The Krone Experiment (50 page)
Silence filled the room as Phillips finished
his description. The President stared into his glass. He gave his
head a small shake and looked up toward Phillips. “I must ask again
how long it will be before this thing becomes overtly dangerous in
the way you have just described? With the earthquakes and tidal
waves?”
“Such a thing could happen now,” Phillips
said, “particularly in the Far East or along the coast of
California where the orbital plane intersects regions of tectonic
activity.”
“But when will such things begin to occur
with regularity?” the President inquired.
“Very difficult to answer,” Phillips shook
his head, “perhaps a hundred years, maybe as much as a
thousand.”
“In a sense then, we have that long before we
must cope with this thing directly,” the President asserted, “that
long before massive deaths begin to occur.”
Phillips thought for a moment. “Yes, the hole
will become a deadly menace at some point, but that may not be a
measure of our grace period in terms of taking active steps against
it.”
The President raised an eyebrow in question.
Phillips unclasped his hands to draw an elliptical path in the air
with his finger. “As the hole follows its orbit, it is subject to
drag forces as the inevitable adjunct of its consuming the matter
of the Earth. These drag forces will slowly cause the hole to
spiral to the center of the Earth. After a certain period of time,
the orbit of the hole will no longer carry it above the surface of
the Earth. After that it will be totally inaccessible to us and our
fate will be truly sealed. Right now it is difficult to say whether
the hole will disappear beneath the surface before or after the
massive earthquakes begin. We will not have to rely on theoretical
estimates for long, however. Observations currently underway will
tell us directly how fast the settling is occurring even if we have
no accurate way of predicting when regular extensive damage will
begin.”
The President rested his forehead against his
hand, leaning on the arm of the chair. He rotated his head from
that position and once more inquired of Phillips, “There remains
one more major question then, doesn’t there?” He looked straight
into Phillips’ eyes. “What can we do about it?”
Phillips returned the President’s gaze
forthrightly. “Mr. President, on this issue I must be perfectly
candid. So far none of our discussions have produced a glimmer of
cause for optimism.”
Phillips glanced at the other two men and
then returned his attention to the President. “Understand that I do
not mean that we must accept defeat. We have only just begun to
study the problem, and it would be foolhardy to suggest that
because a possible solution is not apparent now that one will not
be forthcoming in the future, if enough ingenuity and manpower are
brought to bear. But it would be equally foolhardy to minimize the
magnitude of the problem. This object is so tiny and so massive
that it cannot be moved except by the most titanic of forces. My
colleagues and I are far from ready to give up on the problem, but
we must all be prepared to concede at some point that there is no
solution. It certainly is conceivable that the Earth is
doomed.”
The President absorbed the gloomy assessment.
“Well, we can’t give up without a fight. You spoke of manpower and
ingenuity, Professor. What can this office do to provide the
resources necessary to find a solution to this problem, presuming
one exists?”
“Just now the stress must be more on
ingenuity than brute manpower,” replied Phillips. “At the present
stage we need an idea, or set of ideas, some hint of a useful
program. Then I imagine that a massive engineering program such as
the Manhattan Project or the Apollo program would be called
for.”
“From the scientific point of view,” the
President rubbed a hand over tired eyes, “can we proceed without
the Russians?”
Phillips pondered his answer. “I appreciate
the dilemma you are in. You cannot lightly submit to coercion. We
have many great scientists in this country, men and women who would
gladly give up careers of research to work with you on this.
Perhaps, no, we don’t need the Russians in that sense. But you ask
me as a scientist. I will tell you this. I do not know the depth of
Korolev’s political connections, although I have every reason to
believe that he has great influence. But I do know that there is no
brain on Earth that I would rather have working on this problem
than that of Viktor Korolev.”
The President nodded, then spoke. “Gentlemen,
I have much to think about. Please keep yourselves on call.”
They left the White House by a side exit and
climbed into Drefke’s waiting limousine that whisked them away
through the quiet Washington streets.
