* * * *
One possible source of energetic cosmic rays is an “active galactic nucleus” (AGN), the small fraction of known galaxies with a compact region at the center that has a high luminosity over some or all of the electromagnetic spectrum (in the radio, infrared, optical, ultraviolet, X-ray, and gamma ray wavelengths). An AGN is believed to be a result of a super-massive black hole at the galactic center that is devouring large quantities of matter and converting some fraction of it to the energetic emission of particles and radiation. Our Milky Way galaxy is believed to have a black hole at its center with a mass three million times that of our Sun, but it is not an AGN, probably because its intake of matter is not large. There is some evidence that AGNs result from the collision of two galaxies. The massive disruption that follows allows prodigious quantities of matter to be swallowed by the black holes at the two galactic cores, leading to vast amounts of gravitational energy release and radiation. It is plausible that such an environment could produce ultra-high-energy cosmic rays.
Therefore, with the GZK cutoff in mind, the Pierre Auger Collaboration compared the sky coordinates of their 27 most energetic cosmic ray events (all with energies greater than 57 EeV) with the positions of known AGN that are within about 240 million light years (or 75 megaparsecs) from Earth.
The correspondence between events and AGN locations is remarkable. Almost all of the cosmic ray locations have an AGN site nearby. Centaurus A (also known as NGC 5128), a lenticular galaxy about 14 million light-years away in the constellation Centaurus, is the location of one of the closest AGNs to the Earth. The Auger study shows two ultra-high-energy cosmic ray events within a few degrees of this object.
This study provides strong evidence that the highest energy cosmic rays are coming from AGNs. But as usual, this discovery brings with it more questions. There is no known mechanism by which any known physical process, with or without a black hole involved, could accelerate particles to such high energies. So the question is, is there new physics involved in the actions of ultra-massive black holes? Or is there simply some subtle process involving the physics of very strong gravitational fields that no one has yet though of? Watch the column for further developments.
Copyright (c) 2008 John G. Cramer
* * * *
AV Columns Online: Electronic reprints of about 140 “The Alternate View” columns by John G. Cramer, previously published in Analog, are available online at: www.npl.washington.edu/av.
References: UHE Cosmic Rays “Correlation of the highest energy cosmic rays with nearby extragalactic objects", The Pierre Auger Collaboration, Science318, pp. 938-943 (2007), available online at arxiv.org/PScache/arxiv/pdf/0711/0711.2256v1.pdf
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: PETITE PILFERER PUZZLES PIEDMONT POLICE by Walter L. Kleine
* * * *
* * * *
Some things transcend boundaries....
* * * *
"Car One, Dispatch. Location?” Ellen's voice crackled on the radio.
I thumbed the mike. “Lake, between Howard and Greenbank."
"Report of Grandma Malone chasing the Petite Pilferer with a baseball bat. Kingston and Greenbank, toward Rose."
Sandi hit the siren and the gas. Tires squalled. "This time we get the little bitch!"
We didn't—as usual.
We caught up with Effie “Flying Grandma” Malone near the Oakland border. She was leaning against the pole of a “This is a Neighborhood Watch Community” sign, panting, dripping sweat, shorts and singlet plastered to her skin, a kid-size aluminum softball bat in her hand.
No Petite Pilferer in sight.
Sandi stopped long enough for me to bail out of the cruiser, and she headed for a parking space. In polite Piedmont you don't double-park anything, not even a police cruiser, if you can help it.
Grandma Malone is eighty, about five one, dyes her hair black (at eighty, it has to be dyed, doesn't it?), runs five miles a day and ten on Sunday, and does the 10k so close to the U.S. age group record that she may break it one of these days.
I trundled between a Mercedes and a Volvo (I'm six six and two-eighty; with a heart that barely passes my police physical, I don't run, I trundle) and said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Malone?” I worry that someday we're going to find she's had a coronary on one of the hills.
"Of course I'm fine,” she said. “I'm just not much of a sprinter anymore, is all. She got away, damn her thieving hide! Ran behind that bush and vanished!” She pointed at a somewhat sickly former live Christmas tree that was trying valiantly to survive after being replanted in the Han's front yard.
