The Seven Einsteins

© 2013 by Alvin Rakoff. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/11/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8223-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8224-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8225-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

To

—my daughter—Sasha Victoria Rakoff, D Phil (Oxon)—who inspired me on physical sciences.

—my darling—Sally Hughes, The Mill Theatre, Sonning, Berks.

—who inspired me.

Imagination is more important than knowledge.

—Albert Einstein

born Ulm, Germany, March 14 1879

died Princeton, NJ, April 18 1955

CHAPTER ONE

WASHINGTON

1967

Voices filled the Oval Office. The voices were soft. The arguments were hard.

The President was doing his best to concentrate on the barrage of words bombarding towards him. Words of science. New words. New sounds. New meanings. What am I doing, the President wondered.

What would mama say? Playing God. Only God should play God. Everyone else is miscast.

. . . . extended experiments at by Professor M J Thesiger at University of Iowa and Dr C L Clark at Cambridge University, England… . The speaker, a rumpled little man in a well-pressed suit, paused. His tongue had rolled in relish round the names mentioned. He looked up to see if he still had the President’s attention. The eyes of the man behind the desk, facing five of the nation’s most eminent scientists, blinked back steadily. Encouraged, the speaker continued. The genetic mutation of drosophila melanogaster has proven that… .

Drosophila melanogaster? interrupted the President. It was his turn to savour sounds. Drosophila melanogaster, he repeated slowly. Nice.

It was a trap. The arrogant little man speaking fell into it. Yes, Mr President, said the scientist, you see, sir drosophila melanogaster are—

Fruit flies, said the President, smiling. He could afford to extend some magnanimity to the victim in the trap. Yes, thank you, Dr Dorffman. I know that.

Yes sir, Dorffman tried to return the smile. You see, sir, fruit flies are used in genetic research because… .

Because they breed rapidly. Six generations in one day, interjected the President. Yes, thank you Dr Dorffman. You forget I’m a rancher. And not a complete ass-hole, he said to himself. I know about breeding. But where I come from we call fruit flies fruit flies and not droso-whatever. I’ll try to mend my ways. He leaned back in his chair. Keep on talkin’.

Dr Dorffman’s voice could now only manage a strangulated staccato. The papers in his hand began to shake. . . . with our extensive resources for genetic manipulation therefore concluding… .

The President pretended to reach up to adjust his glasses. But he was really using his large hands to hide a yawn. M’god, he thought, I’m yawning. Here we are changing the forces of life and I’m yawning. He leaned onto the desk. Opened a folder. Picked up a pen. And began scrawling his signature on various documents. Keep on talkin’, he ordered, I’m still listenin’.

Timothy Laenker, geneticist, MD, PhD, DSc, Professor Emeritus of Genetics at Harvard University, could see the President clearly was not listening. He rose. Excuse me, Dr Dorffman, he said gently. The speaker stumbled to a stop. Ah, yes… yes… of course… of course, said Dorffman, gratefully resuming his seat.

The President put down his pen. He liked Timmy Laenker. And often showed it by treating this tall aquiline man with white hair and complexion to match as if he were a fellow Texan. In truth Laenker was from Wisconsin.

Mr President, Laenker began, imagine a man who has spent his life—his entire life—struggling through dense undergrowth, struggling if you like through a jungle. He comes out of the jungle, into the daylight, into a clearing. For the first time. And sees… . a mountain. For the first time. Yes. Yes. And not able to see where the mountain finishes. The peak lost in mists of cloud.

Ah geez, thought the President, colourful comparisons and simple similes are not what I need. I thought Timmy would know that. All the same these men of the east, these Harvard men. The leader of the nation glanced towards the discreet door of his toilet. I should shake them up, he thought. Go for that leak now. And leave the door open. Better still sit on the kahzee and do a dump with the door open. That’d really shake them. He had to restrain a laugh. Mind you, he told himself, I was no great shakes in science at school. The President had a sudden vision of remembrance. The image of his mother staying by his side the night before a final exam filled the screen of his thoughts, his mother reading from a text, trying to drum the laws of physics into his aching head.

That man at the foot of the mountain is us, said Laenker.

Us? asked the President.

Yes, sir, replied Laenker. It’s me. It’s them. He gestured towards the others in the room. It’s the people out there. Pointing to the windows. In this city. In this country. On this planet. All of us. Even sir, you, the President of the United States.

