The God Particle (4 page)

‘Okay, who can tell me how we calculate the interaction
between charged particles, in quantum electrodynamics?’ Tom Halligan stared at
each one of the twenty-two blank faces that stared back at him in turn. He may
as well have just asked the question in Cantonese. The reaction would have been
the same, he thought.

‘Anybody?’ he encouraged.

A pimply adolescent, who was wearing a cardigan that looked
as though it had been knitted by his grandmother, raised his hand hesitantly.
‘Is it Einstein’s theory of relativity?’

Halligan exhaled slowly, looking down at his feet. He raised
his head and addressed the class in general.

‘Has anybody heard of Halligan’s theory?’ The same blank
expressions. ‘Halligan’s theory states that, if you use that specific answer
every time somebody asks you a question, one day it will be the right answer.
Unfortunately, today isn’t that day.’

Smirks appeared on all the blank faces, apart from the
pimply adolescent’s, who blushed with embarrassment.

‘The answer this time, my friends, is Feynman Diagrams.’ The
bell rang signalling the end of class. Halligan had to shout over the top of it
to make himself heard. ‘Which is what I want you to write an essay on, as part
of tonight’s homework assignment. Two thousand words, on my desk, the day after
tomorrow.’

With that, the class filtered out of the door, leaving Tom
Halligan to pack his notes and stationery into his battered, brown, leather
briefcase.

He looked up, expecting to see an empty classroom, but
instead was rather surprised to see an elderly gentleman sitting on the back
row.

‘Hello, can I help you? I take it you’re not one of my
undergraduates?’

‘No, Professor Halligan, and I’m sorry if I startled you,’
replied the older man. ‘My name is Frederick Volker. I am President of the CERN
Council.’

Tom recognised the name, but had never met the man in
person.

‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ Tom queried.

Frederick rose, rather slowly, from his seat at the back of
the auditorium and made his way, cautiously, down the stairs to where Tom was
standing.

‘The honour is all mine, I assure you, Professor Halligan,’
Frederick said warmly, grasping Tom’s hand and shaking it effusively. ‘I have
been following your career rather closely.’

The man reminded Tom of his favourite grandfather. His hands
were soft, but his grip was firm. His round face was framed by neatly-trimmed
hair and beard that were alabaster white. When he smiled, his whole face lit up
and his eyes changed colour from sea-green to azure blue. His tall, slender
figure had a slight stoop, yet he looked the reverse of feeble. He was dressed
immaculately, in a three-piece tweed suit that had obviously been designed by
one of the leading fashion houses. His shoes were of the finest Italian
leather, his shirt Savile Row. Frederick Volker certainly had expensive tastes
when it came to couture, Tom mused.

‘Is there somewhere a little more private we could go?’
Frederick enquired.

‘Of course,’ Tom replied. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’ With
that, Tom picked up his briefcase and led the elderly gentleman out of the room
and down the corridor to his office.

As an Institute Professor, he was entitled to a corner
office, which afforded windows on two sides and was larger than the normal
faculty offices. The position of Institute Professor was the highest possible
honour that could be awarded by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT)
and it put Tom in a group of elite academics, who had ‘Demonstrated exceptional
distinction by a combination of leadership, accomplishment and service in the
scholarly, educational and general intellectual life of the Institute or wider
academic community,’ according to MIT's policy manual. In reality, Tom had been
rewarded for what he enjoyed doing the most, namely teaching and research.

‘Please, take a seat,’ said Tom gesturing to one of the
high-backed leather Chesterfields.

‘Thank you, Professor Halligan,’ said Frederick, lowering
himself into the sumptuous armchair.

‘Please, call me Tom.’

‘Thank you, and you must call me Frederick. By the way,
Charles Brannigan sends his regards.’

‘You know Charles?’

Charles had been Tom’s mentor at the Brookhaven National
Laboratory, on Long Island, New York when he was doing his dissertation there.
At the time, it was the location of the world’s largest collider before being
superseded by the one at CERN.

‘Yes, we bump into each other now and again, conferences,
seminars, that sort of thing,’ Frederick replied, vaguely.

Tom wondered what could have instigated a conversation
between these two eminent figures that involved him, but decided not to say
anything.

With the pleasantries out of the way, Tom was becoming
anxious to know what had brought this distinguished gentleman all the way to
New England, in person, to see him.

‘So, what can I do for you, Frederick?’

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Frederick replied, sensing
Tom’s anxiety. ‘Are you aware that we recently lost our Director General?’

