by Scott Rhine
Nick Cassavettis
He printed the screen out to the device in Steuben’s office and stuffed the note in his back pocket. By the time he checked the incoming transmission again, it had stopped. Since it would take another hour for the systems to get back to normal again, he decided to go home and have some lunch.
****
PJ lived in a two-bedroom condominium just five minutes from work. On the way home, he picked up some Mexican fast food and a huge soft drink.
Someone else on the list had to have a copy of the whole message. Using his laptop, he contacted the bulletin board in Germany first, but their website was down. The Greenpeace home page had a similar problem. Next, he used a search engine to find the magazine’s phone number. After ten minutes of transfers and holds, the assistant editor muttered “crank” and hung up on him.
Now he was getting irritated. He finished his meal, chugged the drink, and got serious. His next target was Professor Anders at Stanford, the postmaster for the physics department. He was young and the only teacher in that department likely to remember PJ at all. Even if he didn’t know anything about Nick, he might be able to shed some light on the Reuter equations. Unfortunately, California was three hours behind, and the secretary wouldn’t even be in for another half an hour. PJ didn’t bother leaving voice-mail; this was the sort of lunacy you didn’t want any electronic record of.
Some checking indicated that Fortune Aerospace was an Italian owned Brazilian launch facility. There had to be a US branch. More Googling revealed that their US headquarters had recently been leveled in an odd explosion. With no phone number, PJ sent an e-mail entitled ‘Re:Atlantis’, leaving his work and home numbers.
The White House was out of the question, so he called the senator’s office instead. The senator was a well-known champion for the environment. PJ decided to take a slightly different tack. When he finally got Braithwaite’s secretary, he asked, “Who would I talk to if I wanted to report an environmental hazard created by a defense contractor?”
“That would be Ms. Reese. She’s at lunch at this time. May I take a message?”
“No. I’ll call back later.”
After nearly an hour of searching, he was no closer than when he had started. He did a web search on Reuter. Most sites described him only as a Nobel-prize candidate who taught undergraduate physics in celebrated style until his recent death. That much PJ knew already. The doctor’s obituary mentioned that his widow, Doris, had been a science librarian at the university for years.
Nick's family and friends were no help. His father was dead. His mother was remarried and living in Florida with some country-club member. He had no brothers or sisters. PJ hadn’t seen his friend much after the wedding. Gloria was passionate and good looking, the exact opposite of Nick, except for the temper. They both had short fuses. When they broke up about six months ago, she got the house in New Mexico and a healthy alimony payment. All Nick got from her in return was a case of secondhand syphilis.
Since the only job she had ever held down was tour guide at that fashion museum, she still relied on Nick to make the mortgage. She’d know how to reach him! PJ rummaged through his address book and found the number for their house. Gloria answered on the second ring. “Gloria? This is PJ. I’m trying to find your ex.”
“I don’t know where that maniac is, somewhere on the east coast the last I heard. I have a restraining order to make sure he never gets within a hundred feet of me again.”
“Look, I know you two didn’t part on the best of terms, but I think he may be in trouble.”
“PJ, you're a nice guy.” Meaning he was one of the few friends Nick ever had who never hit on her. “The man’s already over the edge. Don’t go near him, or he’ll drag you down with him.”
“Come on, he can’t be that bad. I talked to him two weeks ago,” he responded.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not supposed to mention this. It was part of the terms of the settlement. But last time I saw him, he shot a man, and then held the gun to my head till the cops arrived.”
PJ put the story together. Nick came home to tell her about the doctor’s diagnosis and found her in bed with some stranger. “Yeah, well VD will make you do strange things sometimes.”
He regretted the wisecrack immediately, because she hung up and he lost the last tangible link he had to his friend. Looking at his watch, he decided to head back to work.
****
PJ drove a hybrid, econo-box car. It wasn’t glamorous, but he never had to fill up except when he drove to Pennsylvania to visit his folks. Deep down, he really wanted a two-seater sports car, but that didn’t fit in with his early retirement plans.
