Gravity's Chain (11 page)

‘It's weird to hear you talking about creativity. I never think of scientists as being creative—it runs against the grain of the image of the scientist poring over his experiment.'

‘Great science is at heart truly creative. All the great scientific masterworks: gravity, relativity, quantum theory—they're all works of beauty, beautiful in their basic simplicity, in their power to affect our lives, to change us all. If only I could do the same. In my quiet moments I dream of touching that greatness.'

‘Does Mary understand what you yearn for?'

‘To be honest, no.'

‘Let's drink some more tequila. Let's seal our new-found understanding.'

‘You pour, I'll drink.'

We drank for an hour. Caroline brought the tequila bottle and a plate of ice from the kitchen and we poured and dipped our hands in the plate like children fishing for sweets at a birthday party. Soon I was drunk, my head spun and I started floating whenever I closed my eyes. Caroline giggled when she stood, half fell and steadied herself by clutching my knee. ‘Let's have some music, shall we?' With a little effort she stood in front of a small tapedeck on some shelves opposite the couch where I sat. ‘Ah yes,' she muttered to herself as she found a tape, dropped the plastic cover on the floor and noisily inserted the tape into the machine. John Lennon's ‘Woman' blasted the room.

‘Good choice.'

‘You like Lennon?' She turned, her breasts swaying against the flimsy material of her shirt as they pushed to be free. ‘You know,
Jack, I don't think you can like both Lennon and McCartney. I mean, you can like their songs, but not them as people. For me it's one or the other. Lennon is dangerous and sexy. McCartney is safe, more like a husband asleep on a Saturday afternoon. I'll take Lennon every time. How about you?'

‘When you put it like that I'd have to say Lennon.'

‘Do you smoke?'

‘Sometimes.'

She pulled a small packet from under the sofa cushion, rolled a joint with great precision and lit it. We relaxed and smoked, neither talking for several minutes.

‘Jack?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you want to try something different?'

‘Yes.'

Caroline placed an old wooden chair with paint smudges all over it in front of the open sliding doors. ‘Sit here,' she commanded. ‘What do you see?'

‘Nothing much.'

‘What do you mean “nothing”?'

‘There isn't much there.'

‘Come on, Jack, you need to look properly and tell me what you see.'

‘Trees. I see trees and bush. I see the sky.'

‘What colour is it, Jack?'

‘Blue, mostly. There are some clouds, light in front but heavier to the side and their colour deepens to a dirty grey.' I felt a silk scarf pulled over my eyes.

‘What do you see now?'

‘Orange.'

‘Good. Can you feel the wind on your face?'

There was a soft breeze on my cheeks and I nodded.

‘I want you to imagine you're somewhere else, another place in some other time. Can you do that, Jack? Can you let yourself go and transport your mind?'

‘Will you help me?'

‘I'll help you. I'm always here to help you. Are you willing to try?'

‘Ready and willing.' With sight gone, my senses were already sharpening. I was aware of Caroline now kneeling in front of me and I could feel her breath hot on my thigh.

‘I want you to imagine you're in Florence. It's the sixteenth century and the Renaissance is blooming all around you. Your friends are thinking differently and releasing themselves from centuries of sterility. You're a young nobleman, close to the artists of the city for whom you're a benefactor. Today has been hot, but an afternoon breeze has brought some relief and helped lift the stench of the city. Your home is in the centre of Florence and your rooms on the second floor overlook the old home of Dante. You sit there now, on a chair with the doors of your balcony open, gazing across the red ochre rooftops of the city houses. The heat of the day has abated, bringing out the people who walk and talk in the narrow street below. You can feel the breeze on your face.

‘It's been a wonderful day. You've commissioned a picture from Raphael and today you visited him to see its progress. While there you browsed the sketches, canvases and half-completed works in his studio. You felt as though a light stronger than a hundred candles sought out the dark corners of your soul. How you crave to be like him and release passions and forces in others
with the mere stroke of a brush. His talent is close enough to breathe.

‘One of his favourite models, Francesca, is with you now. She's been his model for several months and you've often admired her body in his paintings or on visits to the studio when she has posed. She was there today. The studio was hot and smelt of paint. Her pose stirred you and you watched the sweat run down her stomach in a little stream.'

Caroline paused. I could feel her breath on my thigh shorten, then disappear. For a moment there was nothing, no sound, no sensation, and then I felt the lightest brush of warm flesh on my thigh. I knew this was her breast. How I wanted to rip off the blindfold, but she anticipated my impulse. ‘Steady,' she implored and I relaxed. ‘Francesca lay on cushions arranged on the floor, her long golden hair splayed over her shoulders and breasts.'

