An Elegant Theory Page 3

  Composing my committee was Dr. Brinkman, of course, acting as chair, accompanied by Dr. Cardoza and Dr. Barbarick. Cardoza was a distrusting type, infamous amongst academic circles as an anal-retentive peer reviewer, holding up years of research for weeks or months as she nitpicked her way through colleagues’ findings before they could be published. I’d selected her to keep me honest in my research, knowing fully well I wouldn’t be able to make unsubstantiated assumptions during my modeling. Barbarick, on the other hand, was a young professor, tenure track without the tenure, and fresh out of his fellowship at Stanford. His research focused on quantum electrodynamics, a field closely interrelated with my own, and his insights could, I hoped anyway, provide a breakthrough if I happened to get stuck.

  We met in the auditorium in which I taught, the place eerily empty compared to class time. The lights were dimmed so that I could make my presentation on the projector screen. The three committee members sat in the front row. I couldn’t see their faces, only the glow of their penlights.

  I began my first slide. It pictured a Calabi-Yau manifold.

  I explained to them that it’s a theoretical shape studied in algebraic geometry, theoretical physics, and lately superstring theory. It’s always been proposed that the universe is constructed from subatomic particles. It appears to be the most logical solution. In a vacuum, matter will compress into a sphere through the force of gravity. Think of planets and stars and such. But anomalies exist. Take, for instance, Newton’s famous inverse square law. It postulates that as we get closer to a miniscule particle, gravity will reach infinity, an impossibility.

  Slide Two:

  String Theory solves this problem. Because the string is a finite looped space, the anomalies are solved. Gravity no longer approaches infinity because it’s dictated by the length of the string. It’s remarkable, really. Simple in its design, it posits that rather than particles, the smallest constituents of the universe are in fact tiny, vibrating strings. Picture a rubber band, plucked so that it oscillates like a violin string. It’s the energy exerted through the oscillation that determines its nature. Light has its own frequency. Electrons. Bosons. So on and so forth. This idea has solved what had puzzled scientists for years—it predicted with great accuracy both the motion of the very tiny and the very large.

  More problems arose, of course.

  The most problematic of which is that string theory is not compatible with a four-dimensional universe. Divergences beyond Newton’s law emerged, and the only way to eliminate them appeared to be a universe with eleven dimensions. This at first appeared to kill the theory. It’s common knowledge that the universe consists of only four dimensions, three spatial and one time. All observations known to mankind have seemed to support this doctrine. But the math kept bending to this multidimensional hypothesis, that the universe consists of invisible dimensions, ten spatial and one temporal.

  Slide Three:

  The theory of relativity once revolutionized how we thought of the universe by introducing the curvature of space-time. Instead of space and time being two distinct characteristics of the universe, they are intertwined irrevocably into a singular fabric. One cannot exist without the other. Think of space-time as a sheet pulled taut, and the sun as a ball placed in the center of the sheet. The ball will warp the fabric, creating a dimple around it, and a marble, representing Earth, if set in motion will not travel in a straight line but instead follow the curvature caused by the sun’s mass.

  The theory of relativity solved the problem of gravity and motion for the very large, an ingenious breakthrough, yet still lacking—the equations for the very large did not translate to the very small. There appeared to be two distinct laws of the universe, which couldn’t be. There should be one law that governs the laws of motion for every physical body, regardless of size. String theory solves this problem. The universe is warped and curled into miniscule Calabi-Yau manifolds, each the same primary shape and size, and they act like a flute, shaping how air flows through its chamber in order to execute a singular note.

  My audience scribbled away in the darkness, their lights illuminating dim halos around their faces. Their hurried scratching echoed through the oversized auditorium.

  “What I propose to prove, then, is the actual shape of the universe. The curls and warps that form the notes that constitute our universe.”

  I ended my slideshow and clicked on the overhead lights. I had to squint to adjust to the light. My committee members each did the same; their heads tilted downward, at once trying to keep my gaze and averting it, like they were torn between two equally desirable propositions.

  “It appears you have chosen a very ambitious topic,” Dr. Brinkman began. “How do you propose you’ll accomplish this? Nobody’s even come close to solving this problem. What will be different for you?”

  I had anticipated this question. In fact, I had counted on it.

  “Their approach has been flawed,” I said. “They calculated the innumerable possibilities that could arise. The trillions upon trillions of possible Calabi-Yau shapes. I’ll instead reverse engineer the universe.”

  “Reverse engineer the universe?” asked Dr. Cardoza.

  “Yes,” I stood stationary, regarding my hands. “The strength of gravity and the weak force and the speed of light and everything else. The reason why they have the properties they have are because they have no other choice; the strings that constitute everything in the universe must vibrate in certain frequencies because our universe has a particular shape. I simply need to calculate the shape that provides these frequencies.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Cardoza asked. She had taken off her glasses and curled the earpiece around her finger. They must’ve been titanium frames—when she released, they sprung back into a straight line.

  “No,” I replied.

  “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Barbarick chimed in. “It might be worthwhile to take a look. How far have you gotten?”

