The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  “Your ancestors,” the man said icily, “probably shared a rather familial gene pool.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Piggy said doubtfully, “my incesters was mainly farmers and ranchers and such. Don’t think they had much time for swimmin’.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The announcement of the news conference had electrified the small university. Science reporters from major newspapers had begun arriving during the morning. By noon, three television networks had lights and cameras set up in the Hatfield Memorial Auditorium. The dean felt short of breath as he gauged his audience through a slit in the stage curtains. They were a surly-looking lot, these reporters, cynical from many disappointments. The administrator assured himself that they would not be disappointed today. He turned to appraise the physicist who stood at his side, the man whose name would be a household word before the day was over.

  The scientist, between sips of ice water, was also peeking through a slight part in the stage curtain to watch the audience. At first, he barely noticed the woman who entered at the rear of the auditorium. She wore a wide-brimmed hat that partially concealed her features. As she made her way up the aisle, advancing through the mass of technicians, Anne Foster looked, it seemed, directly at him. The water glass slipped from his fingers and bounced on the hardwood flooring. The dean retrieved the glass. “Looks like a good turnout. They smell a big story.”

  The physicist’s voice was barely audible. “I’m not going out there.”

  The dean cocked his head and raised one eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “I’m sorry, Francis. I don’t feel well.”

  “Got a touch of the butterflies? Never mind. They’ll love you. Really.”

  He turned away to avoid eye contact with the dean. “I can’t … won’t go out there. You can show them the sample, but don’t mention my name or our deal is off. I’m leaving.” With that, he turned and left the stage.

  The dean had developed a habit of talking to himself when under stress. He pulled himself up to his full height and threw his head back with a defiance derived from unshakable self-confidence. “Francis Butterworth,” he muttered, “it’s all starting to fall apart, and you’re on your own. But you can handle this; that’s why you’re the dean of this university. Now let’s go out there and lie like a champ!”

  The dean marched onto the stage. He tapped on the microphone; there was a squeal of feedback while a technician hurried to adjust the amplifier gain. “We wish to express our appreciation to all of you,” he said with evident good humor, “for traveling to our isolated mountain village for this announcement.” He paused while the din of conversation from the audience diminished. “One of our senior professors has asked me to make an announcement for the press that is, if I may say so, unprecedented.”

  The seasoned reporters wondered why the scientist wasn’t making his own announcement. Someone called out the obvious question: “Where is this professor?”

  Francis Butterworth was ready for the challenge. It was time to manipulate these vermin. He produced a plastic smile. “We’ve developed a minor hitch; seems there are a few final legal questions to be dealt with, patent questions and the like; you know how troublesome lawyers can be about inventions.” He hoped that it would sound plausible. Much better than telling them the scientist was having a nervous breakdown. “Our inventor is eager to discuss every aspect of his work with the members of the press. When he heard about the legal issues that would prevent him from providing you with a full disclosure of his research, he refused to be present at this gathering. I argued against this decision, but his mind is made up. It’s basically an issue of ethics; he will meet with you only when it is possible to be completely forthright.”

  This revelation that the star was not available brought a chorus of groans from the assembled press. “Who is this guy?” someone yelled.

  “I’m sorry. He’s concerned about his privacy, doesn’t want to have a group of media people surrounding his home before he can answer their questions. Therefore, I am not authorized to reveal his identity at this time.” Butterworth’s collar felt tight around his throat.

  “Are you,” the man from CNN asked, “the only person who knows the identity of this mystery scientist?” Mystery scientist! Headline stuff! Three score and four journalists scribbled the phrase into their notebooks.

  The dean tugged at his collar. “No, certainly not. The inventor’s identity is known to a select group of individuals, including the university counsel, and the chairman of the Physics Department.” That, he thought, would keep them chasing their tails.

  “Could you give us their names, or is that also a state secret?”

  “Paul McConnell is RMP’s attorney. Professor Arnold Dexter is chairman of the Physics Department. But I hope you won’t bother these gentlemen; I’m sure that within a few days—”

  “Then we may safely assume that the inventor is a member of the physics staff?”

  “I would not presume to limit your assumptions in any way.” This brought appreciative laughter.

  “If everything is a big secret, what, exactly, are we here for?” asked the woman from Time.

  “I will,” the dean announced, “reveal the nature of the discovery.”

  The crowd was now completely silent. Scientific breakthrough or an episode of self-delusion, either way it would be hot stuff on the evening news.

  “In 1911”—the dean adopted the pedantic tone of a teacher—“a scientist in Holland discovered the phenomena of superconductivity. This conduction of electricity without loss garnered a Nobel Prize for the discoverer, Professor Onnes, and more Nobels were awarded to others for subsequent discoveries in this field.”

  A murmur propagated through the audience. At the very least, the anonymous scientist was sniffing after a Nobel.