I felt Caroline's hair on my legs.

‘Her nipples were dark and hard.'

Caroline touched my knee with her own erect nipple.

‘One arm lay along the curve of her waist and hip. She met your gaze when you entered and you know she has no shame for her appearance. At first you tried to avoid her searching eyes, but soon you were strong enough to meet her look.

‘When the sitting finished she draped a gown over her shoulders but when the master left the room she allowed it to slip to reveal her breasts again. This was for you. It's rumoured she is Raphael's lover. She has been touched by genius and you yearn to touch her as well, to go where he's gone, to have what he's had.

‘Now she's in your rooms. You've drunk wine and shared fruit. She's asked you to sit on a seat in front of the open doors and
she's tied a scarf around your eyes. Is this a game the master has played with her?'

A hand touched my thigh—Caroline or Francesca? I wasn't sure any more. Both breasts touched my legs as my shorts and underpants were pulled down to my ankles. Fingertips traced the outline of pubic hair without touching me. I thought I might just rip apart. ‘Francesca has you erect before her and you strain, yearn, strain and strain to be touched. “Have you ever come like a God?” she asks you.'

‘No,' I croaked.

‘“Raphael taught me this”, and then…and then as though your penis is dipped in honey, Francesca takes you in her mouth.'

Just a split second before my orgasm Caroline released me. ‘And you come into a void, your seed falling on the streets below. “To come like a God”, Francesca whispers, “is to lay your seed on the people as though you can do what you please and in that moment there are no limits to what you can achieve. To come in the void is to know that anything is possible, that you are, if you want, unstoppable.”'

Caroline let the blindfold loose and I looked in her eyes. ‘I love you.'

‘I know. We were meant to be, Jack. We are one. We can be one. Will you let us be one?'

‘I already have.'

‘An incredible journey awaits us. Let it begin.'

‘It already has.'

A
fter Jo left, I tried to work. It was pure diversion, an attempt to keep at bay the memories of Mary and Caroline. It failed, but even after I'd faced the full fury of my deceit, I hoped to find some solace, some salvation in work.

When Einstein formulated his General Theory of Relativity he correctly foresaw that a consequence of the equations was an ever-increasing universe. He reasoned this an impossibility and his nerve failed him. To correct the finding he included in the theory a cosmological constant, a force that kept the universe from expanding. When Edwin Hubble confirmed that the universe was indeed growing, Einstein called the constant his biggest mistake and abandoned it. However, the damn thing never completely disappeared and even in the afterglow of Superforce the constant was still a loose thread. I had for some months thought that securely knitting the constant into Superforce would be a good return to work, but all my efforts had failed. And by the end of the morning the pristine paper on my desk was still blank. Nothing—not a word, not a number, not even a letter. As usual, in the end, I simply gave up.

Fortunately it was then time to leave for the afternoon's
engagements. There was a press conference, a television interview and then the drive to the Aotea Centre and sound checks for the evening show. I chose not to return to the hotel and waited backstage instead. When entering the theatre I'd again sensed someone watching me. I wasn't going back out there.

There was quite a spread in the dressing room. From the assortment of cold meats, sandwiches, prawns, dips, spring rolls and breads I chose a miserly mandarin and slowly sucked on the segments one by one. The selection of drinks was even more impressive: soft, hard, medium and indifferent (in other words sherry). There was tequila, of course, but then there's always tequila wherever I travel. Usually it's buried in the middle of the inventory sent by the company so as never to raise suspicion of its importance. I drank and sat in an easy chair, but I was far from relaxed and I balanced my glass unsteadily on the arm. There was less than half an hour until the show. Bebe sat opposite, sipping his water bottle like a suckling calf.

‘Have you ever drunk alcohol, Bebe?'

‘I tried it once when I was younger, but I never took to it. After that, I just stuck to water.'

There was a return to our slow silence of the last hour as we sipped our respective drinks. I rubbed a frayed thread on my shirt cuff. ‘Any news from our friends at the Nobel committee?' I tried sounding nonchalant, but Bebe knew this particular anxiety and smiled at my attempts at lack of interest.

‘Actually it's gone quiet on that front, but then you're rather out of the way down here.'

‘Out of sight and out of bloody mind.'

‘I wouldn't put it quite that way, Jack, but a quiet week from you doesn't do any harm.'

We ambled our way through a stilted conversation about the company and how it was disposed to me after my little wayward press conference in London. Evidently all was forgiven. I tugged at the thread again. ‘And Driesler, what of our friend Frank Driesler?'

