Alec missed the freedom he once had. To a boy, nothing seemed impossible. Especially here—in the Far Country. Alec smiled as his mind drifted to the time he was thirteen himself.
It had been a very good year. It was the year he’d met Sandra. His father had bought a yacht. Later he’d met Suzy who never left his life. Not for long, anyway. And Sandra? Sandra, he now knew, was his own Inner Self. She was his Anima, that part of him which gave him life, which enabled him to travel the inner worlds almost at will. He recalled the moment when he and Sandra became reunited. It was his coming of age—the moment when he became aware of his immortality. As a boy he externalized her, and then they were one again. He would never forget that moment. A moment beyond time, eternal, yet as vivid today as when he was a lad of thirteen...
“I love you my Prince...” she’d whispered...
He recalled Sandra’s very last emotive thought coming from the outside of his own being. And then he’d whispered with the same ardor:
“I love you for ever more, my Princess. You are my life.”
In the next segment of eternity Alec and Sandra, became Alexander. Was it really so long ago? It seemed like only yesterday. It also seemed that Sacha was born but days ago. So it seemed...
All has changed in Alec’s life on the day on which his son called him ‘dad’ for the first time.
“Did you hear that, Sue? He called me dad. DAD!”
“Well, I suppose that makes an honest woman of his mother?” But she looked definitely pleased. Perhaps even proud?
Alec enjoyed many inner trips he shared with his son even if, on occasion, he couldn’t grasp exactly what his son was about. At least until it dawned on him that Sacha was not visiting other realms, but creating them. Traveling together was as close as Alec got to his personal concept of ecstasy. Others had different names for it. Bliss, Nirvana, Samadhi… there were others, but the terms were so subjective that they were likely to mean different states to different people.
For Alec it was also a condition wherein, at least for a while, his mind discarded all limitations.
At the Tech, the California Institute of Technology, Alec was a regular lecturer—a full professor of physics, Head of the Department. He resisted the appointment, but Desmond told him that he couldn’t trust anyone else not to fill the young minds with junk.
“Don’t forrrget your inspirrration,” Dr. McBride continued to roll his r’s when occasion commanded. “Can you think of anyone on the staff, orr anywherre for that matterr, who would admonish his own students to mistrrust his own worrds?”
For a moment Alec was lost. Then he remembered. His own role model, Richard Feynman once told his students to learn, from science, that they should doubt the experts. Dr. McBride was right. He was ready to pass the reins to a younger man. He had chosen Alec. And to plan his own future, Alec had to put in some time as professor with a full tenure. Alec couldn’t refute both, Dr. McBride and Dr. Feynman. He agreed.
In his spare time, Alec continued to develop comparative theories by attempting to find new analogies between matter and energy. Or, more accurately, between matter, energy, space and time. He was also postulating different behaviour patterns, which energies must manifest under different gravity conditions. As for instance the energy patterns within the neutron stars and black holes. In all his Far Country exploits he’d never come across a Black Hole. Not even from a great distance. It was as though there was no such entity in the Far Country.
Alec recalled the incident that Suzy confessed she’d been reticent to tell him about. It concerned the flying Strato blocks, or later, the Peeka and Boo behaviour. They had been sitting in the living room, after dinner, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons adding to the peasant atmosphere. Suzy switched off the music and sat on a chair facing Alec. She’d looked as though she meant business.
“Really, you must believe me, Ali, it really happened.”
“Of course, darling, I’ve been teaching him slight of hand for some time now.”
“I’m serious!” She’d raised her voice.
Alec knew she was, only he’d long given up being surprised by anything his son did or said. He only hoped that the ‘unusual’ occurrences would remain in the family. It was too early to expose Sacha to the possible ridicule of others. For all he knew, there might have been some sort of evolutionary quirk that was taking place all over the world.
“Don’t I wish he could believe it myself,” he mused, at the time.
Frankly, Alec also knew that if he continued to make light of Sacha’s uncanny behaviour, he would expose himself to a salve of flying objects propelled by his dear wife. Whereas Suzy matured over the years in many ways, she has not as yet gained full control over her volatile temper. When suitably stimulated, she was still apt to pick up the most convenient missile in her immediate vicinity, and aim it at him with great precision.
Alec, to escape injury, judiciously, and just as quickly, chose to adopt a different stance. By politely agreeing with Suzy’s story he hoped to dissipate her tension. And, quite honestly, he would only really believe in Sacha’s purported invisibility if and when he’d witness it with his own eyes. Or didn’t witness it––with his eyes, that is. If he saw that he didn’t see him.
He didn’t find it easy spending his waking hours lecturing on theoretical physics and then having his own son, with a sweep of his tiny hand make minced-meat of the proven, established science or, at the very least, of the official, established version of it.
“Sacha, Sacha…” he whispered, his tone wavering between bewilderment and admiration.
It wasn’t often that his son’s exploits and his work overlapped. He remembered, how worried Suzy was when she became aware of Sacha’s disappearances. Most people couldn’t accept that it was physically possible. In fact, Alec suspected, it had to do with light. A long time ago he’d tried to explain to Suzy that by polarizing photons, we can make light coming from certain angles undetectable to the human eye.