  The dean continued. “Nevertheless, the applications of superconductivity have remained limited because it has been necessary to cool the known superconductors to fantastically low temperatures before they exhibit zero resistance. I know,” the dean continued with an air of complete self-assurance, “that those of you who report on science and technology are quite aware of the breakthroughs made in superconductivity only a few years ago. This work by researchers in Zurich also won a Nobel Prize in Physics for the discoverers. The operating temperature of superconductors was eventually increased by about a factor of five and has remained there for the past several years. Even with those breakthroughs, which I certainly do not diminish, it is still necessary to use cryogens, like liquid nitrogen, to cool superconductors. This means that applications are still limited and relatively expensive. What scientists have always yearned for is a superconductor that would operate at ordinary temperatures. Scientists refer to this long-sought material as a ‘room temperature’ superconductor. One of our scientists,” the dean paused for dramatic effect, “has discovered a formulation that produces a room-temperature superconductor.”

  Pandemonium. Reporters elbowed and pushed to get close to the stage. Flash cameras popped like firecrackers. The dean beamed. “You may be interested to know that the new material has a strong superconducting transition at sixty-one degrees Celsius.”

  A young man from the Albuquerque Journal shouted, “What’s that in Fahrenheit?”

  The dean pulled the microphone toward his lips. The sound of his voice boomed off the walls. “That’s about one hundred and forty-one degrees on the Fahrenheit scale, ladies and gentlemen.” Those few reporters who understood the significance of this figure were temporarily struck dumb.

  Anne Foster raised her hand and got the dean’s friendly nod. He thought it politic to give the local press a chance. No one in the press corps knew her, and this piqued their interest. She identified herself as a correspondent for the Granite Creek Adviser. The CNN crew turned one of its spotlights on the woman’s slim figure. She removed the hat, spilling a fountain of scarlet hair over her shoulders.

  “My paper would like to know more about the history of the i
nvention. I assume this research was sponsored by the university?”

  “Well,” the dean responded, “… actually, no. That is, the research was performed at home, in the inventor’s basement laboratory.”

  The journalists were imagining the sensational story: MYSTERY SCIENTIST … BIG DISCOVERY IN BASEMENT LAB!

  “Then,” she continued evenly, “we may assume that the anonymous researcher performed this work entirely on his own. When, precisely, did he develop the first successful specimen?”

  The dean forced a strained smile as he responded to the lovely redhead. “I’m afraid I can’t answer your question about the chronology of the discovery, since it is related to the question of patenting the invention.” In fact, the dean had no idea when the professor had first made the superconductor; the physicist was tight-lipped on that issue. “I can assure you, however, that the inventor has kept careful notes; the times of the tests of various samples has been witnessed and attested to by another member of our faculty.” The dean prayed that this was entirely correct. If the patent fell through, so did the sweet deal the university had made with the inventor.

  The dean continued, waving away other questions. “Even though the research was not performed on university premises or with RMP equipment, the inventor has graciously informed the administration that he will, when funds from royalties become available, sponsor a new condensed-matter physics center at RMP. An agreement is being drawn up. It will be a world-class facility.” The inventor, it was understood, would be the director of this new facility, probably the next president of Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. That is, unless he was stolen away from them by UC-Berkeley or Harvard or any one of a dozen other top-flight universities.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Leading laboratories worked around the clock to duplicate the incredible discovery announced at the RMP news conference. There were already rumors that IBM-Zurich had made a breakthrough with a formula using carbon-60 buckyballs and undisclosed secret ingredients. A young materials scientist in Beijing found evidence for a superconducting transition just under twenty-two degrees Celsius with a formulation based on thallium, arsenic, and copper. Dozens of scientists saw peculiar behavior at high temperatures, but there seemed to be nothing concrete in spite of thousands of faxed copies of preliminary papers. IBM was not talking, and the Chinese scientist canceled her own news conference when the remarkable effect vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  Anne’s frustration grew in proportion to the excitement about the room-temperature superconductor. Crowds of media types hung around the campus, probing for information. Most of the university staff knew nothing, or at least admitted nothing. The three persons who knew the identity of the “inventor” were unavailable for comment. The dean was hiding somewhere in Boulder, Paul McConnell was rumored to be spinning the wheels in Atlantic City. Of the Enlightened Trio, as they had been dubbed by the press, only Arnold Dexter remained in town, and the chairman was accepting no calls. A member of the Granite Creek Police Department was stationed outside Dexter’s home to ward off the more aggressive members of the press corps. And, most suggestive of all, Waldo Thomson had disappeared. Rumor had it that he was sunning himself in the Virgin Islands.

  Thomson had become an obsession. Anne went to sleep plotting strategies to find hard proof of his misdeeds; she woke up wondering when he would identify himself as the discoverer of the room-temperature superconductor. During a breakfast of cornflakes and sliced peaches, she was writing Thomson’s name on her pad when a shiver propagated wavelike up her spine and terminated in a tingling sensation to the back of her neck. The mysterious “word” found on Priscilla’s computer file was written on the same page of her notebook. Anne drew vertical lines between the repeated characters. She sat, staring at the printed characters. Had she been blind? Had Scott Parris noticed this simple relationship?

  Her first impulse was to rush to a telephone and call Parris. But how would the chief of police respond? She imagined his answer: “Interesting, sweetheart, but circumstantial. Nothing the DA can take to court. Priscilla could have typed his name for any one of a hundred innocent reasons. Unless Thomson makes a wrong move, there’s nothing I can do.”

