Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

“Yes,” Emma said. “I guess you’re right.”

“So you didn’t pick any of it up, is that right?”

“Just the name,” said George. “Particle theory. He was studying atoms. Or something small. We didn’t know it was anything like the Einstein stuff until Emil told us.”

Holmes radiated empathy. “I can understand your frustration. I took a long look at some of the news stories about relativity, and—.” He waved it away. “I’m afraid it’s a little too complicated for me, too.”

Emma looked in my direction. “Can we get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“Nothing for me,” said Holmes, with an amiable grin. “Thank you. I have to keep my mind clear.”

“Is that a joke?” asked George.

I opted for a beer.

Emma got up and made for the kitchen.

“I never joke,” said Holmes. “Your son did most of his work at the university?”

“No. Mostly he worked here.” George looked toward a closed door set between the two portraits. “In there. That was his office.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and entered. We followed. An oak desk looked out through a wide window across a carefully-maintained garden. A pair of bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes, and a chalkboard stood to one side of the desk. A portrait of Galileo hung near the window, and a framed photograph of a young couple occupied the top of a side table.

Holmes strolled through, scanning book titles. They were mostly science and philosophy. Then he turned his attention to the photograph. “I assume this is your son?”

“Yes.”

Emma arrived with the beer, glasses for everyone except the detective. But she stopped when she saw us in an area that she must have considered sacred. “He was everything we had,” she said, lips quivering.

“He was only thirty-two,” said George.

Emma started to say something more, but stopped, not trusting herself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes said. He helped her with the tray. “I can’t imagine how painful it must be.”

Emma passed out the beer. When the mood had quieted, Holmes asked if the notebooks had been found in the desk.

“Lower right-hand drawer,” said George.

“Is there anything else here in the way of notes, documents, whatever?”

George shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He pointed at the chalkboard. “He used that most of the time.”

Holmes looked down at the photo. “The woman is Amy Monroe?”

Emma nodded. “Yes. They were engaged.”

“Though not when that was taken,” said George.

“When was that?”

“I think it was 1903.”

They were standing on the veranda in the glow of a warm summer day, glasses raised, toasting each other. Amy was beautiful. Chestnut hair and perfect features. She was wearing a light-colored dress with a dark collar. Steve’s jacket had been folded over the handrail. They were laughing, and obviously in love.

“What are they celebrating?” asked Holmes.

George and Emma looked at each other and shook their heads. Both appeared frustrated. “I’m not sure. He’d figured out something, but he didn’t try very hard to explain it to us.”

We left the office, and George closed the door. “Mr. Addington,” said Holmes, “did you notice any change in Steve’s behavior after the photo was taken? Did he become, say, less accessible?”

George laughed. “He was never very accessible.”

“There was something,” said Emma. “But I can’t imagine it would be of any consequence.” She hesitated.

“And what was that?”

“George is right. For the most part, Steve kept to himself. He wasn’t very interested in the outside world. Even where women were concerned. I was surprised when he brought Amy home. Until she showed up, the only thing that ever mattered to him was his work. The physics. Then, about the time that picture was taken, maybe a little later, he got interested in politics.”

“Politics?”

“He began reading the newspapers, which he’d never done before. He started talking about Arthur Balfour. He got excited when they did the first transatlantic radio broadcast with the United States.” She stopped. “Well, I guess that should not have been a surprise. But he became concerned about Germany. About the threat it presented.”

We took the train to Oxford and caught up with Thomas Gordon on the university campus. He was tall, about thirty-five, with animated gray eyes and an Irish accent. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” he said as we settled into chairs in his office. “And you, Dr. Mencken.”

“I’m not a doctor,” I said.

“Oh. I assumed, since you wrote about a German philosopher—.”

I tried to look tolerant.

Holmes stepped in: “Professor,” he said, “how well did you know Steve Addington?”

“We were probably not more than casual acquaintances. We met at a conference and more or less stayed in touch.”

“You’ve seen the notebooks that were found?”

“Yes. Emil Kohler showed them to me. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Did he ever discuss his work with you?”

“Steve and I talked about it occasionally. He was interested in particle physics. Not my field. But yes, we got together periodically. Though we never went deep enough that there was any indication of the material in those notebooks. If he’d actually gotten that far, he never gave any indication. Or if he did, I must have been drinking at the time.”

“Do you see any reason to question their validity? They’re in his handwriting. And he died before Einstein’s work went public.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “If they’re legitimate—. Mr. Holmes, the concepts contained in that work require a genius. We’re only beginning to get a sense of who Einstein really is. Steve was smart, but it’s hard to believe that he operated on that level.”

“All right. Thank you, Professor. If you think of anything—.”

“I can imagine one scenario that might explain all this.”

“Proceed, please.”

“You understand, of course, that this is all about energy: E=mc².” Gordon leaned back in his chair. “If Einstein has it right, substantial amounts of energy can be derived from atoms. You’ll have to count me among the skeptics on this. But I doubt the oil companies are happy to hear about it.”

“You’re suggesting what?”

“If Steve was on the same track, and the oil companies found out, they might have tried to pay him off. Shut it down.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Holmes, I think we’ll eventually discover this whole thing is a communication breakdown of some sort. But could it have happened? I’d be surprised if they wouldn’t have at least tried to buy him off. Think about it: Petroleum runs a substantial number of the factories on the planet. And the numbers are increasing. Now we’re introducing coaches driven by petroleum. And aircraft.” He stopped and grunted. “Coal is last year’s fuel. The world belongs to oil. I don’t think they’d want something else getting in the way.”

“Or maybe,” I suggested, “they had him killed.”

“If so,” said Holmes, “they were pretty smart about it. The autopsy indicated he did die of a stroke.”

“Why was there an autopsy?” I asked. “Was there anything that suggested Addison might have been a murder victim?”

“It was because of his age, Henry,” said Holmes. “And his health history. I talked with the doctor who performed the autopsy. He says there’s no question about the cause of death.” He turned back to Gordon. “It looks as if he put everything together during the summer of 1903. Did you know him then?”