Gregory Benford - Timescape

Gordon looked out the window at the machines chewing up the landscape, and then back at Lakin. Physical Review Letters was the prestige journal of physics now, the place where the hottest results were published in a matter of weeks, rather than having to wait at Physical Review or, worse, some other physics journal, for month after month. The flood of information was forcing the working scientist to narrow his reading to a few journals, since each one was getting thicker and thicker. It was like trying to drink from a fire hose. To save time you began to rely on quick summaries in Physical Review Letters and promised yourself you would get around to reading the longer journals when there was more time.

“That’s all true,” Gordon said mildly. “But I don’t have a result to publish.”

“Ah, but you do,” Lakin murmured warmly. “This noise effect. It is most interesting.”

Gordon frowned. “A few days ago you were saying it was just bad technique.”

“I was a bit temperamental that day. I did not fully appreciate your difficulties.” He combed long fingers through his thinning hair, sweeping it back to reveal white scalp that contrasted strongly with his deep tan. “The noise you have found, Gordon, is not a simple aggravation. I believe, after some thought, that it must be a new physical effect.”

Gordon gazed at him in disbelief. “What kind of effect?” he said slowly.

“I do not know. Certainly something is disturbing the usual nuclear resonance process. I suggest we call it ‘spontaneous resonance’ just to have a working name.” He smiled. “Later, if it proves as important as I suspect, the effect may be named for you, Gordon—who knows?”

“But Isaac, we don’t understand it! How can we call it a name like that? ‘Spontaneous resonance’ means something inside the crystal is causing the magnetic spins to flip back and forth.”

“Yes, it does.”

“But we don’t know that’s what’s happening!”

“It is the only possible mechanism,” Lakin said coolly. “Maybe.”

“You do not still treasure that signal business of yours, do you?” Lakin said sarcastically.

“We’re studying it. Cooper is taking more data right now.”

“That is nonsense. You are wasting that student’s time.”

“Not in my judgment.”

“I fear your ‘judgment’ is not the only factor at work here,” Lakin said, giving him a stony look. “What does that mean?”

“You are inexperienced at these matters. We are working under a deadline. The NSF renewal is more important than your objections. I dislike putting it so bluntly, but—”

“Yes, yes, you have the best interests of the entire group in mind.”

“I do riot believe I need my sentences finished for me.”

Gordon blinked and looked out the window. “Sorry.”

There was a silence into which the grating of the bulldozers intruded, breaking Gordon’s concentration. He glanced into the stand of jacaranda trees further away and saw a mechanical claw rip apart a rotten wooden fence. It looked like a corral, an aged artifact of a western past now fading. On the other hand it was more probably a remnant of the Marine land the University had acquired. Camp Matthews, where foot soldiers were pounded into shape for Korea. So one training center was knocked down and another reared up in its place. Gordon wondered what he was being trained to fight for here. Science? Or funding?

“Gordon,” Lakin began, his voice reduced to a calming murmur, “I don’t think you fully appreciate the significance of this ‘noise problem’ you’re having. Remember, you do not have to understand everything about a new effect to discover it. Goodyear found how to make tough rubber accidentally by dropping India rubber mixed with sulfur on a hot stove. Roentgen found x-rays while he was fumbling around with a gas-filled electrical discharge experiment.”

Gordon grimaced. “That doesn’t mean everything we don’t understand is important, though.”

“Of course not. But trust my judgment in this case. This is exactly the sort of mystery that Phys Rev Letters will publish. And it will bolster our NSF profile.”

Gordon shook his head. “I think it’s a signal.”

“Gordon, you will come up for review of your position this year. We can advance you to a higher grade of Assistant Professor. We could even conceivably promote you to tenure.”

“So?” Lakin hadn’t mentioned that they could also, as the bureaucratese went, give him a “terminal appointment.”

“A solid paper in Phys Rev Letters carries much weight.”

“Uh huh.”

“And if your experiment continues to yield nothing, I am afraid I will, regretfully, not have very much evidence to present in support of you.”

Gordon studied Lakin, knowing there wasn’t anything more to say. The lines were drawn. Lakin sat back in his executive chair, bobbing with controlled energy, watching the impact of his own words. His Ban-Lon shirt encased an athletic chest, his knit slacks clung to muscled legs. He had adapted well to California, getting out into the welcoming sun and improving his backhand. It was a long way from the cramped, shadowy labs at MIT. Lakin liked it here and he wanted to enjoy the luxury of living in a rich man’s twon. He would hustle to maintain his position; he wanted to stay.

“I’ll think it over,” Gordon said in a flat voice. Beside Lakin’s sturdy frame he felt overweight, pale, awkward. “And I’ll keep taking data,” he finished.

On the drive back from Lindbergh Field Gordon kept the conversation on safely neutral ground. His mother rattled on about neighbors on 12th Street whose names he didn’t remember, much less their intricate family squabbles, their marriages, births, and deaths. His mother assumed he would instantly catch the significance of the Goldberg’s buying a place in Miami at last, and understand why their son Jeremy went to NYU rather than Yeshiva. It was all part of the vast soap opera of life. Each segment had meaning. Some would get their comeuppance. Others would receive, after much suffering, their final reward. In his mother’s case he was plainly reward enough, at least in this life. She oohed at each marvel that loomed up in the fading twilight, as they zoomed along Route 1 toward La Jolla. Palm trees just growing by the roadside, without help. The white sand of Mission Bay, unpeopled and unlittered. No Coney Island, here. No cluttered sidewalks, no press of people. An ocean view from Mount Soledad that went on into blue infinity, instead of a gray vista that terminated in the jumble of New Jersey. She was impressed, with everything; it reminded her of what people said about Israel. His father had been a fervent Zionist, plunking down coin regularly to insure the homeland. Gordon was sure she still gave, though she never implored him to; maybe she felt he needed all his gelt to keep up with the professoring image. Well, it was true. La Jolla was expensive. But Gordon doubted if he would give anything for the traditional Jewish causes now. The move from New York had severed his connection to all that mumbo jumbo of dietary laws and Talmudic truths. Penny told him he didn’t seem very Jewish to her, but he knew she was simply ignorant. The WASP land she’d grown up in had taught her none of the small giveaway clues. Still, most people in California were probably equally oblivious, and that suited Gordon, He didn’t like having strangers make assumptions about him before they’d shaken his hand. Getting free of New York’s claustrophobic Jewish ambience was one of the reasons for coming to La Jolla in the first place.

They were nearly home, swinging onto Nautilus Street, when his mother said too casually, “This Penny, you should tell me something about her before I meet her, Gordon.”