As he tooled into the work parking lot, he noticed a congregation of people outside the office doors. Was it a fire drill? Were people returning from lunch being told they were all laid off? PJ coasted over to one of the guys he knew from downstairs. “What’s up?”
“Friggin’ Feds. They’re swarming all over the place. They have Stubby in a wringer for something illegal, I hear. Nobody gets in or out for now. And I’ve still got that two o’clock deadline.”
“Crap,” PJ muttered. The phone call had been traced. Somebody wanted a lid on this in a big way. A man in a dark suit looked out the front window, possibly trying to get a look at his license plate.
Nervous, he gunned the motor and took off.
He raced home in a panic. The first chance Stubby got, the administrator would point a finger his way. Once they got PJ’s address from personnel, there’d be a police cordon around his place.
Running inside, he grabbed a duffel bag from the closet. Opening his drawers, he threw in t-shirts, pants, socks, and underwear blindly. Glancing at his watch, he swore again. He grabbed whatever was handy: cell phone, address book, laptop, and two hundred dollars in emergency cash.
Unable to think of any other essentials or evidence he was leaving behind, he headed for the door. When he looked out through the peephole, two guys dressed like Mormons were coming down the sidewalk. Sweating, he ran out the patio door, fumbled his duffel bag into the backseat of his car, and raced off.
The answers he needed were probably in Washington, DC.
****
When PJ finally stopped at a gas station (where he paid cash), he made a few calls. First, he dialed Professor Anders at Stanford. When he got a secretary, PJ said, “I need to talk to him about some files that the FBI may be interested in.”
The programmer wasn’t prepared for the intensity of her reply. “He’s already done everything you asked. You have all the disks. Why can’t you people stop threatening his grants and leave him alone?”
They moved fast. What sort of high-security information could Nick have sent? What were the Reuter equations about? In desperation, he had the operator connect him with Doris Reuter.
She answered on the fourth ring with a melodious and joyful, “Hello,” as if any human contact brightened her day.
“Mrs. Reuter, my name is PJ Smith, a journalist doing a story on famous protégés of your husband for the alumni magazine.” He covered the receiver of the phone as a huge, diesel truck drove by.
“Isn’t that nice,” she said.
“I was wondering if you had a moment to help us with some background information,” he asked. “Do you remember a Mr. Cassavettis?”
“Nick? He’s a nice young man. George was very fond of him. We never had any children of our own, so it came as no surprise when George gave him first choice of his personal library in his will. Nick was honored and spent the whole day going through the collection. The rest I donated to the university. I’m glad to hear he turned out so well. George always…”
“Excuse me,” PJ interrupted. “Out of curiosity, what books did he pick?”
“The first was George’s text book for the introductory physics course. It had no significant material worth, but Nick wanted it because George had written notes in the margins.”
“Equations,” he
stated, not even needing to ask.
“Why, yes. Writing notes inside books was a habit that I was never able to break George of. It was how we met, you see. If he had a thought in passing that he didn’t want to forget, he would just write it in whatever book he was reading. I remember…”
“The list of books?” PJ prompted.
“Leaves of Grass, Bridge of Ashes, Einstein’s Ideas and Opinions. I forget the rest, it’s been so long. He only took ten.” Did ten books mean ten Reuter equations? Doris kept meandering. “Not much to remember a man’s life by, but Nick seemed very excited and grateful. He said he would dedicate his PhD dissertation to George, although I never got a copy. The office won’t send out his transcripts or his dissertation because of that overdue book. He left school mid-semester. Such a nice boy, I don’t know how it happened. He did all his writing on napkins, just like George.” She sounded like she was misting up. He didn’t want to push her too much.
“What book does he still have out?”