Sandi charged up, heard the last few words, saw the direction of the pointing finger, said, “Relax, Grams, I've got her,” and took off like an F-15 with afterburners blazing.
Mrs. Han hurried out. “It was her, all right,” she declared, handing Grandma Malone a glass of water and a towel. “Same woman I caught in my house! I looked out the front window and saw her with a silver candlestick in each hand and Grams chasing her. I grabbed Ted's .38, but she was gone, like into thin air, so I got Grams some water."
"Dispatch, Unit One,” I said into my portable.
"Dispatch."
"Greenbank near Rose; confirm Petite Pilferer. Unit Two in pursuit on foot, north on Greenbank."
"Cars Three and Four, you read?"
"Roger, Dispatch. Be there in five."
"Slow it down,” Sandi's voice crackled on her portable. “We've got same old, same old. Not a trace. Kids in the yard at Greenbank and Rose didn't see a thing."
* * * *
In two hours of investigation, all we learned was that the Petite Pilferer had endurance but wasn't real fast. The only difference from the other sightings was that Effie Malone damn near caught the woman.
Effie had been a commercial artist before she retired. We went back to her house and she did a couple of quick sketches of the Petite Pilferer. She said she'd do watercolors so the skin would look right and get them to us ASAP.
That was the best clue we've had since we got the first report, three months ago, that someone came home and found a small woman in their house, apparently lost or mentally confused. The woman muttered something in a heavy accent about making a mistake, she was in the wrong house, please excuse her, and left. People who pursued her discovered she wasn't in sight. Most of them found things missing, usually a few small items. Sometimes, like Effie Malone's candlesticks, the items were antique and valuable. Other times, the thefts made no sense—things like a set of Tupperware bowls and a pair of beat-up Barbie and Ken dolls. None of the loot turned up in pawnshops.
Descriptions agreed on size (between four nine and five feet, very thin), hair (waist length, black), possible age (late twenties to early thirties), and skin color (olive to honey brown). Almost every nationality between lily white and African black was guessed—Mexican, Lebanese, Arab, Israeli, Native American, Japanese, Thai, Portuguese, and on and on. She hit only in Piedmont, never in Oakland's equally upscale Montclair district, the Berkeley hills, or other places that would—rationally—seem like good pickings for a thief.
The Montclarion, which covers Piedmont as well as Montclair, headlined a story, “Petite Pilferer Puzzles Piedmont Police,” and the name stuck. We appealed to residents to lock their doors and windows, but Piedmont is such an upscale and low-crime community that we might as well have talked to the wind.
The department didn't exactly become a laughing stock, but sometimes it seemed we were the only ones who took the woman seriously. We checked the national computer net and every law enforcement agency and mental institution in the state. We appealed to private therapists to seek institutional help for any patient who fit the description—and advise us about it, if patient confidentiality permitted.
Result? Nothing, zip, zilch, nada.
We determined that this time she took nothing but the candlesticks. Effie told us she came in the back door after a run, found the woman in her living room w
ith a candlestick in each hand, grabbed her grandson's bat, and went for her. The woman ran. Effie never quite got within bopping range, to her immense frustration.
"These will help a lot,” Sandi told her, accepting the sketches. “We'll get them in the paper and on TV. We'll put copies in the window of every business in town. Somebody will recognize her."
I had my doubts, but kept my mouth shut. Sandi's twenty-four, just a few years out of college and the police academy, with worlds of confidence in modern police science. I'm twice her age—four years in the Air Force learning to be a cop and twenty years with Oakland PD before I semiretired and went to work for Piedmont, where the lack of excitement is better for my borderline heart. I've developed that instinct for strange cases you get when you've been on enough of them. You can't explain it to anyone who hasn't been around long enough.
