When Steve returned and handed Mark his next beer, Mark expected him to sit down. Mark had thought he should take a positive tack and ask the perpetually cheerful young man how he’d found such peace in God’s word, but Steve merely patted him on the shoulder and moved off to talk to Wendy. Maybe next time, Mark thought, there’ll be plenty of them I’m sure.
******
Myr walked into Billy’s Westport Brewpub and looked around. A blonde guy looked away from a screen showing a baseball game and gave her a little wave. Myr decided the guy looked like the profile picture for Charles, her online date that her mother had badgered her into. She waved back and started that way as the guy stood up.
Speaking quietly to her AI, she said, “Note that I’ve arrived for this little ‘date’ and tell Connor I’m here. Record audio from now until I tell you not to. Listen for my safe words.” Myr felt like this cloak and dagger approach to dating seemed bizarrely overcautious, but she’d read up on how to go on dates with people you’d met online. Myr had never made an online date—hell, she hadn’t gone out on many dates of any kind. So she’d read up on it and talked to a few friends who’d done it. Both her friends and her reading said there were creeps out there and that you should take some precautions—so she was doing it.
Charles—according to his profile, not Charlie, and especially not Chuck—was wearing a sports coat, which seemed a little odd for a sports bar, despite the coincidence of the names. He gave her a little hug, which her reading said was a fairly common initial greeting, even though it felt a little presumptuous to Myr, coming as it did from someone she’d only communicated with in some form of text so far. “Hi Myr. I must say, you’re prettier than your pictures.”
Uncomfortably, all Myr could think to say was, “Thank you. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.” She looked around the bar and brought her eyes back to him, thinking that he looked pretty much like his picture, though a few years older and a little bit doughier. “You like watching sports?” From his profile she knew he did, she was just desperate for a conversation starter.
He shrugged, “Football and basketball, yes. Baseball,” he waved around at the screens, “not so much.” He gave a sheepish look, “But everyone says you should meet in a public place where there’s something to do.” He sat back down and waved Myr toward a chair as well.
“Yep, that’s what they say,” Myr responded, feeling a little uncertain about him. “So, your profile says you’re an attorney. What kind of law do you practice?”
“Corporate law, not anything you’d understand, but I’m moving up the ladder like a rocket.” Despite his assertion that she wouldn’t understand it, he launched into a long-winded discussion of the kinds of contracts he negotiated. He described several of them, proudly pointing out where he thought he’d gotten the better of the other side. He’d been right; she didn’t really follow his descriptions. But she didn’t like his assumption that she couldn’t. She thought she’d have understood them if he’d used common language rather than the dense legal terminology he seemed so proud of.
Before he ran out of things to say about his job, he managed to drop several hints regarding just how remunerative it was, something else that Myr found annoying. It seemed like bragging to her, though she supposed it was exactly what some women wanted to know. When he did slow down, he didn’t ask Myr a question about her job which was fine by her. She didn’t really want to describe what she did. There was an awkward pause in the conversation, so she threw him another one of the open-ended questions you were supposed to ask in these situations. “What do you like about corporate law?”
He was off and running again, this time talking about how challenging it was and how much he enjoyed winning. As best Myr could tell, winning meant really screwing over the other guy in the negotiation. Slipping in a clause the other team’s lawyers didn’t recognize could really hurt their client seemed to give Charles his joy. She wondered if all lawyers took such delight in gouging someone else, or if Charles was special. It’s an adversarial system, she reminded herself. He’d probably be a failure if he didn’t enjoy winning.
Charles described a few bonuses he’d received for particularly tricky contracts but then seemed to be running down, so Myr asked, “What do you like to do when you’re not working?”
“In the fall, I watch a lot of football. In the winter, I watch basketball and play in one of the leagues.” He shrugged as if self-deprecating, even though the statement that followed wasn’t. “I’m a pretty good shot.” His eyes strayed over to a booth near one corner that let you shoot free throws for a score, then turned back to her. Giving her a wink, he said, “At present, I’m looking for the girl of my dreams.” He winked again and said magnanimously, “And I must say, you’re a great conversationalist.”