“Light travels in straight lines. Our Polaroid sunglasses only transmit photons traveling in a specific direction. If we could affect the polarization of light, it should be theoretically possible to become invisible, at certain angles,” he tried desperately.
“But how does he do that?” Suzy’s eyes were growing larger.
“I’m afraid you have to ask him that.”
Alec was a little nonplused. He knew the theory but not the practical application. That is the problem with theoretical physics. You postulate a theory and then you must wait for others to back it up with laboratory experiments. There are some aspects of Einstein’s theories that are only now being confirmed.
“But how does he do that?” Suzy insisted. “You must have some idea?”
Alec had some idea, but drawing a page full of equations wouldn’t help. His ideas were mathematical. He thought in terms of mathematics. He told her as much.
“Don’t blame me, daring, blame Pythagoras. He started it.” Actually he didn’t. The Greeks espoused mathematics as a philosophical tool long before the Pythagorean School. But the detail was of no consequence. “Sue, please don’t worry. After all, it doesn’t do him any harm, does it?”
“How do I know? I can’t see him!”
There was little more he could add. He told her that as long as Sacha returned from his invisible state in one piece, she could treat it as a visit to the Home Planet or the Far Country.
“After all, the ancient myths, which you like so much, are full of people winking in and out of our reality...” he tried desperately.
“I hate esoteric history. I hate myths. I hate religions. I hate... “ And her eyes filled with tears.
He had no idea what brought this outburst about. He tried to console her as best he could. There was really no use giving her a mass of equations that would, possibly, shed light on Sacha’s apparent ability. He wasn’t sure they would help even if she could understand them.
“There, there, I love you, darling.” He stroked her golde
n hair. “There, there...”
Just then Peeka hopped on her knees. It helped. It was very hard to be miserable with a kitten purring on your lap. Boo was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he too became invisible.
Suzy wanted desperately for Sacha to be a normal boy. Like other boys. Like any boy who plays and acts and talks like a boy his age.
Sacha did none of these things.
Since Sacha was born, Alec was twice more nominated for the Nobel Prize in physics, this time for the Theory of Information. All who knew him were sure that he would at least make the short list. Actually the short list is prepared not by the Nobel Committee itself only by an advisory committee, mostly professors of history and political science. The advisors do not really make recommendations but examine the suitability of the candidate, which could be an individual or an organization.
“So what do they really do, Dad?” There were very few things that lay outside Sacha’s sphere of interest. He actually stopped reading a book when he posed the question. He was serious.
“There may be literally hundreds of candidates submitted. After all, the Nobel Prize in not only a sign of great recognition, but one-and-a-half million dollars US is no chicken feed either, son.”
Alec was more interested in the dollars than in the recognition. Now, his name was sufficiently well known, though official recognition of his Theory of Information wouldn’t do any harm, either. On the other hand, with $1.5 million dollars he could do a lot of good for youngsters, who had no access to science at present. The so-called popular science was becoming much more popular than science.
“I could do with a nice sailing boat, too,” he muttered to himself. He saw Sacha at the helm while he leaned back in the cockpit, propped up against the doghouse. Suzy, in the scantiest bikini, serving him a Scotch on the rocks…
“So anyone can submit a name?” Sacha wouldn’t let go.
“What’s that? Ah, yes. You have someone in mind?” Alec looked down at his son whose face remained serious. As Sacha did not rise to the bite, he continued. “Practically... or at least a great many people.”
“Who?”
“Well, virtually all the politicians, leaders of peace research institutes...”
“No, Dad,” Sacha interrupted. “I mean for the prize in science.”
“That’s easy. The university chancellors, professors of social science, history, philosophy, law, theology...”
“What has social science got to do with physics? Or, for that matter, philosophy or law, or theology?”
“Nothing, but I thought...”
“It’s O.K, Dad. I know. So Granddad could only name you after he became the Chancellor?”
“That’s right, son. Before that he was a nobody. Like you and I.”
Actually Desmond was appointed the Chancellor of Caltech months after Alec became his assistant.
“And then what?” For some reason, Sacha really wanted to know. It seemed that he was less interested in who got the prize or for what, as in the process itself.
“Then, once the short list is established, the Committee of five makes their decision.”
“Committee of five?”
“Yes, they are appointed for a six-year term by Storting––that’s the Norwegian Parliament.”
Sacha’s eyes lit up. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I knew it,” he repeated with deep satisfaction. Sacha was forming an opinion of how the world worked. Who pushed which buttons, who made the decisions, and so forth. Recently he’d been pestering Granddad and Alicia on similar subjects. He wanted to know what being human was all about.
“You did?” Alec wasn’t sure what egg he’d just laid.
“It all comes down to politics. If you look at the various laureates, I bet at least half of them will be politically motivated. The other half might have a chance. It would be politically incorrect to make them all politically biased.”
