The Past Through Tomorrow (123 page)

The restaurant where he dined alone was only partly filled. It wouldn’t become lively until after the theatres were out, but Douglas appreciated the hot swing band and the good food. Toward the end of his meal, a young woman walked past his table and sat down, facing him, one table away. He sized her up with care. Pretty fancy! Figure like a strip dancer, lots of corn-colored hair, nice complexion, and great big soft blue eyes. Rather dumb pan, but what could you expect?

He decided to invite her over for a drink. If things shaped up, Dr. Martin could go to the devil. He scribbled a note on the back of a menu, and signalled the waiter.

“Who is she, Leo? One of the entertainers?”

“No, m’sieur, I have not seen her before.”

Douglas relaxed, and waited for results. He knew the come-hither look when he saw it, and he was sure of the outcome. The girl read his note and glanced over at him with a little smile. He returned it with interest. She borrowed a pencil from the waiter, and wrote on the menu. Presently Leo handed it to him.

“Sorry,”—it read—”and thanks for the kind offer, but I am otherwise engaged.”

Douglas paid his bill, and returned to the laboratory.

His laboratory was located on the top floor of his father’s factory. He left the outer door open and the elevator down in anticipation of Dr Martin’s arrival, then he busied himself by trying to locate the cause of an irritating vibration in his centrifuge. Just at ten o’clock he heard the whir of the elevator. He reached the outer door of his office just as his visitor arrived.

Facing him was the honey-colored babe be had tried to pick up in the restaurant.

He was immediately indignant “How the hell did you get here? Follow me?”

She froze up at once. “I have an appointment with Doctor Douglas. Please tell him that I am here.”

“The hell you have. What kind of a game is this?”

She controlled herself, but her face showed the effort. “I think Doctor Douglas is the best judge of that. Tell him Fm here—at once.”

“You’re looking at him. I’m Dr Douglas.”

“You! I don’t believe it. You look more like a—a gangster.”

“I am, nevertheless. Now cut out the clowning, sister, and tell me what the racket is. What’s your name?”

“I am Dr M. L. Martin.”

He looked completely astounded, then bellowed his amusement. “No foolin’? You wouldn’t kid your country cousin, would you? Come in, doc, come in.”

She followed him, suspicious as a strange dog, ready to fight at any provocation. She accepted a chair, then addressed him again. “Are you really Dr Douglas?”

He grinned at her. “In the flesh—and I can prove it. How about you? I still think this is some kind of a badger game.”

She froze up again. “What do you want—my birth certificate?”

“You probably murdered Dr Martin in the elevator, and stuffed the old boy’s body down the shaft”

She arose, gathered up her gloves and purse, and prepared to leave. “I came fifteen hundred miles for this meeting. I am sorry I bothered. Good evening, Dr Douglas.”

He was instantly soothing. “Aw, don’t get sore—I was just needling you. It just tickled me that the distinguished Dr Martin should look so much like Betty Grable. Now sit back down”—he gently disengaged her hands from her gloves—”and let me buy you that drink you turned down earlier.”

She hesitated, still determined to be angry, then her natural good nature came to his aid, and she relaxed. “O.K., Butch.”

“That’s better. What’ll it be: Scotch or Bourbon?”

“Make mine Bourbon—and not too much water.”

By the time the drinks were fixed and cigarettes lighted the tension was lifted.

“Tell me,” he began, “to what do I owe this visit? I don’t know a damn thing about biology.”

She blew a smoke-ring and poked a carmine finger-nail through it. “You remember that article you had in the April
Physical Review
? The one about cold light, and possible ways of achieving it?”

He nodded. “
Electroluminescence vs. Chemiluminescence
: not much in that to interest a biologist.”

“Nevertheless I’ve been working on the same problem.”

“From what angle?”

“I’ve been trying to find out how a lightning bug does the trick. I saw some gaudy ones down in South America, and it got me to thinking.”

“Hmm—Maybe you got something. What have you found out?”

“Not much that wasn’t already known. As you probably know, the firefly is an almost incredibly efficient source of light—at least 96% efficient. Now how efficient would you say the ordinary commercial tungsten-filament incandescent lamp is?”

“Not over two percent at the best.”

