Prizes (48 page)

“I’ll have to check with my social secretary,” she replied playfully. “Now, why don’t you take a walk around the block while your dad and I talk business?”

“No,” he smiled. “I want to hear this for myself. I probably won’t understand it, but can I at least listen?”

“Fine,” the elder Pracht agreed, warning, “Some of this may be a little abstruse, but I’ll explain it to you later.”

Jerry smiled broadly. “I’m sure Isa will take care of that.”

She returned to the whiteboard and repeated her earlier performance—with a few more refinements that came to her on the fly. At the end of her exposition, Jerry clapped.

“Brava, brava,” he exclaimed. “That’s a guaranteed Nobel winner.”

“Your dad’s pressing me for even more,” Isabel complained with mock frustration.

“What else do you want, for heaven’s sake?” Jerry demanded.

“Well,” the elder Pracht replied amiably, “a demonstration would be kind of nice.”

“Come on,” Jerry rejoined. “Didn’t Weinberg win the Nobel in ’76 for his version of the UFT? I don’t recall your mentioning any experimental proofs either then or since.”

“That’s precisely why it would be great to have Isabel go him one better,” Karl said, gesturing with a professional index finger.

“Well,” Jerry turned to Isabel, “what sort of conditions do you need?”

“A monster source of energy—and not even the five-hundred-GeV accelerator at CERN in Geneva could rev up enough.”

Jerry thought for a moment and then his face suddenly lit up. “How about a supernova?” he asked excitedly. “When a star collapses there’s a tremendous gravity field and a massive amount of energy.”

He stepped to the board and quickly listed some of the conditions at the core of a star just after it implodes.

“It’s lucky I’m usually knocked out in the early rounds,” he joked. “I’ve had plenty of time to read.”

Isabel brightened. “I think you’re on to something, my stargazing friend.” And now, pad in hand, she eagerly buried herself in fresh calculations.

“Wait a minute,” Pracht interposed, waving his hands like a basketball referee. “I don’t think this is going to work. Admittedly, the ion temperature in a supernova is high, but it’s only a hundred KeV or so. You need a
million times that.
And if that weren’t bad enough, there’s so much hot matter around, no light or other signal from the core could get through—except the neutrinos, of course.”

“Hold it, Dad, hold it,” Jerry shouted. “What about the shock wave?”

Isabel pondered briefly and then exploded with joy. “Jerry, you’re unbelievable. Now, both you guys follow me.”

In an instant she was at the whiteboard once more, a veritable geyser of ideas.

“The star shrinks down incredibly fast, until it reaches a point where it hits bottom and rebounds, sending this really fast shock wave,” she began. “Now, theoretically, we’ve got all the needed elements present—we’ve provided the energy, as well as huge magnetic and gravitational fields. I calculate that there should be some telltale signature of unification by the release of microwaves, something in the nature of a wavelength of about four centimeters.”

Pracht, who was reveling in these youngsters’ animated dialogue, played the troublemaker. “This is all very well, but I don’t think I’ll live long enough till the next supernova.”

“You don’t have to,” Jerry replied. “There
was
one in February 1987—”

“—when the blue star Sanduleak detonated,” Isabel finished his thought.

“Bingo!” The elder Pracht cheered as his son regained center stage.

“Astronomers in Chile caught onto it really early,” Jerry explained, “and studied it with every possible instrument. But the most sophisticated data would have been at CISRO in Australia. I mean, their hemisphere got the best view of it. It just so happens that one of my old buddies from the Astronomy Club is working there. I can call and persuade him to send us the tapes.”

“Can we have ’em do it Federal Express?” Isabel asked excitedly. “I’ll pay the freight.”

“No, no, no,” Jerry overruled her. “This is my treat.” He picked up the phone and grinned at his father. “Dad can pay for this call.”

Since there is always someone awake at the Observatory, in a matter of minutes Jerry had determined that the team at CISRO did indeed have numerous twelve-inch reels of tape covering the history of Sanduleak on their old VAX780 computer, and were happy to oblige him by making copies.