  But why would Priscilla Song use her last minute of life to leave Thomson’s name on her computer? Why indeed. The possibilities were frightening. But what to do?

  “Well,” she said aloud, “I’ll slip a burr under his saddle. Then we’ll see if he stays on his horse.” Dexter was the key. In fact, Dexter was the only game in town. There was no point in barging into the Physics Department and demanding to see the chairman. That would require climbing over at least a dozen reporters camped outside the entrance, and it probably wouldn’t work, anyway. Anne dialed the number five times and heard a busy signal each time. On the sixth try, the telephone rang and was immediately picked up by Kristin Waters.

  “Oh, Anne, I’m so pleased to hear your sweet voice. Those people have been driving me insane, using every ruse you can imagine to learn the identity of the ‘mystery scientist.’ They’ve been inviting me to lunch, pleading to interview me on television … you just can’t imagine.”

  “It must be awful. Are you holding up all right?”

  “I’ve no alternative. But how can I help you, dear?”

  “I absolutely must see the chairman.”

  Kristin sighed. “You might as well ask to see the Pope. Professor Dexter is a rather sensitive man, and he simply can’t deal with all the commotion we’ve had around here. Even if you could see him, he won’t discuss the superconductor thing with anybody. Just between you and me, I’m not certain he knows all that much.”

  “Do this. Tell Dexter I already know the identity of the mystery scientist.”

  “Do you really know, Annie?”

  Anne felt her pulse racing. “I know that and a lot more. Tell your boss it’s in his interest to see me before I publish what I know about what’s been going on in the Physics Department.” There. That should do it. Arnold Dexter was a little slow, but any hint that there might be trouble for his precious department would surely interest the chairman.

  Kristin was breathless. “I’ll tell him. Stay by the phone.”

  In less than three minutes, Anne’s telephone rang. She recognized the flat voice of Arnold Dexter. He agreed to meet with her.

  * * *

  When Anne parked her car in the gravel lot by the North Park tennis courts, Arnold Dexter was waiting. He wore a gray overcoat and a black wool cap pulled down over his ears. The chairman of the Physics Department looked old, forlorn, and lonely. Anne felt a twinge of remorse for what she planned to do, then forced herself to dismiss any regret for manipulating Dexter. It was her only chance to get to Thomson. She got out of her car and greeted the chairman. “Thanks for seeing me. I know you’re busy these days.”

  This got little more than a nod and a grunt. She sensed that he was irritated, even angry. It was not surprising; he must be under enormous pressure. She walked beside Dexter as they headed toward a thick grove of pines that straddled the boundary between the city park and the national forest land on the mountain slope.

  “Why was it so important that you see me, Miss Foster?”

  She had to choose each word with great care. Just enough to unnerve him. “I assume you got the message from Kristin? The entire message?”

  “I did,” he said. “You claim to know the identity of the inventor of the room-temperature superconductor. Why must you talk to me?”

  “Because we have something in common. We both know the identity of the so-called mystery scientist.”

  Dexter stopped in his tracks and seemed to fix his attention on the crumpled remnants of last summer’s grass. His lower lip trembled ever so slightly; in spite of the frigid air, perspiration was beaded under his nostrils. “I’m rather exhausted. Make your point.”

  She decided to push her luck. A chairman, even a quiet man like Dexter, had to know everything that happened in his department. Surely he ha
d his own suspicions about Thomson’s “discovery.” That would account for his dark mood. Anne drew a deep breath. “We both know,” she said, “that the so-called mystery scientist is a fraud.”

  He raised his head and looked directly at her for the first time. His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and alarm. “A fraud? But why on earth would you say…”

  “Priscilla Song discovered the new superconductor. I’ve known for some time.”

  “That’s absolutely the most absurd…” Dexter shoved his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. He stopped walking and looked up at the heavy clouds seemingly spilling over the summit of Salt Mountain. He wished he could be somewhere else. A quiet valley. Somewhere far, far away. “I don’t understand your purpose. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Simple matter of communication. If someone claims credit for the dead girl’s discovery, I’m ready to blow him out of the water. I’m sure we understand each other.”

  Dexter, openmouthed and pale, now turned and faced her. “What … what do you expect of me?”

  “You’re a bright fellow. I’ll leave it to your imagination.”

  He appeared to be genuinely puzzled. “But I don’t understand—”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Anne interrupted, “once Professor Thomson decides to tell the truth, it’s all over.” She was amazed at her audacity. It was apparent from Dexter’s taut expression that she had gotten the message across loud and clear. He would be certain to warn Thomson, and the scoundrel would surely panic. If Thomson was sufficiently frightened, he might even withdraw his claim to the room-temperature superconductor. Anne was pleased with her performance.

  Dexter studied the clouds; they seemed to be boiling in slow motion as they spilled down the slope. The physicist turned his attention to the pine grove, as if he yearned for the protection of its deep shadows. A muscle in his jaw twitched; he opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. A pair of joggers, oblivious to Anne and the chairman, passed within a few yards. She turned to leave. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m going to publish what I know.” Anne hurried away, terrified that this forlorn figure might burst into tears.