Mentally rolling her eyes, Myr thought, All I did was ask three questions, then sit back and let you ramble on. She glanced over at the free-throw booth and said, “You want to show me how to shoot a free throw?” Do not start placing bets with him, she admonished herself.
“Sure!” he said enthusiastically. He stood and picked up both of their drinks, heading over to the booth. As he was having his AI pay for a set of ten balls, their server approached. Myr wanted to pay off the tab so she could get out of there, but Charles ordered another beer and some French fries. The balls were rolling out and Myr eyed them askance. They looked a little small, and when she picked one up it felt small as well. She thought it wasn’t even the “women’s official” size used for women’s games and three on three. Maybe it’s a “youth” size? she thought. The basket also looked low, she figured about nine feet. This wouldn’t help you get any better at shooting real free throws.
Charles plucked the ball out of Myr’s hands, “Let me show you how it’s done,” he said, lofting the ball at the basket. It hit the backboard a little high and clanged off the rim, falling into a net and disappearing into the back of the booth. A buzzer sounded and a big “0/1” appeared on the scoreboard at the back of the booth. “That ball didn’t seem right,” Charles said irritatedly. He picked up another one and shot it, missing again. “Dammit!”
“I’m pretty sure those are youth sized basketballs…” Myr began.
“Well, it’s stupid to have a free throw game with the wrong size balls!” Charles said, sounding infuriated. He shot two more times, missing both, then threw the ball at the backboard so hard it bounced out to where Myr caught it. “This’s ridiculous!” he shouted, turning and storming away.
Myr shot the ball in her hands, putting it in. She glanced back over her shoulder. Charles was over talking to the bartender. Myr shot the other five balls, thinking the small balls and the low basket made it really easy. All five went in. She looked back at her date who was gesticulating at the game and apparently giving the bartender an earful. Rolling her eyes, she headed for the door while telling her AI to pay for the drinks, the French fries and to give their server a great tip, thinking, She’ll need it if she has to deal with him anymore. Glad I found out what a jerk he is before we went on a real date.
******
Nancy Levinson leaned around the end of a stack of lab equipment. “Joe,” she called to Joe Jenkins, a postdoc researcher in her lab, “I’ve got to go back to my office and meet with a possible donor. Hopefully it won’t take too long. I’ll look at your results when I get back, okay?”
He didn’t look up, just said, “Not a problem.”
Nancy asked her AI for the time as she hurried down the hall toward her academic office, hoping she hadn’t left the little room in too much disarray the last time she was actually there—a couple of days ago. According to her AI she might actually be on time rather than late like she’d feared.
As she walked, she couldn’t help but wonder who this Carol Sevii might be. Most of Nancy’s funding came through grants from the NIH, though some came from the Muscular Dystrophy Association and the Reeve Foundation. When the Dean’s office had called and said there was an individu
al wanting to meet her and donate directly to Nancy’s research she’d been surprised. Hoping that this was someone wealthy enough to make a substantial donation, she’d tried to look up Carol Sevii. She’d reasoned that anyone truly wealthy would likely have a substantial footprint on the internet and would expect Nancy to know who they were.
Nancy had only found one Carol Sevii—evidently it was an uncommon name. That one worked as a nurse here in Kansas City. That Sevii had a son with muscular dystrophy, so she was almost certainly the one who wanted to make the donation. The donation wouldn’t be substantial coming from someone who worked as a nurse and had the financial stress of raising a son with DMD. However, Nancy had her own son with Duchenne’s. If Ms. Sevii was planning to donate five of her hard-earned dollars, Nancy figured she could take the time to talk to her—even though logically Nancy could serve both of them better by staying in the lab and continuing to work on a cure.