“That’s absolutely brilliant,” Isabel beamed. “Do you want to write this up with me, Jerry?”

“No way,” the young man answered. “
This
part is fun, but that would be like work. And you know my allergy to anything academic.”

“Jerry,” Karl admonished his son good-naturedly. “If you don’t stop playing the eccentric, I’m going to tell Isabel your deep, dark secret.”

“No, Dad.
Please
.”

“What’s this?” Isabel demanded, her curiosity aroused to fever pitch.

There was now no holding back. Pracht disclosed the classified information.

“Jerry’s actually not a high school dropout.”

“I am too,” Jerry insisted perversely.

Ignoring him, his father spoke directly to Isabel.
“What really happened is that he was
kicked out
for conduct unbecoming—”

“See?” Jerry interposed.

“But with his courses at the Planetarium, he’d already earned enough credits to graduate, so they gave him a diploma as a going-away present.”

“Is this true?” Isabel demanded.

Jerry shrugged uneasily. “Well, kind of …”

“Listen,” Karl suggested. “Why don’t you sit down and tell Isabel all about it, while I get on the phone and see about having her theory published.”

She slumped into a chair and breathed a weary sigh. “Must we, Karl? Maybe this is so outrageous some people might be hesitant to print it.”

“You’re right, and even if they aren’t, there are so many guys out there waiting to shoot down whatever you do next. That’s why we need a strategy. Now, everything submitted to
Physical Review
is subject to peer evaluation—and even then the editors could still make hamburger meat of any article they wanted to savage.”

But he knew his politics.

“Make it short and concise so we can send it in as a
letter.
That way no reviewer can get his claws into it. And you can go public without being mugged or muzzled. It’s almost axiomatic—the biggest discoveries in modern science have had the smallest write-ups.”

Isabel broke her silence. “Do you think this can wait a day, Karl?” she asked with a touch of melancholy.

“What’s another twenty-four hours?” Pracht replied. “It’s waited since Sir Isaac Newton. But this is so uncharacteristic of you, Isabel. Are you getting cold feet?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just that whenever we announce this, the whole carnival will start again. Frankly, that’s the only part of my scientific career that I’ve really hated. All I care about is the work.”

“But Isa,” Jerry said, “You have to realize how important your discovery is.”

“Right,” his father echoed. “There’s a lot of talk
nowadays about what occurred after the Big Bang. The current thinking is that everything was extremely hot and therefore energetic. And at this primal moment, all the forces of nature were united and mixed intimately together. And what you’ve done can actually prove it. This is so amazing—a real godsend. You’d better be prepared for the brightest spotlights you’ve ever faced.”

51
 

Charlie Rosenthal cried.

He had been a doctor for more than twenty years, and the only other time he had lost control was when his son had fallen off his bike and lay unconscious in the hospital.

“I’m sorry, Adam. I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “You’re my best friend. And what kills me is that there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to help you.”

Adam put his hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “Hey, take it easy,” he said gently. “The worst is yet to come. Save your tears for then. Meanwhile, tell me what specialist is going to get the pleasure of my case.”

“I’ve asked around and there’s no question about it—the guy you should see is Walter Hewlett at Mass. General.”

“What makes him so special?” Adam asked phlegmatically.

“He won’t be treating you from a textbook, Coopersmith. His own father died of Alzheimer’s.”

Adam began to shout hysterically. “What the hell sort
of doctor are you, Rosenthal? You know the worst part of Alzheimer’s is not dying.”

“Right, Adam. Right,” Charlie responded nervously. “It’s just—well … the deterioration part—”

“—is worse than death,” Adam finished his thought.

But Charlie replied urgently, “Listen, except for AIDS, there’s no other area in medicine that’s being as thoroughly researched. This isn’t just a palliative pep talk.”

“I know, Charlie. They’re already aware that one defective protein is made from a gene on Chromosome 21. But none of it’ll be in time to do me the slightest good.”