“Goodness, is this a biography or a bibliography, Mr. Smith? It was the latest book on Superstrings and unified field theory. George dabbled in it a little toward the end, but he said that all physicists chase that dream the way that mathematicians chase Fermat’s Last Theorem,” she said.
But Fermat’s theorem has been proven, he thought, as a tingle went up his spine. Did ten equations equate to the ten dimensions of a Superstring? That was about right, if he remembered the last Scientific American article he’d read on the subject.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Reuter. You’ve been a big help.”
After PJ hung up, he swore at Nick. The more he found out, the more dangerous it got. Somehow, Nick had found a key to unified field theory, one important enough that the US government had become a permanent part of his life. It explained why he never finished his degree. They must have pulled him out of school mid-semester, squashed his dissertation under a National Security seal, and moved him to New Mexico to work for them.
****
Trina called PJ back at his home and work numbers, but had to leave messages. She entered the name, time, and ‘Atlantis’ into the daily call summary. Corporate security in New York dealt with Homeland Security’s request to search the Brazilian mail servers. No one connected the two events.
****
When he reached the DC area, it was almost rush hour. Since he hated sitting in traffic, he pulled off and made another call. “Ms. Reese, please. I’m calling about a defense contractor who is violating environmental laws. Yes, I know it’s late, but she’ll talk to me. Mention the name Cassavettis.”
A minute later, Ms. Reese was on the line. She had a sultry telephone voice. “Mr. Cassavettis, after you missed our appointment Wednesday, I was starting to worry.”
“You were right to worry. Didn’t you get the e-mail this morning?”
“What e-mail?” she asked.
“The Feds must have suppressed it already,” PJ muttered.
“You’re not Nick. Who are you?”
“A friend. He sent me a message today with the entire sordid story on Icarus…”
She cut me off. “Not over this phone line! Are you insane?”
“Funny, a lot of people called Nick crazy until he disappeared.”
“We’ve got to meet in person,” she said.
PJ pulled out his map, one with the location of every BoxMart in the US. He gave her the location of one roughly halfway between them. “What kind of car do you have?”
“I drive a red Miata. It will take me at least twenty minutes to get to it and another thirty or so to reach you,” she estimated.
“Great. Wait there at the far edge of the parking lot with your hood up, and I’ll be there within an hour.”
“How will I know it’s you?” Ms. Reese asked.
“I’ll have a white hybrid with Jersey plates, and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt with taco stains on it.”
She still seemed skittish. “How do I know you’re not someone who killed him and is just trying to get rid of the rest of the evidence?”
“You suggested the meeting. How do I know I can trust you? Besides, professional killers rarely go around in Disney paraphernalia.”
“I’ll take your word for that,” she concluded.
Chapter 32 – The Icarus Transformation
Ms. Reese was alone and very nervous when PJ arrived. She didn’t have the hood up, but she did have the obligatory white, lace-bordered hanky around the antenna. He parked behind her, and she rolled down the drivers’ window a few inches.
The first thing he noticed was the custom, metallic paint job on the sports car. He wanted to run his hand over the well-polished curves. She was about twenty-five years old, small, mousy, and extremely competent looking. Her huge, owl-like glasses had thin, blue frames that picked up the color of her eyes. The formal, pinstriped jacket was impeccable and unwrinkled.
She had no ring on her left hand, so he assumed the senator’s aide was still single. Her right hand was buried inside her purse, no doubt holding mace.
PJ asked, “Do you ever get this thing over 90?” He just wanted to break the ice, but she glared at him like he was discussing public flatulence. “I’m Nick’s friend. Call me PJ.”
“Amy,” she volunteered, reluctantly. “Do you have a last name?”
“Smith,” he said, watching the area for signs of law-enforcement activity.
She arched an eyebrow. “Fine, don’t trust me.”
He whipped out his driver’s license and proved it to her.
“What’s the ‘P’ stand for?” she asked.
“Pissed off. Can we talk now?”
“Here?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, hop in my car and we’ll go somewhere private.”