Tom had read in the newspapers about the death of Professor Morantz.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. It must have been a shock. Suicide, wasn’t it?’

Sadness clouded the older man’s gaze. ‘Yes, Professor
Morantz had been under a great deal of pressure, for some time. There had been
various setbacks with the collider which, I understand, he took personally.’

Tom could tell by the inflection in his voice that Frederick
was finding it difficult to discuss the circumstances surrounding Professor
Morantz’s death.

‘He has left a void that can only be filled by somebody with
exceptional credentials,’ continued Frederick. ‘After much deliberation, the
council would like to offer the position to you, Tom.’

‘Me! Why me?’ said Tom, astonished.

‘As I said earlier,’ Frederick replied, ‘I’ve been following
your career closely and I believe that you have everything we are looking for.
Academically, you are regarded as the definitive authority on subatomic
particles, by your peers. The research that you have done on quantum
electrodynamics has advanced the way forward in terms of our own search for the
God particle, while your published articles expound theories that go far beyond
our current understanding of the origins of the universe. In short, you are a
visionary with the passion and knowledge to support your hypotheses, and that’s
exactly what we need to drive the project to the next level at CERN.’

‘I... I’m flattered, if not a little taken aback,’ stuttered
Tom.

‘I know this is all very sudden,’ replied Frederick, ‘and I
don’t expect a decision straight away. But we are at a very critical point. It
wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that we are on the verge of a breakthrough,
the outcome of which could hold the key to how the universe and everything in
it was created.’ He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tom. ‘I’ll
leave you to your deliberations. I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston if
you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll phone you in two days for your
decision.’ He then shook Tom’s hand, turned on his heels and left.

Tom stood there, speechless.

The day had started off as unremarkable as any other day.
His alarm woke him just before 6 am. He poured himself a coffee and stared out
of his window at the campus as it came to life. He was living in Ashdown House,
one of the undergraduate apartment blocks, normally reserved for students with
families.

He had been there for nearly six months, since leaving his
marital home after discovering his wife was having an affair with one of his
colleagues. There was no drama or culpability; he and Susan had just drifted
apart. If anybody was to blame, Tom blamed himself; the number of nights spent
in his research lab or at his computer, creating theoretical models or typing
up a new paper, must have contributed to the act of driving his wife into the
arms of another man.

He finished his coffee and donned his tracksuit. He was
learning to take an intrinsic pride in his appearance. He had to admit that he
had let himself go a little, especially around the midriff; this fact was
pointed out by Susan in one of their ‘heart to heart’ discussions shortly after
their breakup, along with the fact that his haircut and most of his clothes
made him look older than his 36 years.

The hair was the easiest to resolve. He had gone to the
on-campus hairdresser, sat down in one of the barber’s chairs and said simply,
‘Make me look younger!’ It had worked. The stylist, used to giving the students
the latest fashion haircut, had moderated her urge to replicate the most
commonly requested ‘messy bed-head’ look and, instead, went for a more George
Clooney meets Matt Damon, sophisticated but sporty, style. It had taken years
off him and had even elicited the odd wolf-whistle from some of his female
undergraduates.

The clothes were next; not such an easy fix. He had never
been a follower of fashion per se; the latest trends were as alien to him as a
sub-atomic particle would be to a football coach. Luckily, that wasn't the case
with his brother, Matt, who would always buy him a designer shirt for Christmas
or his birthday. It was to him he turned for advice as his fashion guru.

Growing up, the two brothers had always been like chalk and
cheese. Tom's fascination for science stemmed from a chemistry set bought for
him by one of his uncles. At school he would always get top grades in
chemistry, physics and mathematics, so by the time he was eighteen it was
inevitable that he would go to university.

Matt, on the other hand, was the archetypal athlete. At
school, there wasn’t a sport that he didn’t excel in, but it was baseball where
he really shone. Whilst captaining the local youth team, he was spotted by a
New York Yankees’ talent scout and signed up to a four-year apprenticeship.
Leaving home at sixteen, he moved into dormitories on the outskirts of
Manhattan, where he spent twelve hours a day practising and perfecting his swing
until, finally, he was called up to play in the Major League.

Tom's hand-eye coordination was non-existent. He was always
the last to be picked for any team sport at school. He did have a certain
amount of kudos for having a brother who won every cup there was to win, but
that didn’t detract from his own humiliation of being left on the sidelines.
Instead, he found solace in science.

‘Matt. Hi, it's Tom. How do you fancy a shopping spree this
weekend, just the two of us?’

Matt could never resist an invitation from his little
brother and caught the next plane out of JFK to Boston.