This smelled like a case that would go on for a while and stop, leaving everyone mystified. I couldn't get too excited, less for the sake of my heart than because no violence was involved. Effie's candlesticks might be worth a few hundred bucks, plus sentimental value. They'd been a wedding present to her grandmother. I felt bad about that, but she left her back door unlocked so she wouldn't have to carry a key while running. Couldn't say she hadn't been warned, and a cop can't be everywhere at once.
I suggested, as diplomatically as possible, that in the future she should lock her door and carry a key.
Never one to be outdone in the good advice department—she's an experienced grandma, after all—she said that if I wanted to live to be her age I should watch my diet, lose some weight, and take up running.
* * * *
Sandi and I made it back to the station in time for shift change. I was in the middle of briefing the night shift when Ellen, the dispatcher, raced into the squad room.
"Sarge,” she said breathlessly, “we just got a call from Dr. Evans Van Dyke. He says his wife's earrings, necklace, and Tupperware bowls have returned."
"Have what?" I asked. Well, okay, so I bellowed. A sergeant has to act like one every so often, even in polite Piedmont. The Van Dykes were the first to report an appearance of the Petite Pilferer.
Ellen said, shaking her head in disbelief, “He says he came home and found them on the dining room table with five hundred-dollar bills and a note apologizing for the inconvenience."
Half the day and night shifts of Piedmont PD descended on the Van Dyke residence—or it must have seemed like that to them.
On the way over, I theorized that Mrs. Van Dyke had misplaced the items, found them, and was trying to cover her embarrassment.
Sandi laughed. “That might explain a lot."
There sat the jewelry, the Tupperware bowls, the note, and the money.
The note, handwritten in the beautiful back-slanted script of a left-hander who worked for hours on penmanship in third grade, wiped out my theory. Both Van Dykes are doctors, and right-handed.
The note said, “Please accept this token of appreciation for the loan of your goods. I hope it is adequate recompense for any inconvenience. These items have been invaluable in my research.” It was signed, “Mrjriirh Tciryq, Ph.D."
"What the hell kind of name is that?” asked Sandi, echoed by everyone who could see the words.
"Sure ain't Polish,” I said.
"Sergeant Przbylski,” said Evans Van Dyke, “we changed every lock and installed an alarm after the burglary. Everything was locked. The alarm didn't go off. We called Brinks and checked. How do you explain ... this?"
"I don't,” I said, “until we've made our investigation."
After our investigation, I still couldn't explain it. The alarm worked. No sign of forced entry. We dusted for fingerprints, searched the house—the whole nine yards. Nothing. We got plenty of prints. I was willing to bet they'd either be the Van Dykes’ or on file nowhere. We took everything to the lab for examination, over the protests of Mrs. Van Dyke, who wanted her jewels for the opera gala.
* * * *
"I need a drink,” said Sandi as we left.
"Me too. And a steak."
"Fish would be better for you, Sarge,” she said, staring at my belly. “Hey, how was the physical? How's the heart? Doc say anything about exercise?"
I said, looking forward to my vacation, which started tomorrow, “It's fish for the next four weeks, provided they bite, Skinny Girl.” I can call her that and laugh when we're off duty. “Doc Adams said everything was ‘as good as could be expected,’ whatever that means."
"Means you should listen to Grams."
We went to the Celestial and chewed over the case while we waited for something more substantial to chew on. I wondered, aloud, what southpaw the Van Dykes knew and trusted enough to write that note. Sandi decided to talk to Brinks, because the alarm hasn't been made that someone can't get around. If the Petite Pilferer could pick the locks without leaving a trace, the alarm should be no problem for her.
"I'll have her locked up when you get back from vacation, Sarge,” she said.
"I'll bet you a dinner you don't,” I said. “You place too much faith in science and not enough on hunch. When you're as old as I am..."
"You got a bet."
"...you'll know that you should expect more calls like the Van Dykes. The woman's a crazy, probably harmless, possibly obsessive-compulsive..."
"Hey, Sarge, psychobabble is my specialty. You said so yourself. But you could be right. Now all we have to do is stake out everybody she hit and wait for her to return the crime to the scene."