And Sacha dropped the subject. He was twelve years old when he’d raised it. He never asked anything about Nobel or any other prize again. Alec could have told him that past Nobel Prize laureates could also nominate the candidates, which broadened the field. But then, he would also have to tell him about nominating privileges of the present and past members of the Nobel Committee, as well as the present and past advisors at the Norwegian Nobel Institute. That would muddy the political waters even more.
“Hey, it’s their money!” he tried to lighten up.
Alec smiled as he remembered Desmond telling him about his failure to be selected for the third time for the Information Theory. It was some years ago.
“After all, m’lad, you’rrre not quite two hundred and thirty-four yearrrs old, arrre ye’now.”
For a moment he remembered having been quite lost. Then it came to him. They’d talked about it the previous week. The 2002 Nobel Prize in Physics prize was awarded to three gentlemen. A 71, a 76, and another who was 87 years old. Together that came to 234 years. So if he wanted to keep the prize all to himself, and if seniority was any factor in the selection process, then he might as well not hold his breath.
As for Alec’s nominations, Dr. McBride was responsible for the last one, and his good friend the Chancellor of MIT for the previous ones. Since he got a piece of the joint Prize for the work on the Unified Field Theory, twice more Alec had been bypassed for the more fashionable, less controversial trends in science. Perhaps they were political. Alec had no idea. He managed to keep his physics as far away from politics as he possibly could. Perhaps this was a mistake. Politicians awarded funds for research. They were very powerful. Sacha was right.
Alec felt disdain for power.
As for his field of endeavour, he suspected that people wanted something more tangible, something that they could measure, weigh; feel with their instruments. The Information Theory was above all that. As was Alec’s preliminary work on the compressed wave theory. If you applied the principles of the two theories, much of the mystery, which stunned the theoretical physicists for generations, would dissipate. Yet you couldn’t prove that the theory as such was right any more then you could disprove it. You could use it but you had to do it on faith. Scientists didn’t like doing that. It wasn’t scientific, they said. It was dangerous, though the only thing that seemed in danger were the well-established theories.
“Nothing, nothing, impedes the progress of science as much as the scientific establishment,” Desmond once said. “With few exceptions, all scientists should die young. They never have an original idea after they turn thirty, anyway.”
Good old Desmond.
It seemed that the old Prof. was right. What Des forgot to mention was that once past thirty, the very same, revolutionary, progressive scientists spent the rest of their lives making sure that no one upset their scientific apple cart. Any progress in science, again with few exceptions, is due to youngsters who seldom succeed against the stonewalling by their illustrious seniors. Then, when they turn eighty, the establishment catches up with them and awards them the Nobel Prize.
As time went by, Alec began to crawl into a protective shell. He was tired of repeating, ad nauseam, the same lectures although, by some strange twist of fate, people never grew tired of hearing them. Except for the scientists. He supposed his colleagues had heard them all before. But the ‘ordinary’ people, without a vested professional interest, filled the halls to overflowing wherever he gave open lectures.
Allover the world.
There have been moments when Alec wanted more. He wanted someone to pick up the challenge and take his theory a step further. Some tried. But people with enough experience didn’t, and those without it couldn’t. A catch 22. Perhaps young minds weren’t quite ready for him yet, even as old minds were already too old.
And then, just before Sacha’s fourteenth birthday, there was an incident that made Alec think again about the purpose of life. The two of them had been walking along the beach when a large motorboat run down a swimmer. The swimmer’s body was scooped out of the water and thrown som
e ten or more yards into the air. It splashed down way behind the speeding boat. Apparently the motorboat was a hydroplane with water skis, which were lowered to raise the boat for planing at high speeds. It was at the moment of rapid acceleration that the accident occurred.
“He thought he’d hit a submerged log,” Sacha said.
“How do you know?” Alec was disgusted with the boatman’s behaviour. He hated motorboats on principle. They were noisy, smelly and, apparently, they killed people. “The son-of-a-bitch came too close to the shore.”
“He’s innocent. No one ever swims that far out, Dad.”
“So?” Alec was still livid. “This guy will never swim again, period.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Sacha said with confidence.
“You mean he survived this powerful impact?” Alec asked, his voice rising in incredulity.
“Oh, no, Dad.” Sacha smiled with definite amusement. “No one could survive such an impact, as you call it. Our ah... bodies are much too fragile for that.” Sacha still sounded amused. His callousness was getting on Alec’s nerves.
“I don’t find murder funny, son,” he said more sternly than he’d intended.
“I’m sorry, Dad. You are right, of course.” Sacha nodded and remained silent.
Even as they looked towards the ocean, a Coastal Patrol boat was speeding towards the man whose body was floating close to a mile off shore. As they watched, the corpse was lifted on board. From what they could see from this distance, the patrolmen didn’t even try to resuscitate him. He must have died on impact. For some reason, the body remained afloat till the Coastal Patrol fished him out of the water.
Alec and Sacha turned slowly and walked off. For a few minutes they walked in silence. Then Alec stopped again and regarded his son. He knew him to be sensitive, caring, and certainly not callous. What on earth could have amused him back there?
Sacha—The Way Back (Alexander Trilogy Book III) Page 4