As Nancy walked into the little block of offices that included her own, Ginger, the administrative assistant who served Nancy and the other faculty in that section, looked up to say, “I told Ms. Sevii she could wait in your office. I hope that’s okay?”
Nancy nodded and hurried toward her office, thinking, I guess I won’t get a chance to straighten up any mess in there after all.
As Nancy entered the door, a woman stood up from the visitor’s chair. The woman had on a nursing uniform, dashing the last of Nancy’s hope that she might have had the wrong Carol Sevii and that there was some incredibly wealthy person with the same name that she just hadn’t found on the Internet. Putting out her hand, she said, “Hi Ms. Sevii. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?”
“Oh no. I intended to get here a few minutes early in case I got lost, but I barely made it.” She waved at her uniform, “I work as a nurse, and, as so often happens, things kept conspiring to keep me from leaving on time.”
Tansey waved the woman’s concern away, “Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you?”
“Well…” the woman paused, then suddenly got choked up. “I have a son with Duchenne’s… I know you do too and that’s why you’ve been working so hard to find a cure…”
Ms. Sevii completely stopped speaking as her eyes welled with tears. Nancy pulled a box of Kleenex off her desk and scooted her chair a little closer so Sevii could take one. She laid her own hand gently on top of the woman’s hand. Trying to speak reassuringly, though worried about overpromising, she said, “We’ve had a couple of breakthroughs recently…”
Sevii nodded as she dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex. “I know, I know. I read everything I can about your research. I’ve always wished I could do something to help.”
Nancy squeezed Sevii’s fingers, “Just knowing that there are people out there rooting for me is a lot of help.”
“Yeah, but I know this kind of research is expensive and funding’s hard to get and… so,” She fumbled in her purse and pulled out what looked like an honest to God check. Nancy hadn’t seen a check for years. It seemed that everyone handled money electronically nowadays. Nonetheless, she was sure the University would find a way to cash the thing. Sevii said, “Who do I make it out to?”
“Um, the University of Kansas Dystrophy Research Fund should work.” She leaned back and said, “Every little bit helps.”
As Ms. Sevii’s trembling hand filled in the payee line on the check, Nancy’s eye shifted to the line where the amount had already been filled in. She felt her own eyes widen at the number of zeros she saw there. Is this woman donating tens of thousands of dollars?! she wondered.
Sevii folded the check and held it out, saying, “I hope this makes a difference, and … and that you’ll remember Connor when it comes time for a trial in humans.”
“Of course it’ll make a difference,” Nancy said as she tried not to be obvious about letting the check open a little bit so she could peek at the amount. Sevii plucked out another Kleenex and blew her nose while Nancy got a better look, Eight million dollars! Nancy sucked in a breath, then said, “How did you come by this much money on a nurse’s salary?!”
“Robbed a bank,” Sevii said, her voice muffled behind the Kleenex. When Nancy looked up at her with a mixture of disbelief and dismay, Sevii had a twinkle in her eyes. “Not really. It’s my daughter’s money. She works at Miller Tech and is part of the group that patented that new fusion technology. There’ll probably be more money in the future. She… she loves her brother as much as I do…”
“Oh,” Nancy said as her head exploded with the possibility that she could spend all her time on actual research and none of it writing grants. “Oh my God… There are so many things we’ll be able to do with this kind of money! Thank you so much. My son thanks you, and hopefully your son will thank you someday as well.” Nancy paused, now choked up herself. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”
Sevii quirked a smile and stood up, “Get back to your lab. Do awesome things.”
“I will, I will.”
Nancy walked Sevii out to the elevator, saying, “Can my AI get a handshake with yours so I can contact you in the future to let you know what’s going on?”
“Sure,” Sevii said. They both spoke briefly to their AIs to put them in contact, then, as they reached the elevator, Sevii said, “How old’s your son with Duchenne’s?”
