Antiphony (9 page)

“So I get up to the podium, the guy introduces me, and the room is full—I didn't expect such a big crowd, you know, for a talk on Perturbation Theory. But I guess they did want to hear
me.”
He shakes his head, thinking about the feeling of dread he had as the grad student introduced him with that long, fawning introduction.

Victor takes a puff of his cigar, the smell of it reaching out to Theodore, encircling him in a kind of dry, acrid web of smoke, scraping against his throat. Victor's eyes always seem watery to Theodore, as if he has seen so much of the universe, he is saddened by how much there is to know. His eyes are pinned to Theodore's words, as they travel through the smoke, trying to evaluate and understand.

“You panicked.”

“Yes.”

“You started talking before you started thinking. Just to talk.” He says this like he's seen it all before. He has seen nearly everything before.

“I did have an introduction all planned out—very smooth. I was going to lead them into the idea of a chain of knowing, how we can get from the fourth term all the way to infinity without losing the continuity of our framework. But that got twisted around in my head, or on my tongue, without the notes.” As he says this, he knows he hasn't told him the entire story. He has skipped over that little incident that happened in the hotel room where he heard the voice and sort of blacked out, or something, for a moment. But he has in his mind lumped that in with the general sense of panic, one of the symptoms of simply being overwhelmed by the moment.

“And then it just came out. It was something I had been thinking about a couple weeks ago—who knows where these thoughts come from. You know, I was lying down in the study at home, and I had the idea—it just came into my head—what if the universe is a giant thought? Instead of a machine.” He
looks at Victor to gauge his reaction. Maybe saying exactly what he said on the stage is not such a good idea.

“You said this, in front of all those people.”

“Yes.”

“And what else.”

“I said—” he hesitates now, thinking perhaps he can paraphrase it in some way that will make this less offensive. But his mind works on it for a moment, and there isn't really another way. “I said maybe—maybe—God is the missing piece in reaching a final theory.”

Victor closes his eyes and scrunches them shut tight, wincing. Theodore knows Victor has already heard about what happened in Santa Rosa, but he has not known what to expect from him here in the immediate aftermath. He has not been able to calculate how big the damage will be—he has swung from one extreme to the other in his envisioning of it; everything from a mild slap on the wrist to being fired on the spot.

When Victor opens his eyes again, they are more blurred and dark than ever. He jabs his cigar in the air, which sends a plume of ashes sailing across his desk. “Jesus Christ Teddy. Did you not even have the wherewithal to at least just shut up when something like this crossed your mind? I mean, come on. You can't go around saying things like this. Maybe in the coffee shop or the cafeteria with Pradeep the two of you can carry on with speculating about this and that, or maybe here in the office with me we can have a discussion about whether God exists or not. But to go into a big meeting like that and stand there as a representative of this Institute and talk about God being part of a final theory … ”

His words evaporate, carried up to the ceiling high above them along with the smoke he exhales.

A part of Theodore's mind has expanded now beyond the current moment. The mind can adjust itself to any new circumstance surprisingly easily, no matter how dire or dreadful. It must. It must go on perceiving, assembling sensations into thoughts and feelings, calculating its next move. This was supposed to be his office, the art prints he picked out were going to be hung on these very walls; but now, perhaps not. Now, a new possibility must be entertained. And the only direction Theodore can come to now is the way in which his mind has been trained over the years, a groove that has been worn into his thinking: He has an impulse to engage Victor in a discussion of the idea.

“Haven't you ever thought of it that way?”

Victor had not been thinking along these lines. He puts the cigar in his mouth and puffs on it for a moment, considering. The question at least seems to merit an answer from him.

“I find it unnecessary to attribute the universe we can observe to a God—a being—man has made in his own image. Vengeful. Obstinate. Wrathful. There is no need for it, and no evidence to support it. If it makes you feel better to think about it that way, fine. But don't bring this Institute into disrepute because of it.”