The resulting transformation, from dour professor to stylish
academic, was remarkable. Out went the cardigans, beige chinos and loafers, and
in came merino wool sweaters, Armani trousers and designer shoes. His black,
thick-framed glasses were replaced by rimless Gucci bifocals.

Tom had to admit that the makeover did give him a certain
gravitas, as he caught his reflection in the mirror on the way out of his
apartment to start his morning jog.

***

 ‘How did it go?’ The voice on the other end of the line
came straight to the point.

‘Good. I think he was taken a little aback by our offer, but
I could tell he was definitely intrigued,’ Frederick responded. He was now back
in his hotel room, having spent the afternoon since leaving Tom at the Hayden
Planetarium, a short walk from where he was staying.

‘Did he ask about Professor Morantz?’

‘No. He had read about his death in the papers, but I
suspect, with his inquisitive mind, that that won't be enough to satisfy his
curiosity,’ Frederick replied.

‘There is nothing that...’

‘Just one moment, I've another call coming through,’
Frederick interrupted, putting the call on hold.

‘Hello, Frederick Volker here.’

‘Frederick, it's Tom Halligan.’

‘Tom! Nice to hear from you, although I have to admit I
didn’t expect you to call so soon.’

Tom gave a short laugh. ‘When you left, it took me all of
ten minutes to make up my mind. It would be a privilege and a pleasure to
accept your offer. When do you want me to start?’

The flight from Logan Airport in Boston to Geneva had taken
a little over ten hours, with a scheduled stop at London Heathrow.

Tom was relieved to be finally on his way, as the endless goodbyes
and parties were taking its toll. By nature he wasn’t used to being the centre
of attention; but, when he announced his departure to friends, family and
colleagues, he had no choice and was thrust into the limelight. The university
delivered a moving eulogy of the academic contribution he had made to his
department, which was applauded by students and fellow lecturers alike; his
brother professed his undying love for him in a bar downtown after far too many
brandies, while his close circle of friends organised a French-themed party (he
didn’t have the heart to tell them that Geneva was actually in Switzerland),
which involved a French maid kissogram, a meal in Brasserie Jo’s and far too
many brandies.

His parents invited the whole extended family around –
including Susan, his ex, but not Jeff, her new partner – for a lavish Sunday
roast dinner. His mother didn’t have the greatest culinary skills, but she
could certainly pull out all the stops when it came to a family gathering.

His anxiety about starting a new life in Switzerland was
tempered by the university offering to keep his position open for as long as he
needed it, and his brother promising to visit him at every opportunity,
‘outside the baseball season, of course’.

Susan, on the other hand, was more apathetic. However, the
fact that he didn’t have to keep bumping into Jeff at work, who had once said
to him, rather melodramatically, ‘This University isn’t big enough for the both
of us’, more than compensated for her lack of interest.

All in all, it had taken him a month to say his goodbyes and
tie up any loose ends at work. CERN had provided him with an American Airlines
First Class ticket to Geneva and told him that he would be greeted at the
airport on his arrival. He had managed to get a night flight and was able to
grab a few hours’ sleep, in between the turbulence; as a result, when he landed
in the morning, he was feeling relatively fresh.

He collected his suitcases from the carousel and headed for
the ‘nothing to declare’ channel, dreading the solitary walk down the line of
waiting relatives on the other side of the glass partition. He always felt like
he was emerging onto a catwalk. As the glass doors slid open, he
self-consciously scanned the apprehensive crowd, searching for his name on a
plaque. It didn’t take him long to spot the CERN logo on a laminated card being
held aloft by a genial-looking man with a dark complexion, who smiled
expectantly at each of the disembarking passengers as they approached him.

‘Hi, I’m Professor Halligan. Are you here to meet me?’ Tom,
unsure of his new organisation’s preferred salutation, reverted to his formal
title.

‘Yes, Professor, sahib,’ beamed the man, using the Indian
word as a mark of respect for his master.

‘Please, call me Tom,’ said the professor, putting his
suitcases down and extending his hand.

‘I am Anjit Gopal Bose,’ said the man, shaking the proffered
hand vigorously. ‘But most people call me Ajay. Welcome to Geneva, Profess… er,
Tom,’ Ajay said, still holding onto Tom’s hand. ‘Please follow me.’

Tom recovered his hand and reached for his suitcases, but
Ajay was there first. Picking the luggage up with surprising ease, given his
diminutive stature, he set off towards the car park at a brisk pace.