*****
On the evening of January 5th, a taxi made
its way from Logan Airport, skirting the Charles River along the
edge of Boston. Eventually, it came to Newton and slowed on the
tortuous suburban streets. The air was noticeably colder outside
the city, and the snowflakes fell more thickly. The passengers
huddled in the corners of the flat Checker seat listening to the
wheels plow through the slush. The smaller figure tried to ignore
the stream of frigid air that came from his window that would not
quite close. He wore a topcoat, but shivered from lack of natural
insulation. The man was in his early forties, of average height,
thin to the point of frailness. His head was round in profile, but
thin so his face was a flattened oval. His sparse hair was combed
straight back; a trim Vandyke adorned his chin. He wore old
nondescript horn-rim glasses, the temples of which showed the grey
corrosion of long exposure to facial grease.
The other passenger was a large, hulking man.
His coarse slavic features were broken by a relaxed smile as he
looked out at the snow. His bulky winter coat was undone to display
a grey suit of plain utilitarian cut. His mind spun with the
excitement of his first visit here, and his eyes had captured all
the details—from the gross flashing signs atop Kenmore Square to
the fine old houses with large yards they now passed by.
The taxi finally pulled up in front of a
large white house on which the porch light signaled welcome. The
cabbie flicked the plexiglass partition open without looking back,
disgruntled at the thought of the long trip back to the airport
without a fare and scheming for a way to cover that loss. The slim
passenger grimaced at the figure on the meter despite it being
covered by his expense account and shoved some bills through to the
driver, waving for him to keep the change. The driver showed his
gratitude by remaining immobile while his passengers worked the
doors open and stepped out. The smaller man’s left foot landed
ankle deep in water in the gutter. He uttered a quiet exclamation
of dismay, shoved the door shut and stepped gingerly to the plowed
walkway leading to the front door. He navigated the cleared path,
waited for his companion, then pushed the button as he stomped his
wet shoe.
Inside Wayne Phillips rose quickly from the
couch and got to the door just before his wife who had come in from
the kitchen. He opened the door and greeted the men on the
stoop.
“Clarence! Viktor! Come in!”
He turned to his wife, “Betsy, you remember
Clarence Humphreys from Princeton? And I would like you to meet my
good friend and colleague, Viktor Korolev, from the Soviet Union.
They’ve been working together in Moscow on our project.”
“Of course,” she nodded, “how are you? I’m
afraid we’ve welcomed you with rather dismal weather.” She spoke
with a British accent, being a lifelong cherished companion from
Phillips’ youth at Oxford.
Helping Humphreys off with his topcoat,
Phillips was too close to notice the soggy shoe. From her vantage
point a few feet off and blessed with an eye for such things, his
wife saw it and gave a small gasp.
“Oh, my! You’ve stepped in a puddle!”
Humphreys acknowledged this misfortune
sheepishly.
Betsy Phillips immediately took complete
control.
“Here. You sit down before the fire and get
those wet, cold shoes off. Professor Korolev, won’t you sit here?
I’ll fetch a pair of Wayne’s slippers and fix you both a nice hot
toddy.” She guided her guests toward chairs in front of the
fireplace. Alex Runyan arose from the couch, his right arm encased
in a sling.
“Viktor, welcome to the United States.” He
pumped the Russian’s hand awkwardly, backward, with his left hand.
“After all these years—such a delight to have you here. When your
name came up in La Jolla, I never actually thought I’d see you
working with us.” He turned to the other scientist. “Clarence, how
are things in Moscow?”
“Hello, Alex,” Humphreys returned the
greeting. “Well, it’s snowing there too, but the rivers are still
in their banks.” He lifted his wet foot and both men grinned.
Humphreys sat and with a disdain for
propriety that belied his academic standing, quickly removed his
shoes and socks. He extended white, blue-veined feet toward the
fire and wiggled his toes. Korolev looked around the room. It was
large and tastefully decorated, mostly in colonial, in keeping with
the house that dated back to shortly after the Revolution. The
floors were original, wide planks held down with wooden pegs. He
was admiring a large heavily decorated Christmas tree in the corner
when Betsy Phillips returned with a pair of faintly scruffy
slippers and a tray upon which she balanced two steaming
concoctions in tall glasses. Humphreys slid his feet into the
slippers and smiled gratefully.