  That was the problem. Calabi-Yau manifolds were complexly shaped: minute, curved, warped, angled, almost to an infinite degree. The amount of calculations needed to provide all of the universe’s defining characteristics would test even the most advanced supercomputers.

  “I’ve built a model,” I said. “It produces random Calabi-Yau manifolds and then runs matrices through it, testing Boh’s radius, the strength of gravity, et cetera.”

  “So you are relying upon luck to prove your hypothesis?” Dr. Cardoza asked.

  “I can refine the model. Each incorrect answer eliminates possibilities.”

  “You will die before you eliminate enough. Your children will die. Your grandchildren. At this rate of discovery, the sun will have exploded.” Dr. Cardoza snapped her notebook closed. “This has been a complete waste of time.”

  “You haven’t any work to show us today, have you?” Dr. Brinkman asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “That,” he said as he and the others stood, “is a problem.” He excused Dr. Cardoza and Dr. Barbarick, mentioning that we’d convene again sometime next month. “May I have a word, Coulter?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Dr. Brinkman approached and clasped his hand on my shoulder. He smelled of chalk dust and sunflower seeds, the latter a habit he couldn’t kick. He kept a package on him at all times, spitting the empty shells into a Styrofoam cup. If you caught him smiling, you oftentimes could see dark remnants of his snack stuck between his teeth.

  “Have you any other ideas for your dissertation?” he asked.

  “I’d like to reserve time at the lab. If I could utilize the department’s mainframe, I think I could—”

  “What I’m saying is that we’re not expecting you to win the Nobel, Coulter. There’s plenty of time for you to dream big. But later. Now is the time to just get your degree.”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Maybe you should consider focusing on a hypothesis that
is more testable. Like the double-slit light experiment. You seem to be fond of that. What new insights can you provide on the behavior of light?”

  “But, sir—”

  He cut me a glare above the rim of his glasses. It was the look a father would give a misbehaving child, one who swore he hadn’t broken the lamp despite it being shattered at his feet.

  “It will be difficult for you to be awarded your PhD with an incomplete dissertation,” he said. “Impossible, in fact.”

  In the world of theoretical physics, warnings do not come theatrically. Faculty and researchers do not shout over one another or upend PCs, tossing them about in a panicked frenzy. It is a quiet life, usually, subdued and laced with insinuations and metaphors. Rivals do not sabotage experiments, but rather publish articles listing “questionable experimental designs” and “indeterminate findings.” The impact is more crushing. It eats at you psychologically. You begin to doubt yourself. You begin to think that you’re not worthy. Not of the degree or the goals you aspire to. You feel betrayed and lied to. You feel like a fraud. And it only becomes worse because you keep trying—you’ve invested too much of your life to stop now.

  “I understand, sir.”

  Dr. Brinkman pulled a bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket, palmed a handful, and chucked them into his mouth. “I hope you do,” he said. “I really do.”

  The Stockholm City Hall was covered in purple and gold, banners hanging from the balcony and stage, flowers lining the aisles. Men donned black tuxedos and tightly wound bowties. The smell of several perfumes clashed with one another, ginger and jasmine and sugar. Elaborate crystal chandeliers lit the auditorium in a hushed glow, and diamond necklaces and gold watches glittered like a refraction experiment. It was almost too much to take in, like a fireworks display gone horribly wrong, each rocket ignited and lighting up the sky all at once.

  Never one for public speaking, Coulter dreaded having to give his address. Hundreds attended, all expecting greatness. He was, after all, a Nobel Laureate. What he would say would be part of the public record for eternity. It would be published and reprinted and distributed across the globe. Critics and colleagues would read it, analyze every word, turn his musings on their head, denounce him or ridicule him or revere him. And now, moments before he was to begin his acceptance speech, he couldn’t help but think that he should’ve gone to urinate before the ceremony had begun.

  Sweden’s King Carl XVI Gustaf waited for him up on stage, prize in hand. He was much taller and statelier than Coulter, who worried he would look like a dwarf next to the royal. It was an irrational fear. He knew it. He told himself it was irrational. Yet he couldn’t but help remember Dr. Brinkman’s advice after his post-doctoral fellowship at Harvard had ended, “Better looking people are sixty percent more likely to be hired than unattractive people. Sixty percent. It’s been proven.” Other stats occurred to him—In ninety-five percent of presidential elections, the taller candidate has won; eighty percent of memorable communication is perceived through how the material is presented, not what is said; an uneducated person is three times more likely to be convicted of homicide than an educated one—all these stats rushed through his head and made him feel so miniscule he feared he had shrunk to an atomic level and that the attendees would not be able to see him.

  For the fifteenth time, he popped his knuckles, applied Chapstick, repeated silently his address, thanking Dr. Brinkman and MIT and Harvard and his wife and son and all those who had helped him and his research throughout the years. Gustaf approached the lectern to introduce Coulter, paused, and smiled to the audience. He appeared so comfortable up there. At home, radiant, as though he couldn’t quite be himself unless being adored by his loving people. Coulter envied this to the point he had thoughts of hurting the King. He had to stop himself from grabbing him, placing his thumb on the soft spot of the neck, just below the Adam’s apple, and pressing down until he could feel the insides go pop. He tried to brush these violent thoughts aside, but they were ever-present, like the way a wound will make your whole body itch just before it gets infected.

