates, and everything becomes meaningless."

  "Correct," Kohler said, his voice edgy, "and the church holds up this deficiency as proof of God’s miraculous involvement. Come to your point."

  Vittoria’s expression became distant. "My point is that my father had always believed in God’s involvement in the Big Bang. Even though science was unable to comprehend the divine moment of creation, he believed someday it would." She motioned sadly to a laser-printed memo tacked over her father’s work area. "My dad used to wave that in my face every time I had doubts."

  Langdon read the message:

  SCIENCE AND RELIGION ARE NOT AT ODDS.

  SCIENCE IS SIMPLY TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND.

  "My dad wanted to bring science to a higher level," Vittoria said, "where science supported the concept of God." She ran a hand through her long hair, looking melancholy. "He set out to do something no scientist had ever thought to do. Something that no one has ever had the technology to do." She paused, as though uncertain how to speak the next words. "He designed an experiment to prove Genesis was possible."

  Prove Genesis? Langdon wondered. Let there be light? Matter from nothing?

  Kohler’s dead gaze bore across the room. "I beg your pardon?"

  "My father created a universe . . . from nothing at all."

  Kohler snapped his head around. "What!"

  "Better said, he recreated the Big Bang."

  Kohler looked ready to jump to his feet.

  Langdon was officially lost. Creating a universe? Recreating the Big Bang?

  "It was done on a much smaller scale, of course," Vittoria said, talking faster now. "The process was remarkably simple. He accelerated two ultrathin particle beams in opposite directions around the accelerator tube. The two beams collided head-on at enormous speeds, driving into one another and compressing all their energy into a single pinpoint. He achieved extreme energy densities." She started rattling off a stream of units, and the director’s eyes grew wider.

  Langdon tried to keep up. So Leonardo Vetra was simulating the compressed point of energy from which the universe supposedly sprang.

  "The result," Vittoria said, "was nothing short of wondrous. When it is published, it will shake the very foundation of modern physics." She spoke slowly now, as though savoring the immensity of her news. "Without warning, inside the accelerator tube, at this point of highly focused energy, particles of matter began appearing out of nowhere."

  Kohler made no reaction. He simply stared.

  "Matter," Vittoria repeated. "Blossoming out of nothing. An incredible display of subatomic fireworks. A miniature universe springing to life. He proved not only that matter can be created from nothing, but that the Big Bang and Genesis can be explained simply by accepting the presence of an enormous source of energy."

  "You mean God?" Kohler demanded.

  "God, Buddha, The Force, Yahweh, the singularity, the unicity point—call it whatever you like—the result is the same. Science and religion support the same truth—pure energy is the father of creation."

  When Kohler finally spoke, his voice was somber. "Vittoria, you have me at a loss. It sounds like you’re telling me your father created matter . . . out of nothing?"

  "Yes." Vittoria motioned to the canisters. "And there is the proof. In those canisters are specimens of the matter he created."

  Kohler coughed and moved toward the canisters like a wary animal circling something he instinctively sensed was wrong. "I’ve obviously missed something," he said. "How do you expect anyone to believe these canisters contain particles of matter your father actually created? They could be particles from anywhere at all."

  "Actually," Vittoria said, sounding confident, "they couldn’t. These particles are unique. They are a type of matter that does not exist anywhere on earth . . . hence they had to be created."

  Kohler’s expression darkened. "Vittoria, what do you mean a certain type of matter? There is only one type of matter, and it—" Kohler stopped short.

  Vittoria’s expression was triumphant. "You’ve lectured on it yourself, director. The universe contains two kinds of matter. Scientific fact." Vittoria turned to Langdon. "Mr. Langdon, what does the Bible say about the Creation? What did God create?"

  Langdon felt awkward, not sure what this had to do with anything. "Um, God created . . . light and dark, heaven and hell—"

  "Exactly," Vittoria said. "He created everything in opposites. Symmetry. Perfect balance." She turned back to Kohler. "Director, science claims the same thing as religion, that the Big Bang created everything in the universe with an opposite."

  "Including matter itself," Kohler whispered, as if to himself.

  Vittoria nodded. "And when my father ran his experiment, sure enough, two kinds of matter appeared."

  Langdon wondered what this meant. Leonardo Vetra created matter’s opposite?

  Kohler looked angry. "The substance you’re referring to only exists elsewhere in the universe. Certainly not on earth. And possibly not even in our galaxy!"

  "Exactly," Vittoria replied, "which is proof that the particles in these canisters had to be created."

  Kohler’s face hardened. "Vittoria, surely you can’t be saying those canisters contain actual specimens?"