Well, thank you, said the President. I’d hate to be left out.

Mankind stands at the foot of a mountain of technology, continued Laenker. A mountain of newness. Laenker paused. The know-how of the men in this room and others like them have brought us to the foothills. Now we need someone to lead us up the mountain. He paused again. We look to you, sir.

The President’s chin settled into the folds of his neck. Keep talkin’, he said, I am listenin. And this time he was.

I envisage a time, said Laenker, when every house in this land will have a means of writing letters without going to the post box, of checking bank accounts without going to the bank, of shopping without shops, of… .

A computer! interrupted the President. Dammit, is that what y’mean? Seen the size of those things? Big as a Ford factory. One in every house, hah! I can’t even get a crap can into every house in America fer chrissakes, and you’re talking about a computer.

It will happen, Mr President, persisted Laenker.

Whether it does or whether it doesn’t, makes no never minds, said the President. That’s a machine. But what we’re ranting on about today ain’t a machine. We’re talking about life. Mankind. Man. You’re asking me to conspire—and that’s the right word, conspire, without the knowledge of the people—to let you make a man.

Seven men, said Laenker.

The President did not reply

On this mountain are answers, Laenker continued, "to disease. Alzheimer’s. Cancer. MS. All of them. To energy. The world will run out of energy soon. To space. What is up there? The oceans. What is down there? Food. We need more food to feed us all. And—

Helluva mountain, interrupted the President

At the foot of a mountain, is where we are, continued Laenker. To go up the mountain is frightening. Not to go on is even more frightening. The choice is yours, Mr President. I know it’s scary…

Shit scary, the President interrupted again. An uncomfortable pause followed.

Charles Chesterton took this as his cue to speak. He cleared his throat. Mr President, if I may, sir. The way I see it, one of your predecessors, Harry Truman, he had a tough choice. To utilise the atom bomb or not. And he gave the orders. Drop the bomb, he said. And history will thank him for it. It was the right decision. And I… we… . look to you to make the right decision. Chesterton had used his degree from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, barely achieved, to enter the army where he was known as ‘Gung-ho Charlie’ because of a willingness to wage war by employing all available weaponry. Including chemicals. Including bacteria. Including napalm. His decisions, fortunately, were usually overruled. He had retired early with the rank of general.

The President reluctantly decided to leave the security of his chair and walked round to perch on the desk front. I grant you that Presidents are always worried about how history will treat them, he said. Yes, I have to grant you that, General Chesterton. But one of my saving graces, an’ I know I don’t have many, is that I don’t worry that much about history. Maybe it’s ’cause I know my place in the pattern of presidents. I’d like to be up there among the big boys. O’course. Who wouldn’? With Jefferson and Lincoln and Roosevelt—Franklin gave me my first real job, did y’know that? I loved that man—but if it’s not to be then it’s not to be. I know my place. The Boy from Boston, he’ll get a high profile. Well, he probably deserves it. The way he handled Kruschev. The way he handled Cuba. He was good at handling. Especially handling women. If the public ever find out about him and women, hah! How many in one day? Can’t remember. Never mind. Better man than that little-shit brother of his. Hate him. Little shit that he is. He aspires to be President one day. Be a bad day if he makes it. Bad day. President Little-shit. Yuk. Where was I? Oh yeah. Then there’s me. Maybe I’m just another also-ran. Maybe. But I always try to do what is best for our country. What is best for the people? May not be much good at it, but I try. I try my damnedest.

There were some murmurs of protest at this self-denigration by the President.

Be that as it may, the President continued, what Harry Truman did is a matter of record. In the history books. Whereas when we go ahead, if we go ahead, it’s a secret. At least I take it to be secret. Isn’t it?

The President looked towards Markus William Cooke, CIA. Cooke, a graduate of the University of Florida, was one of the few men in the CIA capable of understanding the contents and consequences of this meeting in the Oval office. In reply to the President’s query, Cooke gave an almost imperceptible nod of agreement.

So that even if I do, by some lucky chance, make the right decision today, no one’s ever going to know it, continued the President.

They will in the future, said Laenker. Say thirty or forty years from now. Yes. And they’ll respect you for that decision.

That’s one of the hells of being President. People learn to love you after you’re dead, said the President.

Then he smiled and threaded his way through the suited men. On the opposite wall he found a small button. He pressed it. A slim panel revealed itself. As the others watched the President reached inside and pulled out a golf putter. In the far corner of the room a teacup waited open-mouthed.