“That’s fair enough. And a stupid little beetle does fifty times as well without turning a hair. We don’t look so hot, do we?”

“Not very,” he acknowledged. “Go on about the bug.”

“Well, the firefly has in his tummy an active organic compound—very complex—called luciferin. When this oxidizes in the presence of a catalyst, luciferase, the entire energy of oxidation is converted into green light—no heat. Reduce it with hydrogen and it’s ready to go again. I’ve learned how to do it in the laboratory.”

“The hell you have! Congratulations! You don’t need me. I can close up shop.”

“Not so fast. It isn’t commercially feasible; it takes too much gear to make it work; it’s too messy; and I can’t get an intense light. Now I came to see you to see if we might combine forces, pool our information, and work out something practical.”

Three weeks later at four in the morning Dr M. L. Martin—Mary Lou to her friends—was frying an egg over a bunsen burner. She was dressed in a long rubber shop apron over shorts and a sweater. Her long corn-colored hair hung in loose ripples. The expanse of shapely leg made her look like something out of a cheesecake magazine.

She turned to where Douglas lay sprawled, a wretched exhausted heap, in a big arm-chair. “Listen, Ape, the percolator seems to have burnt out Shall I make the coffee in the fractional distillator?”

“I thought you had snake venom in it.”

“So I have. I’ll rinse it out.”

“Good God, woman! Don’t you care what chances you take with yourself?—or with me?”

“Pooh! snake venom wouldn’t hurt you even if you did drink it—unless that rotgut you drink has given your stomach ulcers. Soup’s on!”

She chucked aside the apron, sat down and crossed her legs. He automatically took in the display.

“Mary Lou, you lewd wench, why don’t you wear some clothes around the shop? You arouse my romantic nature.”

“Nuts. You haven’t any. Let’s get down to cases. Where do we stand?”

He ran a hand through his hair and chewed his lip. “Up against a stone wall, I think. Nothing we’ve tried so far seems to offer any promise.”

“The problem seems to be essentially one of confining radiant energy to the visible band of frequency.”

“You make it sound so simple, bright eyes.”

“Stow the sarcasm. That is, nevertheless, where the loss comes in with ordinary electric light. The filament is white hot, maybe two percent of the power is turned into light, the rest goes into infra-red and ultra-violet.”

“So beautiful. So true.”

“Pay attention, you big ape. I know you’re tired, but listen to mama. There should be some way of sharply tuning the wave-length. How about the way they do it in radio?”

He perked up a little. “Wouldn’t apply to the case. Even if you could manage to work out an inductance-capacitance circuit with a natural resonant frequency within the visual band it would require too much gear for each lighting unit, and if it got out of tune it wouldn’t give any light at all.”

“Is that the only way frequency is controlled?”

“Yes—well, practically. Some transmitting stations, especially amateurs, use a specially cut quartz crystal that has a natural frequency of its own to control wave-length.”

“Then why can’t we cut a crystal that would have a natural frequency in the octave of visible light?”

He sat up very straight. “Great Scott, kid!—I think you’ve hit it.”

He got up and strode up and down, talking as he went.

“They use ordinary quartz crystal for the usual frequencies, and tourmaline for short-wave broadcasting. The frequency of vibration depends directly on the way the crystal is cut. There is a simple formula—” He stopped, and took down a thick India-paper handbook. “Hmm—yes, here it is. For quartz, every millimetre of thickness of the crystal gives one hundred metres of wave-length. Frequency is, of course, the reciprocal of wave length. Tourmaline has a similar formula for shorter wave-lengths.”

He continued to read: “‘These crystals have the property of flexing when electric charges are applied to them, and, vice versa, show an electric charge when flexed. The period of flexure is an inherent quality of the crystal, depending on its geometrical proportions. Hooked into a radio transmitting circuit, such a crystal requires the circuit to operate at one, and only one, frequency, that of the crystal.’ That’s it, kid, that’s it! Now if we can find a crystal that can be cut to vibrate at the frequency of visible light, we’ve got it—a way to turn electrical energy into light without heat losses!”

Mary Lou cluck-clucked admiringly. “Mama’s
good
boy. Mama knew he could do it, if he would only
try
.”

