Alexander: [Alexander Trilogy Book Two]

by Stan I. S. Law

  The next morning they weighed anchor at nine and took a leisurely cruise around the island peeking into every cove and bay on the way. They beat north to the Sloop Cove, then jibed over the Tiger Point to enjoy the aft wind on the way south, rounded the point to say hi to the Garden Island, and beat again to the bay south off Bluff Point where they stopped for lunch. An hour later, Alec weighed anchor again but because the westerly wind was picking up in force, they decided to ignore the beauty of the cove north of Bluff Point. By two in the afternoon, the radio announced a gale warning. Alec laughed it off and continued past the northern point of Valcour Island. Of course, he had little choice. There was no protection on the west side of the island from a westerly gale. He could have sought protection in the Snug Harbor at Olde Valcour, but this would be equivalent to giving up. Beating north became harder, but finally, on reefed sails they reached their ‘private’ Spoon Bay.

  “With the wind veering from north to west by northwest the western shore of the bay should offer us sufficient protection,” Alec said. It had to.

  After all, this is where their memories began to intertwine.

  Alec was at least half-right. Had he known, he would have continued to Smuggler Harbor. By five o’clock the wind was howling at a good thirty knots. It whined and whistled through the shrouds at the top of their mast. But way down, the water remained calm. And for as long as the prevailing direction of the wind remained westerly, they would be snug and cuddly.

  And then the sky grew dark.

  He had his pick of good spots. Once again, they were the only boat in the bay. With a draft of less then four feet, he could get within thirty feet of the protective shoreline. Just two hundred yards east, the water was already angry. Further out still, the white crests spoke of a dark and stormy night.

  The rain that came lasted a thunderous, intensive hour. The heavens opened and emptied itself right over their heads. From the moment they heard the first distant thunder, to the almost continuous blinding flashes accompanied by a cacophony of hallow explosions, they hardly had time to make sure all was fast on deck. The rainstorm itself may have lasted less than an hour, but the wind remained. It sang in the trees, it whistled erratic, wistful airs, it made them feel that they were miles away from anywhere, on a distant desert island, where no man’s foot had as yet dared to tread. It wasn’t what they’d planned, but a sailor’s life is an unpredictable one. Also, for some reason, Alec was watching and listening to nature’s tantrums with a sense of strange familiarity.

  After making sure that everything was properly tied down on deck they both retreated to the cabin to wait out the storm. Alec was disappointed until a strange thought crossed him mind. Is nature getting even with me? The next moment he chuckled at his own thought.

  “I’m becoming presumptuous, in my old age,” he murmured.

  “You’re what, darling?”

  “I’m becoming pissed off with this…”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s beautiful!” Suzy insisted, feeling like an intrepid sailor of the seven seas. “Beautiful,” she repeated, her eyes flashing in accord with the lightning.

  After such a wonderful first night Alec wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening cooped up inside the small cabin. He had little choice but to resign himself to an evening of reading. And… if it hadn’t been for Suzy, that’s exactly what he would have done.

  Luckily, she knew exactly what to do. By the time Alec had finished inspecting the ship and changed into dry clothes, she’d lit a couple of candles, put in a compact disk full of their favourite tangos, and dressed herself in luscious expectation awaiting what might develop.

  Soon enough, developments took their predictable course. Alec took one look at her, and muttered, “Why did I bother to get dressed again…?”

  The yacht was too small to allow dancing, down below. You might have just tried it if you absolutely had to. But once you lowered the table in the main cabin—and the table was needed for the wine, the cheese and the candles—the only way you could enjoy the tango was in a horizontal position, on port or starboard berth, on either side of the table. And, predictably, in a relatively short time, though not for a short time, Alec gave new meaning to the old expression that a tango is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire. Only in their case, the desire and the expression followed the same orientation. This matter is of some considerable importance because it had a direct bearing on the rest of their lives.

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  A night never to be forgotten.

  Memories were made on nights such as these. Why?

  Because nine months later, to the day, Alexander Baldwin III was born.

  On their return to Montreal, a message was waiting from Dr. McBride. Alec should report back to Caltech within the next few days. Next week he was to give a lecture at MIT, as scheduled, but also at UCLA where he would share the podium with a Russian physicist who was also dabbling in the consequences of, or generated by, the EPR paradox. Dr. McBride had no idea if their fields were compatible or in competition, and in fact if they would support or contradict each other. Although it would have been much easier to fly directly to MIT, it was vital that Alec got back to work and find out.

  Alec didn’t mind. By now he considered himself to be an experienced globetrotter.

  The recorded message finished in Des’s usual style: “And that’s all therre’s to it, lad. And don’t forrget to give best regarrds to yourr charrming lassie frrom me.”

  And that was that.

  “I told you he was nice,” Suzy smiled.

  “And a slave driver to boot,” Alec added with a grin.

  At Dorval airport she leaned against him as if to whisper something into his ear. He lowered his head, expecting some sweet-little-nothing as a parting gift, or perhaps a goodbye kiss. He put his arms around her.

  “You know, darling, I’ve been watching you all the time,” she half-whispered with a tone of satisfaction. “You haven’t peek-a-boo’ed even once!”