“I’m not leaving my car out here,” she said, indignant.
He was inches from scrapping the whole meeting. If she had been a guy, he’d have been gone by now. However, he liked her eyes and wanted an excuse to see more of them. “Have it your way. We’ll meet somewhere and grab a bite to eat. Are there any decent food places around here?”
“How would I know? I live in Virginia,” she said.
Eight, nine, ten. Breathe. “I saw a steak place two blocks that way. We’ll meet under the plastic bull.”
She huffed, “I refuse to eat beef to protest the way cattle ranchers on Federal land are abusing the buffalo.”
He threw his hands in the air. “Jumping Jehosephat, lady, no wonder you’re not married yet! Lighten up. Nobody asked you to chug a cow and wear the hide as a trophy. Order the fish, order the salad. Hell, I don’t care what you eat, but you’re the one who wanted someplace safe yet private to meet.” He paused for a moment, suddenly embarrassed. “Ah shit, I said ‘hell’ in front of a lady. Damn! I said ‘shit,’ too.” Then, he clamped his mouth shut.
She took her hand off the mace to cover her mouth. The laughter stung him. He said, “If you’re not interested in Nick’s warning, I’ll just call the media.”
“I’m sorry. The steak place will do.” She beat him there by at least a minute because he stuck to the speed limit the whole way. In the parking lot, PJ put on his jacket, not so much because of the growing chill in the air, but because he had an irrational fear that the entire city was on the lookout for his Mickey shirt by now.
Out in front of the restaurant, to help smooth his feathers, Amy offered to pay for the meal. “It is an official meeting on Senate Oversight business.”
“Fine, it’ll help me conserve cash,” he admitted.
“Besides, I wouldn’t want you getting any ideas,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, almost daring him to get mad again.
He held the door for her. As she walked through, he noticed that she was a little shorter than he had originally estimated. However, everything was proportioned just fine from his point of view.
They managed to get a table immediately, and Amy ordered a chicken platter and a salad. PJ went with the best steak the
y had and French fries. When they were alone, she asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “So how much do you know?”
Evidently, a lot of this business was classified. PJ decided to bluff his way through. “I know about the Reuter equations, ten of them that make up a new Superstring model of the universe, which combine to describe the fabric of light, gravity, and matter as we know them. Nick found them at Stanford, and it took him about three years to distill them down into something usable. As soon as he derived the Icarus transformation, the Feds hauled him off to work for them.”
Amy looked interested in the history, as if she hadn’t heard it all. He tried a gambit to get information out of her. “So how much do you know about the math behind Icarus?”
“I’m only an MBA, but I’ve had basic science. Each of the letters in the equation stood for a key component. The ‘c’ stood for the speed of light, obviously. The ‘a’ meant acceleration. The ‘r’ was radius and the ‘s’ had to do with hydrogen at the atomic level. I forget what ‘i’ stood for.” He liked watching her lips move, but her eyes were still the most captivating.
“The ‘s’ orbital is the first electron valence shell,” he said, to impress her with what he remembered from his one chemistry class. “The ‘i’ is an imaginary number, the square root of negative one. Electrical engineers use it to help explain where all the energy goes in alternating current, when the voltage oscillates but produces constant power.” He drew an S-like sinusoidal wave on a napkin for her, with a second one intersecting it at each zero. “When the real component drops, the imaginary component increases, and vice versa.”
She nodded. “Yes. That was the crux of his theory. He believed that a point mass could oscillate as its Superstring rotated, and that imaginary mass would repel hydrogen and smaller atomic particles.”
PJ took a bite of a roll to cover his reaction. The Trekkie had done it! He had invented the force field. “He built a prototype at Sandia Labs,” he deduced.
“Yes. He wasn’t even on the project slated to investigate the theory. Nevertheless, Cassavettis convinced a few of his co-workers to implement it while their manager was away at budget hearings on the Hill. How do you know all this?” she asked.