The Russian toasted her with his glass and
smiled his broad smile.
“I’m glad you could stop over before we have
to go to Washington,” Phillips said, after his wife had discreetly
retired. “That is when the real work will begin, but Alex and I are
anxious for a chance to hear your ideas while there is still a
little peace and quiet. I understand Krone’s notes have been
useful?”
“Absolutely! They’re invaluable,” said
Humphreys enthusiastically. “The man understood an incredible
amount, and there’s an even greater wealth of information implicit
in the computer data that will require years to completely analyze.
We’ve only had time to scratch the surface.”
Humphreys looked at his Russian
colleague.
“Things have been so hectic. We’ve been under
tremendous pressure to digest those notebooks.”
He spoke to Phillips and Runyan.
“I want both of you to know what an immense
help Viktor has been. More than that, most of the time I have
foundered in his wake.”
Korolev nodded in silent sober acquiescence
at the praise.
“I don’t know what bolt of enlightenment hit
the Soviet hierarchy,” Humphreys continued, “volunteering his
services for this project when he was not even allowed to attend a
conference before. Anyway, we should all be grateful.”
“Ho,” said the Russian in his deep rumbling
baritone. “I explain certain facts to them. Sometimes they
understand. But this is a complicated thing. Your government. My
government.” He waved a hand in dismissal and tossed down a healthy
slug of his drink.
“The fire was unfortunate,” Korolev said.
“Some important things are missing.”
“Viktor has filled in most of the missing
parts,” Humphreys explained, “but there are a couple of awkward
gaps. The books weren’t the only casualty. I’d heard you’d been
hurt, Alex. How’s the arm?”
Runyan flexed his fingers slowly. “I had
surgery again a month ago,” he said. “Damn tendons are tough to
heal.” He leaned back and fingered his beard to show the scar on
his jaw. “Got me in the chin and arm with one blow. Tough lady, let
me tell you.”
Humphreys shook his head in sympathy.
“Where is this man Krone now?” Korolev
inquired. “I must talk with him.”
“Unfortunately, he’s in no condition to talk
even yet,” Runyan explained. “He’s in Walter Reed Hospital, and
they’re doing everything they can to bring him around.”
“How about the woman?” Humphreys asked.
“Well, under the circumstances, I didn’t
press charges. Everything she did was under coercion. She’s got an
apartment in Washington I hear and visits Krone daily. The doctors
think she is a beneficial factor.” Runyan stared into the fire,
recalling his encounter with Maria Latvin, and shivered
slightly.
“Listen,” Runyan brightened, shaking off his
reverie, “we want to hear more about this idea of yours. You think
you have some way of attacking the holes?”
“Well, it’s not fully worked out yet,” said
Humphreys, “but we do have a proposal. I wish we had a bit more
time. I’m not so sure how we will fare trying to convince the
President and his advisors of its workability.”
“Try it out on us,” encouraged Phillips. “You
suggested in your letter that stimulated emission was
involved?”
“That’s right. You know how the principle
works in lasers. Atoms are energized and ready to emit a photon of
light. Then if a seed photon is sent in, it stimulates one of the
atoms to emit an identical photon. The two photons then induce the
emission of two more identical photons, the four become eight, the
eight, sixteen and so on, leading to a chain reaction.
“The same process can be made to work on any
system that radiates. If a thing emits photons spontaneously, then
it can be induced to emit photons on cue under the proper
circumstances. Viktor pointed out that, in particular, this applies
to black holes. We know that because of the quantum mechanical
uncertainty principle, the event horizon of a black hole is
slightly fuzzy and that light leaks out. Every black hole slowly
radiates away its substance. The question is, can our black hole be
stimulated to radiate away its mass and disappear faster than it
would ordinarily?”