Theodore knows he should quit while he is behind. But part of him wants to at least explain, if not necessarily defend, the idea that came to him at that moment on the podium. The old habits of intellectual debate die hard.

“I understand, Vic—I know I was wrong to say it. Hell, I'm not even saying I believe in anything like that. Like I said, it was just an idea that came to me in that moment … of panic. Based on something I was daydreaming about a few weeks ago. It was just a kind of ‘What If?' moment. You know, that's how we need to think about things—or at least I do—if we are going to move things forward. We can't be afraid to ask ourselves any kind of question.” He can see that Victor is following along, tracking his thoughts. “Haven't you ever wondered, why there is anything, as opposed to nothing at all?”

“That's a pointless question,” he says, tapping the ash from the cigar into a ceramic bowl painted with a vivid African design. “Since there very clearly
is
something. Our job is to figure out how it came to be the way it is. Leave the philosophizing to the priests and the rabbis, and the … philosophers. As scientists, we can only go by observable, testable data. Not irrational thoughts or feelings. Or a vision that pops into your head.”

He has to argue this, he can't let it go. “But what about this, Vic—what if we are not allowing ourselves to see all the data that's out there, because it doesn't fit our conceptions of what is knowable. Or measureable. Maybe we
can't
see everything that will give us the answers we need using our five senses—mainly our eyes and ears—and the instruments that our hands and minds can fashion.”

“As a physicist, I hope that is not the case.” Victor sighs and emits a nebulous halo of smoke which curls and encircles his head. “I know that we tend to underestimate the distance to be traveled before we reach a Final Theory. But, as a physicist, I
have
to believe that it is attainable. I have to believe that the
Large Hadron Collider will get us very close to the answers we need.” He stares at Theodore, as if he is unsure of who he might be, how he got into his office. “And if you don't believe that as well, perhaps you're not the right man to take over the job of leading this Institute.”

Theodore knows he has crossed the line yet again. He needs to back off now.

“I'm sorry, Vic. I know I was wrong. You know me—I have to push it to the limit, and sometimes I get in trouble for that. Would you want someone who didn't ask the hard questions running this place? Would you want someone who always thinks inside the box?” He knows he has nothing to lose now. He looks around at the office, the windows high above them, which could have been his. “It's just that, through the course of history, every time we think we're ninety-nine percent of the way to knowing all there is to know, someone comes up with a radical new way of looking at things, and all the old received wisdom is proven to be a hundred percent wrong.”

“That's fine—I understand that too. But you were totally out of line in California, and we can go round and round about these things all day, but the bottom line is, you put me and the Institute in a very bad light. I've supported you from the very beginning. And I've been the one who was setting things up for the vote on Wednesday to go a certain way. And now you repay me by doing something like this?” He stubs the cigar out, jabbing it into the bottom of the African bowl. “No more talk—enough.” He pulls a piece of paper from underneath a book and slides it across the desk.

“This is a letter of retraction we have drafted for you, which we will publish in the next issue of
Physical Science Journal
. Take it home and read it over. If you want to keep your job here, you must sign this letter and have it back to me first thing tomorrow morning.”

Theodore holds the sheet of paper in his hand and glances through it. Certain words jump out at him:
misspoke
,
misunderstanding, metaphor,
and also
use of the word God.
He feels his face tense into a frown.

“You need to sign this, Ted. Your career is on the line. And even signing this, I can't make any guarantees. I'm doing what I can. I think I can make sure you keep your job, and that's a lot. You can stay on board, continue with the Plasma Dynamics research you and Pradeep have started. Keep your head low for a while and let this blow over.”

What he doesn't say, but is evident in his remark, is that the Directorship is out of the question. He can continue with the Plasma Dynamics research because Pradeep will be busy taking over leadership of the Institute.

Theodore closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He takes a deep breath and leans back in the chair. Of course, it was to be expected. How could it have been any other way?

