Analog SFF, November 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Quite a piece of work for a high school student, eh, Woodside?” Baker had retrieved another cup of tea and was stirring it with a small plastic straw.

  “It's almost beyond belief,” I said.

  Baker tapped the straw on the cup edge. “Indeed. In cases like this your most difficult task as an exhibit judge will be to determine how much of the work—and perhaps more importantly, how much of the thought—came from the student."

  I nodded absently. “I suppose that's what the student interview this afternoon is for."

  “In part, certainly. Your charge will be to determine how well Master Biederbeck—I mean, this student—understands his own project."

  “At this point I'm wondering how well I understand it myself,” I said.

  Baker sipped at his cup. “I have every confidence in you, old fellow,” he said. “I may be able to check on some literature resources before the students arrive. There is something vaguely familiar about this theme. My larger object, of course, will be to find out more about his missing relative.” He patted my shoulder. “It is likely that these two lines of inquiry will eventually intersect."

  The catered lunch was an assortment of cold cuts and cheeses, salads, and a relish tray. The lower tiers of the bleachers were populated with middle-aged professionals eating from paper plates. I found a place next to one of the other judges from the Senior Chemistry category and sat down. He was a huge fellow with a gray crew cut and a periodic chart tie who worked for a New Jersey-based oil refinery. He was currently working on a massive triple-decker sandwich that he'd concocted for himself.

  “Did you see that PCR project?” he said, chewing between bites. “That kid is either the next Albert Einstein, or the slickest con artist since Paracelsus."

  After several attempts I speared a piece of ring bologna with a plastic fork. “Do you think he—or she—had help? I mean, I know they had help—but I mean too much help?"

  “Had to. That's graduate thesis level stuff. This kid had big help from somebody in a molecular biology lab—probably a university prof.” The big gentleman gestured with the remains of his sandwich. “It's usually a parent or a close relative. I've been judging these things for ten years and I've seen a few like this. Last year a kid had one on chemiluminescence—nice display, had all the chemistry, balanced equations. He'd even synthesized the luminol, calculated yields—the whole bit. But he didn't really understand it. I caught him on a couple of things. Somebody else did most of the work for him. You've gotta watch. A lot of these kids have street smarts, you know? They talk a good line to you."

  I nodded without agreeing, nibbling at a block of cheese. “Only, aren't we supposed to be encouraging them to—"

  “Oh, yeah. But see, the grand champion here—the one that's picked tomorrow—they'll be going to compete at the Nationals. They get a free trip to that. That kid with the chemiluminescent light show last year—they would have been onto him right away. Would have made our local show look bad, you know?"

  Somehow, I thought, something is being lost here. We seem to be obsessed as a culture with contests. We spend a lot of effort to give everyone that equal place in the starting line. And the message we're sending is that life is a race.

  I looked up from my musing and Baker was standing in front of me with a rolled magazine in his hand. “'Enjoy your lunch, Woodside?” The big man next to me was staring at Baker, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “I took the opportunity to dash out and locate a journal reference that should interest you.” And Baker handed me a copy of the journal Nature from 1999. “Page 533,” he said.

  I thumbed through the pages and located an article in which three U.S. researchers had reported on the same DNA cryptographic process that the Biederbeck boy had used. The big guy was craning his neck to see over my shoulder.

  “So it's not original work then,” I said, pensively. “But still, isn't it remarkable that a high school student could actually reproduce work of this caliber?"

  Baker smiled and nodded. “One would ordinarily think so, Woodside. Perhaps even more remarkable though, is that one of the co-authors of this original paper was a high school student."

  Both the big man and I looked at Baker with what must have been somewhat baffled expressions. Before either of us could respond we were startled by a loud and rapidly growing noise level in the back of the building. It became evident that the school buses had begun arriving. The judges were vacating the stands and moving toward their assembly places among the exhibits. I got up and deposited my luncheon detritus in a trash receptacle.