  "I am." She gazed proudly at the canisters. "Director, you are looking at the world’s first specimens of antimatter."

  20

  Phase two, the Hassassin thought, striding into the darkened tunnel.


  The torch in his hand was overkill. He knew that. But it was for effect. Effect was everything. Fear, he had learned, was his ally. Fear cripples faster than any implement of war.

  There was no mirror in the passage to admire his disguise, but he could sense from the shadow of his billowing robe that he was perfect. Blending in was part of the plan . . . part of the depravity of the plot. In his wildest dreams he had never imagined playing this part.

  Two weeks ago, he would have considered the task awaiting him at the far end of this tunnel impossible. A suicide mission. Walking naked into a lion’s lair. But Janus had changed the definition of impossible.

  The secrets Janus had shared with the Hassassin in the last two weeks had been numerous . . . this very tunnel being one of them. Ancient, and yet still perfectly passable.

  As he drew closer to his enemy, the Hassassin wondered if what awaited him inside would be as easy as Janus had promised. Janus had assured him someone on the inside would make the necessary arrangements. Someone on the inside. Incredible. The more he considered it, the more he realized it was child’s play.

  Wahad . . . tintain . . . thalatha . . . arbaa, he said to himself in Arabic as he neared the end. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

  21

  "I sense you’ve heard of antimatter, Mr. Langdon?" Vittoria was studying him, her dark skin in stark contrast to the white lab.

  Langdon looked up. He felt suddenly dumb. "Yes. Well . . . sort of."

  A faint smile crossed her lips. "You watch Star Trek."

  Langdon flushed. "Well, my students enjoy . . ." He frowned. "Isn’t antimatter what fuels the U.S.S. Enterprise?"

  She nodded. "Good science fiction has its roots in good science."

  "So antimatter is real?"

  "A fact of nature. Everything has an opposite. Protons have electrons. Up-quarks have down-quarks. There is a cosmic symmetry at the subatomic level. Antimatter is yin to matter’s yang. It balances the physical equation."

  Langdon thought of Galileo’s belief of duality.

  "Scientists have known since 1918," Vittoria said, "that two kinds of matter were created in the Big Bang. One matter is the kind we see here on earth, making up rocks, trees, people. The other is its inverse—identical to matter in all respects except that the charges of its particles are reversed."

  Kohler spoke as though emerging from a fog. His voice sounded suddenly precarious. "But there are enormous technological barriers to actually storing antimatter. What about neutralization?"

  "My father built a reverse polarity vacuum to pull the antimatter positrons out of the accelerator before they could decay."

  Kohler scowled. "But a vacuum would pull out the matter also. There would be no way to separate the particles."

  "He applied a magnetic field. Matter arced right, and antimatter arced left. They are polar opposites."

  At that instant, Kohler’s wall of doubt seemed to crack. He looked up at Vittoria in clear astonishment and then without warning was overcome by a fit of coughing. "Incred . . . ible . . ." he said, wiping his mouth, "and yet . . ." It seemed his logic was still resisting. "Yet even if the vacuum worked, these canisters are made of matter. Antimatter cannot be stored inside canisters made out of matter. The antimatter would instantly react with—"

  "The specimen is not touching the canister," Vittoria said, apparently expecting the question. "The antimatter is suspended. The canisters are called ‘antimatter traps’ because they literally trap the antimatter in the center of the canister, suspending it at a safe distance from the sides and bottom."

  "Suspended? But . . . how?"

  "Between two intersecting magnetic fields. Here, have a look."

  Vittoria walked across the room and retrieved a large electronic apparatus. The contraption reminded Langdon of some sort of cartoon ray gun—a wide cannonlike barrel with a sighting scope on top and a tangle of electronics dangling below. Vittoria aligned the scope with one of the canisters, peered into the eyepiece, and calibrated some knobs. Then she stepped away, offering Kohler a look.

  Kohler looked nonplussed. "You collected visible amounts?"

  "Five thousand nanograms," Vittoria said. "A liquid plasma containing millions of positrons."

  "Millions? But a few particles is all anyone has ever detected . . . anywhere."

  "Xenon," Vittoria said flatly. "He accelerated the particle beam through a jet of xenon, stripping away the electrons. He insisted on keeping the exact procedure a secret, but it involved simultaneously injecting raw electrons into the accelerator."

  Langdon felt lost, wondering if their conversation was still in English.

  Kohler paused, the lines in his brow deepening. Suddenly he drew a short breath. He slumped like he’d been hit with a bullet. "Technically that would leave . . ."

  Vittoria nodded. "Yes. Lots of it."

