Incompleat Iconoclast

Every time my repetitive motion brought me toward his position, he turned to face the building, as if he were suddenly interested in the racks of newspapers and giveaway magazines next to the main doors. But whenever I reached the far end of my route and turned to retrace my steps, I’d find him absently watching the traffic that passed through the porte-cochere and mopping sweat from his bald head with a crumpled handkerchief. The synchronization of his movements with mine was surely not a coincidence, but I could not remember ever laying eyes on my stalker before that afternoon.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

When the Q&A tapered to an end, I gathered my notes into the scuffed brown leather briefcase that Paola had given me when I took my master’s degree. I thanked the A/V assistant for his halfhearted efforts and headed for the main entrance to the conference center to wait for a shuttle to my hotel.

I had been pacing the sidewalk waiting for the van for several minutes when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the fellow from the back of the conference room. He appeared to be trying much too hard not to attract my attention.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

Still, I answered their questions carefully and with all the patience I could summon. I was eager to return to my room, to shower, dress, and join Martina for dinner. As delighted as I was to visit California for the first time, her presence was the highlight of the trip. One of my UC colleagues had recommended a restaurant where we’d dine al fresco while the sun sank into the Pacific.

I wondered whether one of these dull faces concealed a mind that could parlay my mathematical shortcut into a quantum theory of gravity—the Holy Grail of theoretical physics.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

The presentation itself was uneventful. In one of the smaller conference rooms, a sparse crowd listened with polite attention to the case I laid out for my technique. A few over-achievers in the front rows scribbled page after page of meticulous notes as I stepped through two dozen slides. By the time I prodded my sleepy A/V assistant to bring the lights up for the Q&A, only those few remained, except for one fellow seated near the back.

I fielded a few softball questions. None of these Ph.D. hopefuls had raised any objections that I hadn’t already anticipated and overcome.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

My thoughts drifted to Berkeley, last April. The rationale for my trip to the U.S.—an invitation to present a paper. The world’s best minds in experimental physics gathered for the symposium at UC and heard nothing from me to revolutionize my reputation or their understanding of the universe. My monograph outlined a method for streamlining an excruciatingly complex quantum mechanical equation. At best, it was a stepping stone on someone else’s road to Stockholm. For me, it was a desperate measure to keep my job and funding for the project that would earn my place in the history books.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

A dark gap appeared where the seam had been earlier, the trap door having receded slightly into the wall. Then it slid noiselessly upward out of sight, revealing blackness. Next, the strangest part of the vision: the tray rose a couple of inches off the floor and glided through the opening. As soon as it disappeared into the void, the door slid back into place and moved outward to seal the gap with a barely audible whishhh.

Two conclusions became immediately clear:

Someone was doing research on a track parallel to mine.

That someone had left me in the dust.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I had no idea how to exploit the discovery. I withdrew to one side, lay face down with my head resting on folded arms, and pretended to sleep. The light through the small window faded to sunset gold that gave way to silver moonrise. But my visual observations didn’t synch with my sense of time. I began to suspect that the source was artificial, yet controlled in movement, color, and intensity to create the appearance of natural light to any prisoner in this cell.

Before long, real sleep began to overtake me. But I snapped alert to a faint sound.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I turned my attention to the spot where the meal had appeared. Probing with my fingertips, I examined an area out to a couple of feet from the tray, but could detect no cracks or indentations. I explored the base of the wall. There! Parallel to the floor and about 10 inches above it, I felt a hairline fissure, just enough to catch against the edge of a fingernail. I traced its length—perhaps two feet. At either end, it met at a right angle with a vertical seam that dropped to the floor. I had found a trap door.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

I ate too quickly to notice the blandness of the soup until it was almost gone. After many hours in this dank cell, its warmth was soothing. If my captors troubled themselves to feed me, they wanted me alive—at least for now.

When the food was gone, I examined the implements. The tray, the bowl, and the blunt, shallow spoon were all made of the same hard, smooth polymer. I leaned the spoon against the edge of the overturned tray and pressed my weight on it, but it wouldn’t break. Nothing to serve as a tool or weapon here.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick

A loud click from the collar signaled the end of the conversation. As I pulled myself up to sit with my back against the outer wall, I noticed something new on the other side of the room. On the floor directly opposite the window, near the base of the wall, lay a tray of food. I rose to my feet and staggered over to examine it.

The plastic cafeteria tray held a bowl of thick, steaming soup and a chunk of bread torn from a rustic loaf. I was starving and in no position to worry about poison or drugs.

© 2008 Edward F. Gumnick