  As Baker and I walked back to the Senior Chemistry area, a torrent of students began to stream through the doors and fill the vacated bleachers. The stands began to transform into a roiling arabesque carpet of colors and clothing styles. They carried books and backpacks, Walkmen, PDAs, cell phones, Gameboys, and a farraginous assortment of other paraphernalia. The noise level with accompanying reverberation from the walls rose precipitously, until a draconian-sounding voice from the loudspeakers boomed: “No talking!” This served to mute the chorus of chatter for a few moments, but soon it began to rise again. “NO TALKING!” And this time the sound level dropped significantly. The bleachers now filled in comparative silence, except for the sonorous tread of feet.

  I joined the coterie of chemistry judges while Baker returned to Randal Biederbeck's display. Looking out at the huge expanse of youthful faces, I was touched by a wistful pang. Marcia hadn't wanted children. That was long behind us now, though I still sometimes vaguely wondered what kind of parent I might have been.

  Since the classes sat together in groups, I decided that the aspect of the stands was that of a patchwork quilt. It was immediately clear which schools had dress codes or uniforms. And these areas were liberally interlaced with colorful patches of free-form attire. The teachers sat with their classes so that a small number of adults were regularly distributed across the youthful tableaux.

  “Leave your books and coats in the bleachers and when I call your category proceed to your project with NO TALKING!” From my vantage I couldn't see the microphone, but from the bored, yet mechanically emphatic tone, I conjured an image of a grizzled veteran school administrator, perhaps looking anxiously toward retirement.

  I glanced over the reverse side of the card pack I had shoved in a shirt pocket. This was to be used for the student interviews. Again, it was a 1 to 10 grading system for things like: “Knowledge of Subject,” “Amount of Help Received,” “Projections for Future Work.” I remembered reading in Carstairs’ e-mail attachment that the fair's custom grading software contained some sort of pre-determined weighting factors so that low grades in these areas would diminish high marks from the obverse side. And vice, presumably, versa.

  When the Senior Chemistry category was called, I scanned the bleachers for movement. Four girls and six boys began threading their way down the stands amid an obstacle course of abandoned school supplies and waiting students. The noise level, which had been modulating slowly, finally exceeded the threshold of censure: “NO TALKING!"

  I enjoyed the student interviews particularly for the youthful enthusiasm I read on the majority of the faces. These teenagers were discovering science at a time when I just might have been closing down that phase of my life. Most of the students interviewed by my judging group had at least a rudimentary knowledge of the chemical principles involved in their project. The big man with the periodic chart tie consistently asked the most challenging questions. Already nervous, not a few of the students were visibly shaken by him. I did my best to assuage the effect by asking how they chose their topic or how they thought they could further develop it. I smiled at one little girl who had been brought close to tears by the big man's demand that she define pH. “Hey,” I said, “we don't expect you to know all this right now. Anybody can look up a fact. Science is about truth. Find something new that nobody ever knew before and put it on the shelf, so that somebody else can look it up.” I don't know how much it helped, but
she smiled back at me. The big man scowled and penciled on his card deck.

  As a group the chemistry judges had decided to save the DNA cryptography project for last, tacitly conceding that it would receive the highest marks from each of us if only the kid knew his stuff and had really done the work. As we proceeded through the other interviews, I repeatedly glanced over there, where Baker was in deep conference with a blond tousle-headed youth in a “Flowers of Evil—World Tour 2010” T-shirt, surmounted with a purple tie.

  When we finally got there as a group, Baker stepped back, drawing some curious stares from the other judges. Baker nodded at me and I waved weakly, wishing he would lose the hat. The big man was already blustering about the project's topic, though I suspected that he knew no more about the subject area than I did—which was next to nothing. The boy's responses to direct questions were courteous and sounded accurate, if perhaps a little vague. I was convinced they were honest, however.