“Well, old buddy, why don’t you talk that over with Walter? He’s doing some work with neurotrophic cells. I mean,
somebody
had to be the first to get a shot of penicillin and not die of an infection. Besides, Hewlett’s going to make history and pay a house call.”

Charlie put his arm around his suffering colleague as they walked from his book-lined study into the half-furnished living room where Joyce was talking to Anya by the light of the gas-burning fireplace, which magnified their shadows against the bare wall.

As the two women rose and started toward Adam, he suddenly exploded into ferocious rage.

“What do you people think you’re doing?” he bellowed. “Coming into my house like this, invading my privacy—bothering Anya?”

Charlie tried to calm him. “Take it easy, Adam. You’ve known Joyce for years. You were best man at our wedding.”

Adam’s reply electrified Charlie like a lightning bolt. “Who do you think you are?” he ranted. “The two of you are probably here to poison me.”

Anya tried to reorient him. “Darling, the Rosenthals are old friends.”

But Adam snapped at her as well. “Don’t tell me
lies,” he retorted. “Just get them out of here before I call the police.”

Charlie addressed Anya, his eyes broadcasting shock and sorrow. “I think we’ll go now. Make sure he takes those pills. Hewlett’ll be here before nine. Call me if you need anything.”

“Stop talking to my wife,” Adam shouted.

Charlie and Joyce exchanged a quick glance with Anya, who left the room to show them out.

Less than a minute later she was back in the living room with Adam. He was bent over, holding his head.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“My head, it feels like it’s splitting open,” he replied.

“Don’t worry, Adam, the doctor will be here in a little while.”

“What doctor?” Adam asked in continuing confusion. “All I need’s an aspirin.”

“Just sit here and rest while I get you one,” she said aloud, inwardly realizing that she herself was now afraid to be alone with him.

Anya returned with a glass of water, two aspirin, and the little yellow pill that—with luck—would becalm him till the doctor arrived.

What most surprised Anya was that, for a senior scientist, Walter Hewlett was so young.

“Thank you for coming over, Doctor.”

“It was the least I could do, Mrs. Coopersmith. Your husband won’t remember, but I was his student when he had to take over Max Rudolph’s course in mid-year. He was a great lecturer.”

Was, Anya thought to herself. I guess I must get used to having him referred to in the past tense.

They entered the living room and found Adam staring at the fire. He looked at them quizzically.

“Adam, this is Walter Hewlett,” Anya explained matter-of-factly. “He’s a neurologist at Mass. General. By sheer coincidence, he was a student of yours.”

“Really?” he remarked in what seemed a normal tone. “Since I only gave an actual course when I filled in for Max, that must have been in 1979. Am I right?”

Hewlett smiled. “That’s exactly when it was. You’ve got quite a memory, Dr. Coopersmith.”

“Would either of you like coffee?” Anya inquired, hoping to placate Adam by giving the impression that this was a social call.

“That would be fine,” the young specialist answered. And then, turning to the man who was both his host and his patient, asked, “And you, Adam?”

“Watch out for caffeine,” Adam replied, shaking an admonitory finger. “It actually causes cholesterol.”

He paused for an instant and smiled at Anya. “But I guess I don’t have to worry about that, do I, darling? Bring me a cup as well.”

Hewlett opened his attaché case and pulled out a large manila envelope. “With your wife’s permission, I’ve looked over the reports and the photographs you brought along from New Zealand.”

“New Zealand?” Adam asked quizzically. “Why would I go to New Zealand?”

“Well,” Hewlett answered, “I know you’re tired and it may have slipped your mind. But as I hope you know, I’m a neurologist and I believe you have a problem.”

“Really?” Adam reacted glassy-eyed.

Walter nodded. “I mean, naturally we’ll want to take our own scan. But to my mind, the pictures you brought along substantiate Moody’s diagnosis.” The young doctor paused and then said tentatively, “I think you’ve got Alzheimer’s.”