“Trevor’s nineteen. He’s been pretty healthy so far,” Nancy paused for a second to make sure her emotions were in control, “but it’s getting to be a scary time. I hope he can last long enough for…”
Sevii put a hand on Nancy’s arm. Speaking quietly, she said, “I know what you mean. Connor’s almost twenty-two. Um, one of my daughter’s inventions has been helping Connor a lot… with his mobility. Would you like to come over and see it sometime? Bring Trevor along?”
Nancy wasn’t sure she wanted to see some crazy idea these people might have had. She certainly didn’t want to get Trevor’s hopes up for something that turned out to be inconsequential. However, this woman had just donated eight million dollars to the research that might help Nancy save her son. She said, “Sure, this weekend?”
Sevii nodded, “Saturday at one?”
With resolve, Nancy said, “Sure, let’s do it.”
******
Myr looked up at a knock on her door frame. Ellen and Vinn were standing there looking pretty excited. “What’s up?” she asked.
Ellen said, “You were right. We found a mid-terahertz band which generates a moderately geometric proton field. We spent yesterday afternoon with it focused in a nanogram sample of hydrogen while we gradually increased the power. We were never able to induce any gammas, no matter how high we turned the juice. Today we focused it in one of our fusion steam generators and gradually did the same with larger quantities of hydrogen.”
“How’d it work?”
“Pretty much like we’d expected. We were running the proton field in water and feeding small quantities of hydrogen into the water. With a field that induces fusion, it pulls the hydrogen right out of the water, fuses it, and the heat from the fusion produces steam and gamma rays. With this set-up, we don’t get any fusion. If we run it very briefly, when we shut it off we find substantial volumes of both water and hydrogen in the focal point. However, if we run it for a substantial period of time the field only contains hydrogen,” she grinned, “and it can hold a very large volume of hydrogen indeed.”
“So, it squeezes both the hydrogen and the water into the focal point, but after a while the hydrogen atoms—being more strongly attracted—shoulder the water molecules aside so that only hydrogen’s left in the focus?”
“Well, that’s how we interpret it, since that theory fits the outcome. I’ve been wondering if there are any materials, say natural gas, that might contain free hydrogen as a contaminant. If there are, we could just use a focal point to extract pure hydrogen out of them.”
“Very cool,” Myr said. “Makes me think about how hydrogen contamination’s a real problem in the hydrogen embritt
lement of various metals. A lot of metals from steel to aluminum have to be processed very carefully to keep the final product from being contaminated because if hydrogen gets into the metal it causes cracks. Such cracks make the finished product a lot weaker. Not that such hydrogen would serve as a significant source for fuel cells, but that focal points might help manufacturers keep hydrogen out of their forming operations.” She shrugged and held up a device about the size of a brick. “Back to the topic of using hydrogen. I got Dr. Randall to lend this to me. It’s the latest version of his fuel cell stack and it can put out about three kilowatts if you feed it really pure hydrogen,” she lifted an eyebrow, “like you’re telling me a focal point will provide. He’s got a 1500-watt version that’d be enough to fly around with, but this one would have power to spare.”
Ellen looked dubious, “I’ve got a 1500-watt blow dryer. Are you sure that’s enough power to lift me off the ground?”
“1500 watts is just over two horsepower and, by definition, one horsepower’s enough to lift 165 pounds one meter in one second. The focal point lifters are about eighty percent efficient so,” Myr gave Ellen a dubiously evaluating look, “unless you’re a lot heavier than I think you are…”
Vinn gave a theatrically long-suffering sigh, “Let me step in before you ladies get in a tizzy about how much each of you weigh. To get back on track, that sounds great. I should be flying through the air in no time.”
Myr rocked her head back and forth questioningly, then focused on Vinn, “I’m a little bit concerned about safety. I see two issues. First, what if you’re up in the air and your focal point lifter shuts down? What keeps you from crashing to the ground and making a greasy little smear? Second, what happens if your focal point full of hydrogen breaks down, releasing all that hydrogen at once? Especially if there’s a spark nearby.”
Lifter: Proton Field #2 Page 5