  When asked about some detail of the polymerase chain reaction, he responded: “The polymerase comes from a bacteria, I think. The machine puts all the stuff in for you, anyway—the bases, the primer, the polymerase. Then it cycles through the temperatures.” He rubbed at his blonde mop. “Automatic, you know?” He squinted, undaunted, at the big man.

  A couple of the other judges asked what I believed to be pertinent questions, and the boy's responses again seemed quite honest and appropriate. He was obviously not an expert on the subject, but he understood the basic principles better than all the judges. He freely admitted that his great-aunt had instructed and guided him through all phases of the work, which he did himself under her close supervision after hours at a well-equipped molecular biology laboratory. I asked where he got the first idea for the project and he quoted Baker's Nature reference—volume and page—telling us that his aunt had showed it to him when he'd asked her for project ideas. This seemed to impress the big man, who fingered his tie in thought.

  At length, as a group we ran out of questions. We all shook the young man's hand. He seemed a bit uncomfortable at this. “Do I, uh, go back to my seat now?” he asked. We nodded and he was off like a shot.

  We all turned in our completed card decks without further colloquy, although I noted the big man shaking his head over his last entry. The information on our cards would be digested by computer and overnight new card decks for the top ten projects in the Junior and Senior divisions would be printed. We were expected to reassemble here tomorrow morning to select the science fair's Grand Champion.

  By now all of the students had returned to the bleachers, each having survived the close scrutiny of their work and an interrogation by a squadron of aging scientists. I noticed the big man still shaking his head as he donned a topcoat and shuffled toward the door.

  Baker appeared at my shoulder as the loudspeaker announced the first group of school bus departures. “Well, Woodside, in your estimation, how did Master Biederbeck comport himself?” He had spoken quietly, but I was still uncomfortable about the use of the student's name.

  “He handled the situation very well, I thought. I gave him the highest marks in all categories—except grammar."

  “Indeed, I also noted several usage errors in his written report that were apparently beyond the power of his word processor to correct."

  I looked about the huge room. “I haven't seen much of the exhibits in the other senior categories, but I have to believe that he has a chance to make Grand Champion."

  “From a cursory scan of the physics, biology, mathematics, and earth science categories I must agree. However, my more immediate concern has to be the precipitous disappearance of his Aunt Hypatia, who was so instrumental in helping him."

  This was the first mention of Baker's purpose here since early this morning, and despite a clear mental warning to mind my own business, I was very curious about his prolonged conversation with Randal Biederbeck. “So you've accepted the case then?” I said. “You're satisfied that she hasn't just accepted a job with an overseas drug firm, or eloped to the tropics with a colleague?"

  Baker handed me my coat, which he had evidently retrieved while I was submitting my deck of judging cards. “I'm about to confirm that now, Woodside. The boy seemed genuinely concerned. Certainly you'll have the time to accompany me on a short fact-finding jaunt. Master Biederbeck provided some particulars—it's this very university where Hypatia Theonsky was last employed."

  As we left the gymnasium building, we skirted some major construction work that seemed to be going on there and headed across a park-like setting flanked on all sides by large buildings. Ptolard was a small, privately endowed liberal arts university on a modest tract of land in the midst of an urban/industrial neighborhood. Scurrying to keep up with Baker's brisk pace, I still managed to gather from some bronze plaques and building cornerstones that much of the original endowment had come from a well-known Greek importer who had built a cheese and olive empire out of a storefront operation in New York City.

  “Just a moment, Woodside. I'll just pop in here and get some information.” And with that Baker disappeared into the Administration Building, leaving me to observe pigeons and strolling students, and to wonder wistfully just what sort of bad dream I was being drawn into. Allowing it to happen, I corrected myself. Because, I reluctantly admitted, at some deep level I had enjoyed those quondam adventures. At least it seemed so in retrospect.

