Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

“How do you mean?”

“He makes a major discovery. And dies before he can announce it. Is it really worth a Nobel?”

“Yes,” he said. “If everything bears out, as I suspect it will. But I think there’s a misunderstanding. This wasn’t a current set of results, Ron. It looks as if he’s had it locked up for more than seven years.”

I asked whether he could explain it to me. In layman’s language, so I could pass it on to my readers. The short answer was no . But that didn’t stop him from trying. I got out my recorder and he started talking about primal conditions and triggers and carbon and God knows what else. “Could we duplicate it in a laboratory?” I asked.

“Already have.”

“Really? You’ve made life ?”

“Well, we’ve done it virtually.”

“Okay.” What else would my readers want to know? “Why didn’t he announce the discovery?”

Harvey had no idea. “It makes no sense,” he said. “This was the grail.”

“What had he been doing afterward?”

“Refining his results, looks like.”

“Stalling?”

“Maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Are you interested in knowing what the odds were against life developing?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve always assumed it was more or less inevitable.”

“Not hardly. In fact, if Frank has it right, the possibility was one in trillions.”

“That’s a big number.”

“Actually, it goes up another level. Quadrillions .” He pushed back and the chair squeaked. “That first living thing requires a precise sequence of a long series of extraordinarily unlikely events. Then it has to survive to reproduce. We were the longest of long shots, Ron.”

We stood looking at each other. “I guess it explains why those SETI guys never hear anything.”

Nobody who knew Gelper could offer any explanation why he might have withheld his breakthrough. When Harvey reported that the testing results continued to confirm everything, I wondered whether he might have been unaware of the implications. “No,” said Harvey. “Not a chance.”

I hesitated with the next question. “Was he maybe worried that his sexual orientation might surface?”

“No. He didn’t broadcast it. But it was no secret either.”

So that was how I wrote a story that collected world-wide attention. It’s true that hardly anybody in Lockport got excited, but I found myself filing for the A.P. and getting interviewed, along with Harvey, on the Science Channel.

Harvey was getting credit for the work, since he had made it public, and gradually Gelper disappeared into the background.

I tracked down a few friends, including some women who’d dated Gelper on and off. (Apparently he’d played both sides of the street.) None of them had suspected he’d been sitting on a major discovery.

Eventually, I called his parents, got the father, and offered my sympathies. He thanked me, but his voice was distant. “ You’re one of his friends? ” he asked.

“I’m a reporter for The Lockport Register ,” I said.

“ Oh. ”

“Your son did some very important work, Mr Gelper. You must be proud of him.”

“ I’ve read the stories. ”

“He did the breakthrough research years ago. But he never released the results.”

“ So I understand. ”

“Did he tell you what he was doing?”

“ No. ”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Gelper, that seems strange. I’d expect you would be the first person he’d confide in.”

“ Mr.—? ”

“Haight.”

“ Mr. Haight, my son and I have not been close. For a long time. ”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.” There was silence at the other end. “Can you imagine any reason why he’d have withheld this kind of information?”

“ I’m not surprised he did, ” he said. Then: “ Thanks for calling. ”

“Why?” I asked. “Why are you not surprised?”

“ Please let it go. ”

And I was listening to a dial tone.

He wouldn’t agree to an interview. Wouldn’t return my calls. So I persuaded Harvey to draw up a departmental certificate of recognition to Francis Gelper. We framed it, and I bought a ticket to Huntsville, on my own dime, rented a car at the airport, and drove to Twin Rivers.

Gelper Senior was a retired real estate dealer. He’d been an automobile salesman at one time, had run unsuccessfully for the Twin Rivers school board, and had home-schooled his kids. He was semi-retired at the time of his son’s death. Showed up once a week at Gelper and Martin, which specialized in developing new properties.

His wife had, for a few years, been a math instructor at the local high school. They lived just outside town in a two-story brick home with columns and maybe a quarter-acre of ground. A gardener was digging at some azalea bushes when I pulled into the driveway.

Mrs. Gelper answered the door. I’d seen no recent photos of her, but she was easy to recognize. She was well into her sixties, with blonde hair pulled back, blue eyes, and the sort of disconnected gaze that let me know I was of minor significance. “Yes?” she said, glancing down at the envelope in which I carried Frank’s award.

I introduced myself and explained that I’d come from Lockport University. In Maryland. She made no move to invite me inside.

“They’ve issued your son a certificate of appreciation,” I continued.

“Oh,” she said. “That’s very kind of them.” We stood there looking at each other.

A voice in back somewhere broke in: “Who’s at the door, Margaret?”

She stepped aside and I saw Gelper Senior, Charlie Gelper, who had apparently been asleep on the sofa. “Please come in,” she said. Then, to her husband: “He’s brought something. For Frank.”

I couldn’t say the guy was hostile. But he clearly wanted me out of there. Apparently misunderstanding, he said that Frank was dead.

“It’s an award,” I said. “In recognition of his service.”

He got up from the couch and watched while I removed the certificate from a padded manila envelope and held it out for whichever of them might choose to take it. Margaret did. She looked at it and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

Gelper nodded. “Tell them we appreciate it.” I could see the son in the father. Same features, same wide shoulders, same eyes. He waited his turn, took the certificate from her, frowned at it, and said thanks again. The presentation was over.

“I don’t know whether you’re aware,” I said, “but he’s made a significant contribution to his field.”

“So we’ve heard,” said Margaret.

“They’re mystified at the school.” I tried to be casual. And of course when you try hard to be casual you know what happens.

She exchanged smiles with her husband. “Can I get you something? Coffee, maybe?”

“Yes, please.” I was grateful she’d loosened up a bit.

Gelper laid the certificate on a side table. We were standing in the living room. They didn’t lack for money. Leather furniture. Large double windows looking out on the grounds. Etched glassware. Finely carved bookshelves.

A copy of The Hunting Digest lay on a chair, and half a dozen books were arranged on one of the shelves. The others were devoted to artificial flowers, reproductions of classic art works, and framed photos.

“You from Lockport?” Gelper asked.

“Yes, sir. Lived there all my life.”

I steered the conversation onto hunting, admitted I knew nothing about it, pretended it was something I’d always wanted to do. The coffee came. Margaret asked how well I’d known their son.