Seen this in a movie once, said the President. Golf in an office. Liked the idea. He clinked at a ball. Answer me another question.

Certainly sir, if I can, said Laenker

The putted golf ball missed the cup.

Why Einstein? asked the President.

Greatest thinker of this century, said Laenker. The others readily agreed. Probably of any century.

An immigrant, said the President, not a native born American.

Makes him all the more loyal to this country. Tried other countries. Chose America, said Chesterton.

Father of the atom bomb, said the President.

He was a pacifist, a man of peace, said Laenker.

A Jew? Right? Silence. Well, he was, wasn’t he?

Laenker nodded. He was forced out of Germany because he was Jewish. Another pause. Think of the consequences if he had stayed. If the Nazis had got the atom bomb first.

The President found a second ball. Placed it carefully on the floor so that once more its route would avoid the seated men.

E equals MC squared, said the President.

Will give us the energy we need for generations to come, said Laenker.

Once again the ball missed.

What else will it give us? Where else will your experiments lead us? asked the President. We’re children playing with the tools of life. Children. And if we get it wrong, as kids do, kerpow! The End. Today you told me of things that make my mind swim. You can change the creatures that walk on this earth. You talk of frogs without heads. Where does that end? Soon it’ll be people without heads. Grown for spare parts. Want a new toe, Mrs McClintock; Woolworth’s are doing a special on feet today… . You can make pigs with human hearts. For transplanting. Can you deny that? A pig with a human heart!

If you were dying with a bad heart, you wouldn’t care where a new one came from, said Laenker, even from a pig.

I would if I were a Muslim! the President roared at his own joke. Laenker simply waited. Sorry, Timmy, Not that funny. Sorry.

Laenker looked at his watch. The afternoon was ending. Shadows lengthened on the lawn outside the window. And Laenker wished he were somewhere else. For instance at Sleepy Creek Lake, or better still at Mount Storm Lake. Fly fishing. He loved using the lure of dry flies to catch fish. The contemplative man’s recreation, is how Izaak Walton defined such fishing. And Laenker agreed. Fishing, in early mornings or sometimes early evenings, allowed him the luxury of dissecting his thoughts. Away from laboratories. Away from test tubes. In the coolness of a lakeside. Alone. Time to think. Time to worry. About the reality and unreality of his work. And the work of others. Is it only scientists who know how unreal, how unsafe, the world is? If ever I have children, he thought, I would want them to be ‘normals’ and have nothing to do with science. Yes. Nothing… . He had to stop himself from chuckling aloud. Here he was not yet married and thinking about children! Silly. Silly. You’re being silly, Professor Laenker. He looked at the President. Make up your mind, Mr President, thought Laenker. I’ve got important things to do. More important than the genetic reproduction of mankind. In a lake. I want to go fishing.

I suppose the Germans would want to create another Hitler, said the President.

Be a waste, said Laenker. Hitler wasn’t a great thinker. They’d be better off with Beethoven. Mozart. Or Goethe. Or that rocket man, Wernher Von Braun. Yes. The world needs lateral thinkers. People able to reason sideways as well as forwards. Not people with only one dominant sight. But many sights. Visions.

This mountain you talk about, Timmy. This new mountain of science. When do we get to the top of it?

Middle of the next century, replied Laenker, or the century after.

Helluva Mountain, the President repeated. He stroked another golf ball. Watched it glide gently wide of its target.

Yes, sir. It is, Laenker agreed. Helluva mountain.

One by one the President stared at the men in the room. Dr Dorffman wilted under the glare. Markus Cooke’s dark eyes hid any revelation. Frank Laenker, Timothy’s younger brother, also a geneticist, not nearly as eminent as his sibling, but nevertheless a man to be reckoned with, tried to return the President’s gaze but soon turned away. General Chesterton looked pleased with himself for having reached a status that enabled him to be at this meeting. Only Timothy Laenker stared steadily back at the President.

The President returned to the front of his desk and put down the golf club.

You think I should say ‘Yes’ don’t you, Timmy?

You must say ‘Yes’, replied Laenker.

Say something to make me say ‘Yes’. said the President. Or else the answer is ‘No’.

Laenker continued to stare at the President. He wondered how much he dared to say.

The gooks wouldn’t hesitate, said Laenker.

The difference in the decibel