Tom followed on behind carrying his flight bag over his
shoulder. He couldn’t help but notice that Ajay’s dark blue suit was slightly
too big for him and suspected that it may be his only one, or borrowed to wear
on special occasions, such as collecting visitors from the airport. His boyish
face was made to look prematurely older by the thick horseshoe moustache he was
trying to grow, but this too looked too big for his slender features. His shock
of thick black hair was neatly groomed and as shiny as his suit.

‘Where are you from, Ajay?’ Tom enquired, trying to keep
pace with him.

‘My family are originally from Kolkata, or Calcutta as you
probably know it.’

‘You’re a long way from home. What brings you all the way to
Switzerland?’

‘My father was a scientist and so was my grandfather. You
could say it runs in the family.’

‘What did they specialise in?’ Tom was now intrigued.

‘Sub-atomic particles.’

‘That’s a coincidence, that’s my…’ Tom didn’t finish his
sentence. He stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open, in the middle of the
airport concourse. Ajay carried on walking and had managed to cover thirty feet
by the time Tom realised that he was being left behind and was attracting
quizzical glances from his fellow travellers. He sprinted to catch up with
Ajay.

‘What did you say your surname was?’ Tom asked, grabbing
Ajay’s arm to slow him down.

‘Bose.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Satyendra Bose?’ Tom probed.

‘Yes, he was my grandfather,’ Ajay responded
matter-of-factly.

Tom could hardly contain his excitement. Within his field,
Satyendra Nath Bose was regarded, by many, as one of the founding fathers of
particle physics. At the age of 30, Bose was instrumental in a key statistical
discovery. He’d sent a paper to Albert Einstein describing a statistical model
that led to the discovery of what would later be called the ‘Bose-Einstein
condensate phenomenon’. The paper described the two fundamental classes of
sub-atomic particles – bosons, which he named after himself, and fermions,
after the Italian physicist Enrico Fermi. Peter Higgs continued the research in
the 1960s, using the theories set down by his predecessors, and purported the
existence of a specific boson that would explain the very existence of the
Universe. Simply put, without Bose there would be no Higgs, without Higgs there
would be no God Particle, and without the God Particle there would be no
Universe.

Bose never received the recognition that he deserved by his
peers. Whilst several Nobel prizes were awarded to research relating to the
concepts of the boson, Bose himself was never honoured. In 1954, some thirty
years after his ground-breaking paper was published, the Indian government
finally acquiesced by conferring Bose with the Padma Vibhushan, the highest
possible civilian commendation.

Tom had studied Bose’s model as an undergraduate and, to
him, there was little doubt that the man was a genius. He idolised him, as a
football fan would his favourite player. And here he was, in the middle of an
airport, having his bags carried by his grandson.

‘Did you know your grandfather well?’ he asked Ajay, who had
found a trolley and was loading the suitcases onto it.

‘No, unfortunately he died before I was born,’ replied Ajay.
‘But my father used to tell me stories about him all the time.’

‘Please Ajay, you must tell me all about him,’ said Tom.
‘What was he like?’

‘But I have to get you back to CERN, or they will be worried
about where you are,’ Ajay said nervously.

Tom checked his watch. It was 8.15 am. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll
cover it off,’ Tom said, trying to reassure him. ‘I’ll just tell them that I
got delayed going through customs.’

‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ Ajay responded, with a smile.

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

They found a coffee shop in the airport and, for the next
two hours, Ajay recounted the stories his father had told him about his grandfather.
Tom was enthralled, asking the odd question here and there to elicit more
details about a particular incident. However, he was quite happy to sit back
and listen to Ajay’s monologue, whilst sipping his cappuccino.

‘…and that was the second time my father had the pleasure of
meeting Mr Einstein…’ Ajay was in mid-flow when Tom’s cell phone rang.

‘Sorry, Ajay, I have to take this call,’ Tom announced
apologetically.

‘Tom? It’s Frederick Volker. Is everything alright? We were
expecting you hours ago.’ The paternal voice sounded concerned.

‘Frederick! Good to hear from you. Yes, yes, everything’s
fine,’ replied Tom. ‘Just a spot of bother with some duty free purchases, but
it’s all sorted now and we’re on our way.’ He gave Ajay a conspiratorial wink.

‘Okay, we’ll see you shortly,’ said Volker ending the call.

‘I think I’ve played enough truant for one day,’ Tom said,
getting up from the table. ‘But you must promise me that you’ll finish your
stories when we get back to CERN.’