He knows there is nothing for him to do but sign this. If he signs it, he can continue working, keep his house and some semblance of the life he and Ilene have come to know. He should be thankful he isn't being fired on the spot.

“I'll sign it.” He opens his eyes and looks at Victor again. “I'm sorry, Vic. I'm sorry I put you in a tough situation.”

Victor folds his hands on his belly. The most distasteful task he has to do today is done.

Theodore takes the paper and stands. And as he does so, his mind turns back to the question that has been haunting him. He looks at Victor and decides to ask him one more time.

“Even if we do eventually come up with a final Theory of Everything, that tells us exactly how it all works, there is one question science will never be able to answer.”

Victor stares at him, his sad eyes wide and unyielding, waiting for him to speak.

“Why?” Theodore says. “Why is there anything, as opposed to nothing at all?”

A
NOTHER WAY OF
looking at things eventually presents itself to Theodore, later that evening, as he takes his seat in one of the balcony boxes at the theater where the symphony orchestra is about to begin: He should be thankful that he
has
anything at all. Ilene is settling herself into the seat next to him, a plush velveteen-covered chair with tapioca-yellow arms that are carved and burnished with golden filigree. The symphony is one of their rare nights out together, an infrequent indulgence along with an occasional restaurant dinner or student recital at the university music hall. The long gaps between these nocturnal adventures into the heart of the city are more a sign of the satisfaction that exists within their lives at home than a constraint
applied by their finances. At the beginning of each season, a schedule of performances arrives in the mail, and the two of them consult the calendar to select three or four concerts they will plan to attend. It had seemed to be a good omen that Theodore's all-time favorite piece, Grieg's
Piano Concerto in A Minor
, was scheduled just two days before the Board Meeting at which he would be named to the position of Research Director, and they had both been looking forward to this evening as a kind of laudatory prelude to a week of celebration.

Now, the idea that he might not even be able to treat himself to an event such as this looms before him like the empty chasm of air beyond the railing of the balcony. He pictures himself stuck at home with a stack of high school physics papers to grade, or, worse, slogging through the evening shift at the supermarket, suffering the ignominy of bagging groceries for their more well-to-do neighbors. There are different levels of anguish and pain. He has not told Ilene yet about the letter Victor gave him to sign. He assured her when he arrived home from work that everything would be okay—he had talked to Victor and his job was secure. That was all she needed to know for the moment. He didn't want to spoil their night out with too many details—let her enjoy it. And he wanted to be able to sit here in their box, alone together with her one last time as someone who might still have a chance to do something important, something that might change the world forever.

The soloist for this evening's performance strides onto the stage to the applause of the conductor and the sixteen hundred people in the audience. What always amazes Theodore is how a soloist can simply walk up to the piano and nod at the conductor
and then immediately begin striking the keys with such force and control and precision. To the soloist, it must almost be as natural and thoughtless as breathing. The conductor nods back, raises his arms high in the air … and then drops them. A long rumbling roll of the tympani sends a delicious thrill up Theodore's spine as the soloist bangs out the first block chords of the piece, falling down the scale into a series of triplets, then gliding back up the keys again in a protracted ornamental run to introduce the theme. The music has the chilling crispness of icicles melting in the dim Norwegian sun, a pristine stream of notes that trickle past, underwoven by oboes and strings. There is a grandeur to this music that has always spoken to Theodore—the trumpets calling out their staccato punctuating rhythms to interrupt now and then the flowing melody that this rather stocky young woman is eliciting from the keys. The soloist must not be much older than twenty-five—a prodigy, a full lifetime of making beautiful music ahead of her. The lonely job of a solo performer such as this in a way reminds Theodore of the work he himself does, the hours of secluded repetition, the hard-fought process of bringing ideas to life. But this young woman must be able to crystalize all of her efforts into a twenty- or thirty-minute performance in front of an audience that is ten times as large as the one in that ballroom in California. What kind of stage fright must someone like her overcome?