* * * *
I drove down the hill to the home on Woolsey Street, on the south edge of Berkeley, almost in Oakland, that Myra and I bought when we got married, filled with the glow of a fine steak, a glass of good red wine, and the warmth of a pleasant evening with a friend. Sandi and I mesh a lot like I used to mesh with Myra. Wish I was twenty years younger or she was twenty years older. She's engaged to a detective in Berkeley. I hope the guy knows how lucky he is.
Thinking of that makes me remember the great years Myra and I had together, before a drunk in an SUV ran a red light at sixty in a twenty mph zone and broadsided her, driver's side. Even a tough old former cruiser isn't enough protection when you're hit at that speed. Her car wasn't quite reduced to shrapnel, but might as well have been.
Myra turned me on to the rich world of art and antiques, which I'd never thought about much until I met her. I treasure the wonderful old furniture and paintings we selected together to grace our home. I know she'd want me to find someone to share my life ... but I never have ... so the art and antiques ... the house ... and the memories ... are all I have.
I parked behind Harry Szumski's old faded yellow Volkswagen bus with an equally faded “Beam Me Up, Scotty, There's No Intelligent Life Down Here” bumper sticker.
Forget the Enterprise, Scotty; just beam me to the lake. Four weeks of fishing when I feel like it and lying in the sun when I don't. Ahhh!
I went up the front steps, opened the door—and walked into an empty living room.
Empty, that is, except for the Petite Pilferer, who stood in the kitchen doorway wearing a tweed suit, carrying a briefcase.
What the hell has she done with Myra's antiques and paintings?
I said, “Hello, Dr. Mrjriirh Tciryq. Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you, Stan. You pronounce my name better than most,” she said, in an accent worse than a Frenchman murdering Polish. “Thank you, Stan,” came out like “Hsnag giiu, Chyan.” In twenty years with Oakland PD, learning to decipher most of the accents of the world, I've heard nothing close. She spoke as if she had to stop and think about each word.
She smiled, and the room wasn't empty.
My stereo and TV looked as odd as ever in the middle of Myra's beloved antiques. Everything was exactly as it had been when I left in haste this morning, even to the half-finished mug of coffee on the marble-topped table by the door. Not so much as a dust ball out of place.
The coffee was still steaming.
; Ever have the feeling you're walking on quicksand, in the dark?
She strolled across the room, put down her briefcase, and perched on the Victorian loveseat opposite my favorite chair. Right where Myra used to sit.
I tried to figure the odds that I could walk over casually and put cuffs on her. Normally, there wouldn't have been any question, but I didn't want her to vanish into thin air again, not right before my eyes. I decided to try for information first.
I picked up the coffee and eased myself into the big recliner Myra had waiting for me when I came home from the hospital after getting shot up in a drug bust eighteen years ago. It's worn to conform to my body like no other chair in the world. I sipped the coffee. Fresh-brewed, not day-old warmed up. Fresher than the cup I left behind.
Mr. Spock, is this logical?
I said, conversationally, “Dr. Tciryq, I'd like to ask you a few questions about certain items taken from homes in Piedmont."
"Oh dear,” she said, long, perfect fingers twisting in her lap, “were they missed?"
Her face, too, was perfection; each side an exact match for the other, exotic in the sort of way that could have a few dozen ethnic origins. In twenty-nine years of police work, twenty-nine years of studying faces, I've never seen a face with one side exactly like the other.
"Why, yes,” I said, “some items were valuable, some had deep sentimental value, and some were used every day."
"Everything will be returned."
"Like the Van Dykes'?"
"The Van Dykes?” For a second, her face went blank; complete confusion. Every other word had been smooth, calculated, rehearsed, and—except for the accent—perfect.
"The jewelry and Tupperware bowls."
"Oh!” Sudden understanding. “The money ... it was not enough?"
"I don't understand the money."
"A gift. Appreciation for use of the items."
"Use? But you were surprised that the items were missed. Why a gift, if you thought people didn't know you took the items?"
"Ah ... a courtesy. It seemed reasonable. The items have been valuable in my research."
Analog SFF, May 2008 Page 15