Bebe checked his watch. ‘Nearly time to go. I hope this is going to be a cracker.'

‘What's happened, Bebe? What has Driesler said?'

‘Nothing, Jack, Driesler hasn't said anything.'

‘Shit, you're such a natural politician, Bebe, really. Tell me what's happened. Just tell me everything you've heard about Driesler since we left the UK.'

‘He's about to publish.'

‘His book?'

Bebe nodded.

‘At last, the long-awaited book that's going to change the way we all do science, show how we have been wrong these last four hundred years and prove Superforce incorrect. When do we get a copy?'

‘Not sure.'

‘Keep on top of it, Bebe, I want that fucker just as soon as I can get my little hands on it. Shit, I wish I wasn't stuck down here out of the eye of the storm, I need to be at the centre. I'll have a lot to say to that bastard. I can't wait, I can't bloody wait.'

Finally the thread broke so I rolled it into a tiny ball and flicked it onto the food table before finishing my drink with a single gulp. Bebe's face relaxed when he sensed the Driesler conversation was going no further.

‘Are you all right, Jack? You seem unusually distracted this evening. Are you nervous?'

‘How do you think the security is down here?' At last I'd got to the source of angst after my long vulture-like circling over a dying animal.

‘The security?'

‘Yes Bebe, the security. What's wrong with you today? Have you stopped understanding basic English or have I started speaking in some alien tongue? I'm talking about the big bastards with number one haircuts and bits of plastic in their ears that make them look like outcasts from a deaf association Christmas gathering. Perhaps you could ask one for his earpiece—it might help you hear better. Now do you know whom I'm talking about? Good, now tell me if you think they're up to their job. Am I safe, Bebe? I want to know if I'm safe.'

‘Of course you're safe.'

‘Well Bebe, my fine English-educated Indian friend, I don't feel fucking safe.' I stood up and poured a drink, which I drained immediately. ‘In fact I feel decidedly unsafe. Take today as an example. When I entered the theatre, someone was watching me. I'm sure someone was watching me.' I shivered at the memory. I hadn't actually seen anyone, but I just knew. And there was a reason why they were there.

‘I'm sure there were a lot of people there, waiting for you. You're very popular, Jack. My God, this happens everywhere we go.'

‘Someone is stalking me, Bebe. Last night when I went out for dinner with my schoolmates there was someone just on my shoulder, watching. They were there when Jo and I got in the car last night and here tonight. All it takes is for him or her to have a gun and I'm history. They get their Oswald moment, take me out and get famous. You know, I don't begrudge them the fame—I mean fame is good, fame is cool, I like the fame—but what
I don't like, what I struggle with, is dying. Can you understand that? I'm just not sold on the idea of having my brains plastered over a brick wall. So, I'd like you to talk to the security guys. I want you to make sure they're on top of their job. Make sure they know what protection is, because Bebe, I'm being stalked and I don't like it. In fact, it's freaking me out and I'm sure the company doesn't want me freaking out, does it?'

‘Keep calm, Jack. I'll talk to the security. Everything's fine, everything's cool…'

A knock interrupted his answer, but he still kept nodding his agreement to my request as he opened the door. I think I'd convinced him of my concern. Well, I like to think of it as concern, though perhaps it was closer to panic. I'd always been comfortable on planet fame. Suddenly, for the first time, I wanted to pull down the shutters and say the shop was closed. I was wary of everyone and even sitting in the dressing room I felt like shrinking when the door opened.

A young man with a shaved head and thick-rimmed black glasses poked his head in. He wore headphones, one cup on one ear, the other on a cheek. This was my call so I drained my glass and followed. Bebe patted my back as though his comfort was enough to protect me from whatever hostile acts awaited. The corridor was dark for a short distance, then lit. This heightened my sense of vulnerability and I walked close to the wall hoping it might offer some protection. A strong smell of cleaner from the floor stung my nose and turned my stomach. I thought of cancelling, I even ran through the various illnesses I might fake to convince Bebe of the sincerity of my complaint. But I knew there was no turning back so continued through to the other side of a door where all was dark and a pencil torch from the young
man lit the way to my mark. We were backstage, just metres from exposure on stage. A single shot was all it would take. Just a single shot and I'd be gone.