  Kohler returned his gaze to the canister before him. With a look of uncertainty, he hoisted himself in his chair and placed his eye to the viewer, peering inside. He stared a long time without saying anything. When he finally sat down, his forehead was covered with sweat. The lines on his face had disappeared. His voice was a whisper. "My God . . . you really did it."

  Vittoria nodded. "My father did it."

  "I . . . I don’t know what to say."

  Vittoria turned to Langdon. "Would you like a look?" She motioned to the viewing device.

  Uncertain what to expect, Langdon moved forward. From two feet away, the canister appeared empty. Whatever was inside was infinitesimal. Langdon placed his eye to the viewer. It took a moment for the image before him to come into focus.

  Then he saw it.

  The object was not on the bottom of the container as he expected, but rather it was floating in the center—suspended in midair—a shimmering globule of mercurylike liquid. Hovering as if by magic, the liquid tumbled in space. Metallic wavelets rippled across the droplet’s surface. The suspended fluid reminded Langdon of a video he had once seen of a water droplet in zero G. Although he knew the globule was microscopic, he could see every changing gorge and undulation as the ball of plasma rolled slowly in suspension.

  "It’s . . . floating," he said.

  "It had better be," Vittoria replied. "Antimatter is highly unstable. Energetically speaking, antimatter is the mirror image of matter, so the two instantly cancel each other out if they come in contact. Keeping antimatter isolated from matter is a challenge, of course, because everything on earth is made of matter. The samples have to be stored without ever touching anything at all—even air."

  Langdon was amazed. Talk about working in a vacuum.

  "These antimatter traps?" Kohler interrupted, looking amazed as he ran a pallid finger around one’s base. "They are your father’s design?"

  "Actually," she said, "they are mine."

  Kohler looked up.

  Vittoria’s voice was unassuming. "My father produced the first particles of antimatter but was stymied by how to store them. I suggested these. Airtight nanocomposite shells with opposing electromagnets at each end."

  "It seems your father’s genius has rubbed off."

  "Not really. I borrowed the idea from nature. Portuguese man-o’-wars trap fish between their tentacles using nematocystic charges. Same principle here. Each canister has two electromagnets, one at each end. Their opposing magnetic fields intersect in the center of the canister and hold the antimatter there, suspended in midvacuum."

  Langdon looked again at the canister. Antimatter floating in a vacuum, not touching anything at all. Kohler was right. It was genius.

  "Where’s the power source for the magnets?" Kohler asked.

  Vittoria pointed. "In the pillar beneath the trap. The canisters are screwed into a docking port that continuously recharges them so the magnets never fail."

  "And if the field fails?"

  "The obvious. The antimatter falls out of suspension, hits the bottom of the trap, and we see an annihilation."

  Langdon’s ears pri
cked up. "Annihilation?" He didn’t like the sound of it.

  Vittoria looked unconcerned. "Yes. If antimatter and matter make contact, both are destroyed instantly. Physicists call the process ‘annihilation.’ "

  Langdon nodded. "Oh."

  "It is nature’s simplest reaction. A particle of matter and a particle of antimatter combine to release two new particles—called photons. A photon is effectively a tiny puff of light."

  Langdon had read about photons—light particles—the purest form of energy. He decided to refrain from asking about Captain Kirk’s use of photon torpedoes against the Klingons. "So if the antimatter falls, we see a tiny puff of light?"

  Vittoria shrugged. "Depends what you call tiny. Here, let me demonstrate." She reached for the canister and started to unscrew it from its charging podium.

  Without warning, Kohler let out a cry of terror and lunged forward, knocking her hands away. "Vittoria! Are you insane!"

  22

  Kohler, incredibly, was standing for a moment, teetering on two withered legs. His face was white with fear. "Vittoria! You can’t remove that trap!"

  Langdon watched, bewildered by the director’s sudden panic.

  "Five hundred nanograms!" Kohler said. "If you break the magnetic field—"

  "Director," Vittoria assured, "it’s perfectly safe. Every trap has a failsafe—a back-up battery in case it is removed from its recharger. The specimen remains suspended even if I remove the canister."

  Kohler looked uncertain. Then, hesitantly, he settled back into his chair.

  "The batteries activate automatically," Vittoria said, "when the trap is moved from the recharger. They work for twenty-four hours. Like a reserve tank of gas." She turned to Langdon, as if sensing his discomfort. "Antimatter has some astonishing characteristics, Mr. Langdon, which make it quite dangerous. A ten milligram sample—the volume of a grain of sand—is hypothesized to hold as much energy as about two hundred metric tons of conventional rocket fuel."