  Alec was taken aback. “I’ve been too busy,” was all he could come up with. Or I was not getting on Sandra’s toes? He kept the latter thought to himself.

  But then he got his kiss anyway.

  The EPR paradox was a motivation for Alec’s research, not his soul nor his guiding light. Since the beginning, Alec had thought of using it as one uses a baton to conduct an orchestra. It wasn’t the music, but it helped to create it.

  Upon arriving at Caltech, he was shown to his own office. His name was engraved on a brass plate and appended to the metal door at about the level of his throat. Evidently, the majority of the staff was well below his six-foot-two stature. Six foot-ten, if you counted the hair.

  He found three piles of paper neatly stacked on ‘his’ desk. Documents to sign, papers to read, newspaper cut-outs, university programs, and all sorts of other printed matter that seemed destined for the proverbial file 13. Shuffling through this last stack, Alec found references to Dr. Alexis Goudoff with whom he was to share the podium at UCLA.

  Soon he discovered that the good Doctor was more concerned with the popular vote than with scientific research. At least not with science as Alec knew it. Dr. Goudoff seemed to hover on a thin line between Bell’s Inequality Principle and Cosmic Consciousness, with some rather esoteric connotations. Bell’s Inequality Principle was interesting enough, until it ventured into the experimental confirmation that reality doesn’t have locality with CFD. CFD stands for Counterfactual Definiteness. Frankly Alec found this, as well as the Quantum Nonlocality and the Possibility of Superluminal Effects, rather confusing. He was not interested in faster than light effects, but with instantaneous effects. There is a vast difference. He thought that one distorted the laws of the universe, the other reached outside them. Both mathematically and under laboratory conditions.

  The visiting physicist wrote about Cosmic Consciousness as though it was some sort of Quantum Myth. Alec suspected that the Doctor wouldn’t have been invited to s
peak if it hadn’t been for his ‘visiting’ status. Mustn’t complain, thought Alec. Perhaps that’s how I’d gotten into academia in Buenos Aires and Bogota. But what the good Doctor was doing to science was quite another matter. The compatriots of the Doctor had long been enamoured with matter/mind interaction. A sentiment that Alec did not dismiss, but did not profess any allegiance to, either.

  At least, not under the auspices of physics.

  Alec pushed the papers aside, switched on the computer and typed ‘EPR paradox’ in the Google window. A number of titles lit up on the screen. Apparently at the University of Arizona they had tried to find a link between quantum mechanics and Consciousness. Alec would have found them more interesting if they hadn’t come up with sexy names like ‘Quantum-mind’ and ‘Quantum approaches to Consciousness.’ He thought that one might be able to quantify I.Q., but hardly consciousness. He also thought that they should have invited Dr. Goudonov, or Goudoff—whatever his name. He would have fit in with these metaphysical psycho-physicists.

  Alec was definitely not into the metaphysical angle. He had trouble enough with the imaginary travels of his youth, with his purported space-shifting, and recently with his recurrent memories of Sandra. Troubles enough without bringing them to the office.

  His passion, if one could call it that, was observing the universe and attempting to explain it. He desired neither to appropriate the Quantum Theory, nor to confer on it his own spiritual needs or emotional frustrations. He had tried to resolve the paradox between quantum universe and continuity. But this had nothing to do with any myths. Alec was, or tried very hard to be, first and foremost, a scientist. He wanted to observe, to measure, or prove beyond any doubt, or at least within a high degree of probability, that some things cannot be measured. Both ambitions were difficult enough to last him a lifetime.

  Or so he thought.

  A boisterous knock on the door interrupted his meandering thoughts. Dr. McBride literally pranced into the room.

  “My, you’ve changed, lad. I can harrdly rrecognize you!”

  The old man danced around the desk and took Alec into his arms. Since he could only just reach up to Alec’s chest, he matter of some considerable difficulty; yet his bear-hug was as firm as a man’s half his age.

  “‘Tis great to see you, Professor, ah... Desmond,” Alec returned the hug. Then, as he looked closer at the professor, he added, “I wish I could say the same for you. You’ve been working too hard again?”

  “Therre is only so much a man can do, at my age...” At this moment Des interrupted himself, “Sorry about your father, Alec. Must have been a shock. It always is. Aye, it always is...”

  “Sit down, if you have a minute. I’m afraid I can’t offer you ‘a drrop of the harrd stuff’ as yet. I arrived just an hour ago.”

  “I know. I came over as soon as I could.” And suddenly Dr. McBride’s face got serious.

  “What is it, Sir?”

  “They’re trying to get you on the mumbo-jumbo circuit.”

  “Oh, Lord. That’s all I need....”

  “I’ve been trying to get you out of the UCLA gig. You might have to come down with a sudden cold, or something.”

  “I know. I’ve been reading up on Dr. Goudoff’s previous dissertations. Not quite my cup of tea.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Dr. McBride looked up from his knuckles pressed tightly together. He looked as if he was getting ready to punch someone.

  “Therre is anotherr way, you know, lad. A verry dangerrous way...”