  Baker emerged in two minutes with a foldout map of the campus. “Just the thing, Woodside. We want the South Wing of the Science and Engineering Hall.” He adjusted his worsted cape as he scanned the surroundings. “Odd thing—the young lady in there seemed to think that I was looking for the theater arts department.” He pointed at a multi-storied edifice in the distance. “Our goal, old chap,” he said.

  The directory in the lobby listed the various academic departments that occupied the South Wing, each heading followed by the department chair and a list of personnel in strict pecking order from full professors to instructors.

  “Most curious,” Baker mused. “The Biederbeck boy gave me the name Cyril Alexander as his great aunt's last employer, and yet that name doesn't seem to appear in the Molecular Biology department listing."

  “Nor in Biology, Chemistry, or Genetics,” I noted.

  Baker stepped over to the North Wing side of the elevators, where a second directory was displayed. “Ah, here it is, Woodside—Cyril Alexander, Chairman of the Department of Physics."

  We took the north-side elevator to the fifth floor. We quickly found the correct door and behind it a rather prim, middle-aged lady secretary. She looked over a pair of severe-looking, lanyard-tethered glasses at us. “Can I help you?"

  I remembered quite well that Baker, despite his bizarre modus operandi, had an incongruous ability to charm certain women. I had seen it in operation with Marcia during our extended adventure in Lancaster 20 years ago, and I saw it now again.

  “We would like a word with Dr. Alexander, if you would be so kind, young lady."

  The secretary unconsciously patted at some graying curls. “I ... am afraid that Dr. Alexander has left word that he was not to be disturbed."

  “Oh, my! Is that Emeraude I detect? I have always been captivated by that fragrance."

  You get the picture, I suspect. She buzzed her boss, who snapped at her a couple of times, but we got in.

  Cyril Alexander presented a formidable image as we intruded upon his sanctum. Seriously balding, with glaring eyes canopied with black bushy eyebrows, and a dark mustache and goatee, he suggested to me nothing so much as a medieval Grand Inquisitor. “I can only spare a few moments, gentlemen. Please sit down.” He waved at two empty chairs that faced his massive carved oak desk.

  Baker didn't hesitate. “We have come to inquire after a former colleague of yours—one Hypatia Theonsky. A family member is concerned to find her present whereabouts."

  Alexander shifted some papers on his desk. “I'm afraid I can't help you, Mr.—” He glanced at the business card
that the secretary had carried in. “—Dr. Baker. Ms. Theonsky was a contract employee on loan from the Molecular Biology department. We needed some additional programming skills for a short interval. This department employs a large number of programmers on a temporary or contract basis. People are coming and going here all the time."

  “May I ask under what circumstances Ms. Theonsky left your employ?"

  Alexander sniffed. “Frankly, Ms. Theonsky was not happy here. And I must add that we were not completely satisfied with her work—or with her work ethic."

  Baker, who had assumed a relaxed pose, folding his long legs in front of the chair, was predictably undaunted by this character. “Ms. Theonsky was dismissed, then?” he asked.

  “She voluntarily resigned on—” Alexander made a show of searching his desktop. “—August 29. Though, quite candidly, I can't imagine our—interest in her abiding much longer than that."

  Baker's gaze had drifted toward a row of combination-locked filing cabinets. “May we inquire into the nature of the programming work in which she was engaged while she was in your employ?” He folded his arms and stared across at Alexander, who countered by also folding his arms. A body language skirmish, I mentally noted.

  “Much of the work in this department, I'm afraid, is classified. This department is under a contract with the federal government to develop a quantum computing device.” Alexander attempted a toothy half-smile that more closely resembled a sneer. “I can tell you that Ms. Theonsky was not engaged in any classified aspect of that work. As I told you before, she was borrowed as a skilled programmer from another department. The small portion of coding that she was assigned to work on was a very minuscule piece of a very large puzzle—an error correction package, in fact. When she chose to leave, her skills were easily replaced."

  “Interesting,” Baker said, sitting back and bridging his fingers. “Dr. Alexander, can you tell us if any aspect of these studies has been published in the open literature?"