Two taps on my shoulder told me my face microphone was now connected. The first chords of Pink Floyd's ‘In the Flesh?' crashed out, the floor trembled and a green haze from the stage lights filtered to where I stood, casting me in a ghoulish glow. When the guitar changed pace and moved from chords to a melody line I felt a tap on the top of my head and followed my cue to walk on stage. Applause greeted my appearance and as I reached centre-stage the green lights turned white and swung onto me in perfect synchronisation. The music died, the applause died and I was alone.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Jack Mitchell. Welcome to my world.' As I walked across the stage a huge three-piece screen at the rear slowly lit to show Michelangelo's ‘God drinking the waters of the earth' from the Sistine Chapel ceiling. ‘I'd like to take you on a journey this evening, a journey through time and space, through history, through art and literature, a journey through the present and the future. This is a journey through our science and our culture. It will explain where we've come from and where we're going. It will explain who we are and who we are to become. It will explain how we do science and what science does for us. Our world is a scientific world and our future is a scientific one.' The screen dissolved into a million dots and reformed into the Hubble telescope picture of interstellar hydrogen clouds, looking like brown muddy streaks in a green pool of water. That picture dissolved and reformed into a picture of a bearded face. ‘Galileo, the father of science, let us begin with him,' I announced.

The show moved seamlessly through Galileo, Newton, Faraday and Clerk-Maxwell with music, readings, a laser show and graphics to help explain the development of physics through their works and lives. The climax began in a sea of blue lights.

‘By the end of the nineteenth century it was assumed we had discovered all there was to discover about the natural world.' Slowly the stage lights and screen dimmed. ‘Many scientists spoke of the end of physics.' The last light went out and the theatre was in darkness. ‘However, such a prediction could not have been more wrong.' On screen the familiar face of Albert Einstein appeared.

‘Far from nearing the end, physics was about to embark on its most revolutionary period. Physics would overthrow our accepted concepts of the world and change us in a myriad of ways. The new or modern physics, as it was called, to distinguish it from the classical science of Newton, had at its heart two theories: relativity and the quantum. They both owe their origins to Einstein. He was the mother of relativity in that he gave birth to it, having borrowed some concepts from elsewhere to help him conceive the theory. And he was the father of the quantum in that, although others formulated the theory, he provided essential material for its development. His idea of the photon, or light quanta, was the sperm, if you like, of the quantum theory and his later statistical work the sperm of the later quantum mechanics. And it is with quantum theory and quantum mechanics that we see most clearly how dependent our society is on the practical consequences of modern physics. They've directly led to specific new industries, which rely on the science of the theory and on scientists to develop them. The microchip, transistors, lasers—all rely on quantum theory to make them work and they've given
birth to computers, telecommunications, the global economy and genetics.' Images of the technology I named flashed on screen at ever-increasing speeds.

‘Let me illustrate my point with one example.' The stage lights went out and purple laser rays from either side of the stage pierced the sudden dark, hitting angled mirrors. Jean Michel Jarre's techno music filled the hall as an intricate purple pattern instantly formed across the stage. ‘In 1916 Einstein theorised about the process where excited atoms are triggered into releasing extra energy. What possible use could this have? Well, in the 1960s the laser was invented directly from his work. Today its uses are endless: lasers scan our groceries in the supermarket, run our CDs, create holograms, are used in laser surgery and, most importantly, lie at the heart of fibre optics and hence all modern communications. There would be no Internet without fibre optics, without the laser. So you can see that from a seemingly insignificant idea of Einstein's, an important part of the framework of modern life is constructed.' On screen a woman swung on her office chair, then dispersed into a thousand pieces before being sucked into a computer screen down a fibre optic cable and reappearing on a hundred screens in a hundred places.

‘Before Superforce there were four known forces: electromagnetism, the nuclear strong force, the nuclear weak force and gravity. This is where relativity and quantum enter the story again. All these forces except for gravity are explained by quantum theory, but gravity is explained by relativity. Now quantum is lumpy, it's about energy coming in lumps, but relativity is smooth, continuous. Here is the problem of uniting the four forces, it means uniting quantum and relativity, or in
other words the lumpy and the smooth. It's like mixing sand and water.'

A computer-animated picture of a twisting, changing, and weaving pattern appeared on the screens. ‘We've now moulded these ideas. Superforce is what explains everything.' The pattern formed into the formula of Superforce. As always I turned to admire my masterpiece. Even now, after two years, this assortment of numbers, letters and symbols took my breath away, the formula that had its genesis the day before Caroline killed herself. On cue I turned back to the audience, but suddenly my mind was a blank. There were no words in my memory, just the image of Caroline's feet, the toes pointed to the ground, the red nail polish the only colour in view, and as I struggled to banish the thought all I could do was follow the slow swing of her jeans-covered legs. How strange that at this moment, on stage, in front of all these people, I should ask myself for the first time why she had done such a thing.