  “Kill him?”

  “Nae, that’s illegal. But ‘tis the rright idea.” And the Professor leaned closer over the desk. “You might trry killing him with worrds, lad. Now that would not be illegal.”

  “And it could be a bit of fun....” Alec’s eyes were already shining. For the last five years, four at McGill and a little more than one at Caltech, he had developed a bit of a reputation as a practical joker. And now, glory be, now he would be paid for it!

  “The game’s afoot.” The Professor looked down at his watch. “Let us meet in my office at seven. I can’t think with a drry thrroat. Be therre, lad!” he commanded.

  Before Alec had a chance to agree, the door shut behind his old friend.

  About half way through the second tumbler, Alec looked up from his golden liquor.

  “I’ll need three accomplices, three two-way ear plugs, and a lot of luck,” he declared, as though talking to himself.

  “Thrree? That’s rather expensive. But, if you and I thrrew in a couple of bucks, we could swing it, eh lad?” The professor instantly guessed Alec’s intent.

  “We would prove beyond the shadow of probability—or would it the penumbra of possibility—that Cosmic Consciousness is alive and well in UCLA. And then run like hell,” he chuckled.

  “I’m affrraid not, lad. We would have to stick behind and admit to the Prress that it was all a hoax.”

  “But wouldn’t that kill the objective?” Alec didn’t quite follow.

  “It would kill the theorists who bastarrrdize science. And that is the object of the exerrsise, isn’t it lad?”

  “’fraid so, Sir. You know, Des, you are a sneaky devil.”

  “You’ve only just discoverred?” The Professor looked genuinely pleased.

  “You’ll be sitting here, laughing your head off, while I’ll be risking my life.”

  “No, lad. You misjudge me. I’ll be procurring the best malt you’ve drrunk since the last best malt. In fact, this one’s not bad at all, is it?” He held his glass up to the light.

  “Aye, Desmond McBrrride. “‘Tis not bad at all.” Alec was getting good at imitating Des’s accent.

  The plans have been laid. If anyone ever took Cosmic Quantum Myth seriously again, they would remember UCLA. Caltech would have done its, or their, bit. For the glory of science. And for the red, white and blue. And for...

  “What haven’t we drrunk to yet, lad?”

  Alec’s eyes focused on Des’s face, then widened in disbelief. “Good night, Sirrr,” he said, hardly slurring his words at all. Then he bowed deeply and took his leave with just a minute wobble.

  He still had his old digs on campus. Eventually, he’d have to find a larger place, so that Suzy might visit and stay longer, if she could. The good thing about his present quarters was that all he had to do was to cross the lawn and he was home. Such as it was.

  Miraculously, he ran down the two flights of stairs and pushed the door to the outside. As the fresh air hit him, the Scotch in his blood became more evident. He leaned back and waited for the trees to settle down. They didn’t. It was the wind, after all. His initial anger had long dissipated in McDes’s Scotch. Poe would have been proud of what Alec saw. And what he saw was just deserts for plotting scurrilous, conniving, underhanded attacks on the enemy.

  It was, yet another, dark and stormy night.

  ***

  Remembering

  The human race is the basis on which heaven is founded.

  Emanuel Swedenborg

  1688–1772

  Scientist, philosopher, mystic

  7

  Who is Sandra?

  The lecture at MIT went splendidly. The day after the lecture, the professional reviews were cautious but friendly, and certainly without any ‘metaphysical’ connotations, although MIT’s sister, Harvard University’s Department of Physics, did exhibit some rather exotic overtones. Actually, Laboratory for Nuclear Science had sponsored the lecture. This fact alone might explain the down-to-earth, pure science type of reception.

  Alec was grateful––no matter what the reason.

  UCLA was quite another story.

  Being younger, Alec had been scheduled to deliver his lecture first. They were keeping Dr. Goudoff for dessert, so to speak. And well they might. Alec had met him just before climbing the stage and found him clammy, rather like his smile. Even the doctor’s hand had stuck to his. While Alec delivered his dissertation, Goudoff sat on the stage, a blissful smile
on his overly full lips. As usual, Alec’s lecture was followed by a question period. This was where and when the scheme he and Dr. McBride had concocted was to be put into operation. The questions had to come from the audience. With a feeling of now-or-never Alec looked up from his papers.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, are there any questions?”

  A number of hands shot up, wavered, and shrank back like tortoises into their shells. After all, this was Los Angeles, and LA is in California, and California had more unorthodox, ah... philosophers per square inch, than any other part of the civilized world per square mile. Only, hardly surprisingly, they weren’t sure of their ground.

  However, since the principal speaker was well known to all the amateurs of quantum-myth theories, the audience was peppered with gullible students, eager to prove the metaphysical connection. As such, they were ideal subjects for Alec’s ‘experiment’.

  For the next little while there was deadly silence. Then, from the hesitant penumbra of the auditorium, an emasculated young man rose to his wobbly feet, bowed stiffly to Alec and asked point blank.

  “What do you think about Quantum Mechanics and the Universal Consciousness connection.”

  They didn’t waste any time.

  “Could you be more precise?” Alec asked innocently.