Nearly six months later Douglas invited his father up to the laboratory to see the results. He ushered the mild, silver-haired old gentleman into the sanctum sanctorum and waved to Mary Lou to draw the shades. Then he pointed to the ceiling.

“There it is, Dad—cold light—at a bare fraction of the cost of ordinary lighting.”

The elder man looked up and saw, suspended from the ceiling, a grey screen, about the size and shape of the top of a card-table. Then Mary Lou threw a switch. The screen glowed brilliantly, but not dazzlingly, and exhibited a mother-of-pearl iridescence. The room was illuminated by strong white light without noticeable glare.

The young scientist grinned at his father, as pleased as a puppy who expects a pat. “How do you like it, Dad? One hundred candle-power—that ’ud take about a hundred watts with ordinary bulbs, and we’re doing it with two watts: half an ampere at four volts.”

The old man blinked absent-mindedly at the display. “Very nice, son, very nice indeed. I’m pleased that you have perfected it.”

“Look, Dad—do you know what that screen up there is made out of? Common, ordinary clay. It’s a form of aluminum silicate; cheap and easy to make from any clay, or ore, that contains aluminum. I can use bauxite, or cryolite, or most anything. You can gather up the raw materials with a steam shovel in any state in the Union.”

“Is your process all finished, son, and ready to be patented?”

“Why, yes, I think so, Dad.”

“Then let’s go into your office, and sit down. I’ve something I must discuss with you. Ask your young lady to come, too.”

Young Douglas did as he was told, his mood subdued by his father’s solemn manner. When they were seated, he spoke up.

“What’s the trouble, Dad? Can 1 help?”

“I wish you could, Archie, but I’m afraid not. I’m going to have to ask you to close your laboratory.”

The younger man took it without flinching. “Yes, Dad?”

“You know I’ve always been proud of your work, and since your mother passed on my major purpose has been to supply you with the money and equipment you needed for your work.”

“You’ve been very generous, Dad.”

“I wanted to do it. But now a time has come when the factory won’t support your research any longer. In fact, I may have to close the doors of the plant.”

“As bad as that, Dad? I thought that orders had picked up this last quarter.”

“We do have plenty of orders, but the business isn’t making a profit on them. Do you remember I mentioned something to you about the Public Utilities Bill that passed at the last session of the Legislature?”

“I remember it vaguely, but I thought the Governor vetoed it.”

“He did, but they passed it over his veto. It was as bold a case of corruption as this State has ever seen—the power lobbyists had both Houses bought, body and soul.” The old man’s voice trembled with impotent auger.

“And just how does it affect us, Dad?”

“This Bill pretended to equalize power rates according to circumstances. What it actually did was to permit the Commission to discriminate among consumers as they saw fit. You know what that Commission is—I’ve always been on the wrong side of the fence politically. Now they are forcing me to the wall with power rates that prevent me from competing.”

“But good heavens, Dad! They can’t do that. Get an injunction!”

“In this State, son?” His white eyebrows raised.

“No, I guess not.” He got to his feet and started walking the floor. “There
must
be something we can do.”

His father shook his head. “The thing that really makes me bitter is that they can do this with power that actually belongs to the people. The Federal Government’s program has made plenty of cheap power possible—the country should be rich from it—but these local pirates have gotten hold of it, and use it as a club to intimidate free citizens.”

After the old gentleman had left, Mary Lou slipped over and laid a hand on Douglas’ shoulder and looked down into his face.

“You poor boy!”

His face showed the upset he had concealed from his father. “Cripes, Mary Lou. Just when we were going good. But I mind it most for Dad.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And not a damn thing I can do about it. It’s politics, and those pot-bellied racketeers own this State.”

She looked disappointed and faintly scornful. “Why, Archie Douglas, you great big panty-waist! You aren’t going to let those mugs get away with this without a fight, are you?”

He looked up at her dully. “No, of course not. I’ll fight. But I know when I’m licked. This is way out of my field.”

She flounced across the room. “I’m surprised at you. You’ve invented one of the greatest things since the dynamo, and you talk about being licked.”

“Your invention, you mean.”

“Nuts! Who worked out the special forms? Who blended them to get the whole spectrum? And besides, you aren’t out of your field. What’s the problem?—Power! They’re squeezing you for power. You’re a physicist. Dope out some way to get power without buying from them.”