***

It was a short drive from the airport to CERN, and Ajay had
just enough time to finish the episode about when his father had met Albert
Einstein for the second time. All too soon they arrived at the security
entrance of the complex. Ajay showed his ID card to the man in the hut and the
barrier rose to allow them through.

Tom had googled ‘CERN’ to gather as much information as he
could about the organisation before his arrival, but what the websites failed
to portray was the sheer size of the campus, sprawling off into the distance,
where it seemed to meet the base of the Jura mountains. The buildings were
mainly utilitarian in their design and reminded Tom of his own university’s
campus - function before form. He could see that the architects had at
least tried to establish a pleasant environment to work in, by spreading the
buildings out and creating ‘green spaces’ in between, which were laid mainly to
lawn. Trees seemed to have been randomly planted in clumps or in rows around
car parks in an effort to break up the concrete monotony.

He could see a giant dome in the distance, like a
half-buried golf ball, which he recognised from his Internet research as the
Globe of Science and Innovation, a visitor centre, frequented mainly by schools
and visiting dignitaries. Next to that was a private runway with a single
corrugated steel hangar built adjacent to it. He knew that everything above
ground was only the tip of the iceberg. The real work went on three hundred
feet below ground where the Collider was buried; this was not just for
aesthetic and financial reasons (it would have been so much more costly to tear
up the Franco-Swiss countryside and implant an ugly grey tunnel over its
farms), but also because the Earth provides the greatest radioactive shielding.

They drove to the facility’s main reception building, a
six-storey-high concrete and glass structure, which housed the control centre
and ancillary offices.

As they stepped out of the car, Tom noticed a bronze statue
incongruously erected outside the entrance to the building. Its intricate
detail and delicate features were at odds with its modern minimalist
surroundings and would have been more at home in a museum or temple, rather
than a research facility. The six-foot high statue depicted a semi-naked dancer
of Asian origin, wearing an ornamental headdress and encircled by a ring of
flames. He had four arms, two of which held objects, flames in one hand and an
hourglass in the other. He posed with his left leg elegantly raised, balancing
on what appeared to be a prostrate dwarf holding a cobra.

‘That is Shiva Nataraja, Lord of the Dance,’ Ajay
volunteered, noticing Tom’s frown.

The explanation did nothing to relieve Tom’s expression.

Ajay tried again. ‘It’s a Hindu god.’

Tom’s frown deepened. ‘But why is it here?’

‘It was a gift from my government.’ Ajay hoped this would be
enough to satisfy Tom’s curiosity.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Tom, not really seeing at all, but sensing
that he wouldn’t get much more information out of Ajay. He therefore made a
mental note to ask Frederick more about its significance as he walked past it
and through the revolving doors into the building.

Frederick was waiting in reception to greet him; he had
obviously been informed of Tom’s arrival by the security guard.

‘Tom, you made it at last! Welcome to CERN.’ Frederick shook
Tom’s hand, warmly. ‘I trust Ajay has been looking after you?’

‘Yes, he’s been quite entertaining,’ replied Tom, directing
his comments at Ajay with a smile.

‘Good! Ajay, could you please take Professor Halligan’s bags
to his room in the accommodation block. Thank you,’ Frederick said to Ajay,
dismissing him. ‘Come, let me introduce you to the rest of the team. They’re
dying to meet you.’ Frederick put his arm around Tom’s shoulders and guided him
through the frosted glass doors at the end of the reception area.

‘What’s the story with Ajay?’ Tom asked, as he was being
escorted down a long, white, sterile corridor.

‘You could say that Ajay is my ward,’ Frederick explained.
‘I promised his father, before he died, that I would look after him and make
sure he would come to no harm. He’s a simple soul, not academically bright,
unlike his father and grandfather.’

‘Yes, Ajay did mention that he was Satyendra Bose’s
grandson.’

Frederick laughed, but not unkindly.

‘Yes, unfortunately, he didn’t inherit his grandfather’s
scientific genes. Ajay’s father was one of my closest friends; we worked
together, for years, on a number of projects. One day, there was a tragic
accident - Ajay must have been seven or eight at the time. The equipment
we were working with malfunctioned, causing a massive radiation leak. I had
just stepped out of the lab to get a coffee, otherwise we would both have
received a fatal dose. By the time we had got our radiation suits on and were
able to go back into the lab, it was too late for Ajay’s father. We managed to
get him into the decontamination chamber but he died on the way to hospital.
Ajay’s mother had died in childbirth and his father was an only child, so
really I was the closest thing he had to a relative.’

By now they had reached the far end of the corridor.
Frederick had paused to finish his story, before swiping his security card to
open another set of frosted glass doors.