  “Tonight,” the King began, “we honor not so much a man but the remarkable achievements of mankind. Isaac Newton once said, ‘If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.’ This is true of Dr. Zahn, who we honor tonight, but it is also true of all of us, in all fields. Whether it is in literature, in medicine, or in physics, to further mankind’s achievements, we must first understand what has come before us in order to advance the canon. While we only honor a single recipient, we hope by honoring him that we honor the incremental steps along the way that led to such an extraordinary discovery, the multi-verse.

  “According to his research, an infinite number of alternate realities exist, and one out there is much like the one we are experiencing at this very moment. Although in that one, perhaps he is the King, and I am the newly-crowned Laureate.”

  The King winked, and the audience laughed. At this point Coulter couldn’t sit still, the urge to pee making him fidget in his seat.

  “Our recipient for the Nobel Prize in Physics is Dr. Coulter Zahn, renowned string-theorist, for his work on the disappearance of gravity in areas of space-time smaller than the Planck Length. Like Einstein’s theory of relativity, it has vastly changed our understanding of the universe. We now know, although much differently than the generations before us had imagined, that we are not alone. This is frightening in some ways, lessening what we believed to be our prominence and our importance in what we call the universe. But it is also comforting. There is another self out there, somewhere, who represents the noblest of us, even when we, in this universe, can’t see it.

  “Without further ado, Dr. Coulter Zahn.”

  The King smiled and gestured toward Coulter to take the stage. He stood and buttoned his jacket and breathed. He tried not to think about it, this pressure building in his bladder. Instead, he thought back to his days when he’d taken biology. How much can the human bladder hold? Fourteen ounces? Could it burst? Would it cause an infection? Would his kidneys be damaged? Could he die from it?

  He approached the stage. It felt good to start moving; the rhythmic cycle of his legs alleviated the urge a bit. Not much, but enough for him to make it up the few steps to the stage. The King greeted him, hand outstretched, and Coulter hoped, he hoped beyond hope, that the King wouldn’t squeeze his hand too hard and make him stay in that position for too long—it would just be too much to bear. The King’s hand was large and overpowering, a contractor’s hand, a man’s hand, yet he did not exert the force it was capable of. His handshake was gentle and subdued. Coulter was grateful for the gentle King. The King gestured toward the galley, and both he and Coulter posed for pictures. “Congratulations,” the King said. “I have no earthly idea what you have proven, but I’m sure it’s great.” He winked and pointed toward the lectern. So many gestures, Coulter thought, just movements of his hand, like he could rule his country without uttering a word, only motioning for what he desired, and watching on pleasantly as his wish was obeyed.

  Coulter stood at the lectern and reached for his notes in his breast pocket. He pulled them out and unfolded the pages and flattened them out on the lectern, but when he went to speak, he found he couldn’t. It wasn’t that his mouth wouldn’t move or that it was just dry or that he needed to unclog pockets of phlegm from his throat—he literally could not speak. Every time he opened his mouth, his brain misfired, the electrical impulses needed to control his vocal folds unable to travel from his cerebral cortex to the nerve endings necessary to talk, the communication lines somehow severed.

  Just speak, he pleaded with himself. Speak! Say something, you idiot!

  Unsure what to do, Coulter looked up from the lectern and faced the audience. They all glared back up at him, their eyes expectant and glowing. To stall time, he reapplied Chapstick, flipped through the pages of his address, but soon the attendees began to get impatient. They whispered amongst themselves and fidgeted in
their seats, the hinges of the chairs squeaking underneath their weight. They were turning on him—he could tell by their animated hand gestures—like their king, they motioned up toward him accusingly, like he was making a fool of them on purpose. How dare he? they thought. How dare he come to our country and fool us like this. Some jumped to their feet, and they were shouting something to their compatriots, but their words were jumbled, their demands incoherent, and others rose to their feet—they were going to rush the stage! But before they could, Coulter felt the wiring in his brain reconnect, that familiar buzz in his throat indicating that he was ready, he could speak, so he opened his mouth to do just that, to calm the crowd, the angry mob about to storm the stage, but before a sound could escape, he felt a warm sensation trickle down the inside of his thighs.

  WHILE I WAS TYPICALLY THE WORRIER, THE one who was paranoid, the one who panicked, Sara, on the other hand, had always been calm, no matter if we were simply sitting at home, me studying, she watching reality TV, or if we were in an emergency, a car accident say, or caught in a tornado during a spring thunderstorm. As if by instinct, she would know exactly what to do. Get out of the car, she would say. Find a ditch. Stick your head down and your ass in the air—it’s the safest place to be struck by lightning. When it came to our unborn son, however, she expected our roles to reverse.

  “What if they find something wrong?” she would ask. “What would we do? I don’t even know if I can take care of a healthy baby for Christ’s sake.”

  “Nothing will be wrong. Trust me.”

  “He could be autistic or have Down syndrome or born with one eye or with two heads.”

  “The odds of anything like that happening are remote. Damn near impossible.”

  “I thought you said nothing is impossible. That double-slit light thingy you told me about, remember?”