Windfall
ROGER looked at his reflection in the mirrored back of the car sun visor. He stared at the lines etched deeply into his face, the sparse gray hair, the puffy skin near the eyes. His direct control of his appearance was improving, but he’d never before used it for such extreme aging. Was he really going to look like this at age 65? He looked older than his father. Perhaps it was the gray beard. He pressed his chin again, reassuring himself that it would remain in place.
Emerging from the Bentley, he retrieved his slim black leather attaché case from the back seat and locked the doors. Then he strode across the small parking lot, down one side of the cloister, and into the quad. The old Cambridge buildings brought back pleasant memories of his student days. He identified himself to the porter, pushed through the massive entry doors of the building, and climbed the worn marble stairs to the second floor.
Dr. Stanley Tern’s office door was open a crack, through which Roger could hear one side of a vigorous telephone argument. “Please understand,” a cultured voice said emphatically, “I do appreciate your calling me directly and relinquishing the usual anonymity, but as referee you’re supposed to either approve or deny publication of my paper. You may not instruct me to rewrite my paper in order to make more generous references to your own work.” Pause. “Actually, you should be glad that I did not say more about your last paper, because I’m afraid it’s dead wrong.” There was a long pause. “Of course it’s wrong! I proved that unambiguously in Section 2.” Pause. “May I ask if you actually read my paper before you wrote this referee report?” Pause. “Did you then understand what I was saying, before you produced this peculiar critique of my arguments? I’m receiving the definite impression that you did not.”
Roger listened quietly outside the door, recalling his own scars from past encounters with mush-headed but iron-willed journal referees.
There was another long pause before the voice continued. “Well, it appears that you leave me no alternative but to protest your misconduct in the refereeing of my paper to the journal’s editorial board.” Pause. “I was not aware that you were a board member.” Pause. “You leave no choice, sir, but to withdraw my submission so that I may submit my work to a reputable journal that employs more rational refereeing policies. It appears that we have nothing further to discuss. Good day, sir.” There was the sound of the telephone receiver being slammed into its cradle.
Roger retreated a few steps, walked forward with loud footsteps, and knocked on the slightly open door. “Dr. Tern?” he said.
A gaunt-faced man with shoulder length dark hair looked up from the desk. “Yes?” he said.
“I am Roger Wilkins of the Iris Foundation. I’d like to speak to you if I may.”
“The Iris Foundation?” Tern repeated.
“Have you heard of us?”
“Of course,” said Tern, visibly brightening. “I read something in the news recently. In the past few months you’re supposed to have been giving what the Guardian termed ‘genius grants’ to worthy individuals in the sciences.”
“Yes, we have,” said Roger.
“Well, what can I do for you?,” asked Tern, “Is there something you want from me? A contribution, perhaps?”
“Not at all,” Roger smiled. “Rather the reverse. But perhaps you could tell me about your new work. I’ve read your recent publications, but I’d like very much to know about any research directions that may not yet be in print.”
Tern swiveled his chair to a file cabinet, opened a long drawer, and extracted several documents from folders. “Here are three preprints that are not in journals yet,” he said, glancing furtively at the referee report on his desk, “and also two papers presented at recent conferences on quantum gravity and on relativistic cosmology, respectively.”
Roger nodded, accepted the papers, scanned their titles, then moved one to the top of the stack. “Application of Clifford Algebra to Quantum Gravity ... ,” he read aloud. “Interesting. Tell me about this one.”
“Very well,” Tern began. “What do you know about Clifford algebra?”
“Only that it’s an alternative mathematical formalism for dealing with complex numbers and functions. I’m aware that some feel it provides a superior mathematical basis for some physical theories.”
“Exactly,” said Tern. “Last summer in France I viewed some cave paintings made by Cro-Magnons a hundred thousand years ago. Animals were painted on the cave walls, and the artist used the natural curvature and irregularity of the walls to give depth and three-dimensional character to the animals he was painting, somehow fitting the animals to the bulges and depression of the cave wall.
“In my view, mathematics is like that. The right underlying mathematical structure enhances and enriches the physical theory that uses it, because the physical theory ‘fits’ the mathematical formalism. If the wrong mathematical structure is used, the physical theory does not fit. The formalism must be bent out of shape to conform to it, leading to obscurity, paradoxical implications, and other problems.
“In my view, all our present theories, but particularly quantum mechanics and general relativity at small distance scales, are cast in an inappropriate mathematical framework. The paradoxes of quantum mechanics and the lack of progress toward a valid theory of quantum gravity are both symptoms of this problem. My students, postdocs, and I have been working in this area for the past five years. I believe that we are on the verge of a real breakthrough.”
Roger nodded. “We think so too,” he said. “Let me ask how much of your time is spent writing research proposals and seeking research funds?”
Tern winced. “Entirely too damn much,” he said. “Some months I do nothing else. And it gets worse with time. The science bureaucracy of the UK demands more and more paper justification for each shilling they pass along. Moreover, they award themselves salaries for their paper shuffling that are far higher than the salaries of the scientists they are supposed to be serving. More and more science money is being diverted into servicing the science bureaucracy instead of funding real science. It’s a national disgrace.”
Roger nodded. “Fortunately, one that can be bypassed,” he said. He removed an envelope from his briefcase and extended it across the desk. “The Iris Foundation likes your work and would like to encourage it. This contains a bank draft for £200,000, made out in your name. It’s the first quarterly installment of your Iris Foundation Award. Our legal staff will be in contact with you to advise you on how to manage the funds to minimize the taxes on the Award.”
Tern looked stunned as he opened the envelope. “But ... ,” he said finally, “what do I have to ... What do you expect in return?”
Roger smiled. “Not research proposals,” he said. “Not budgets. Not progress reports. Just copies of your papers and the theses of your students as they are published, plus an occasional telephone or personal conversation like this one.”
Tern smiled. “Your organization is quite civilized,” he said. “I had no idea ...”
“There is one more item,” said Roger. He handed a single printed sheet of paper across the desk. “This is a summary of lines of inquiry in your field which we feel may prove fruitful. You have no obligation to follow them, but we believe you will find them a useful guide. We suggest that you try some of the approaches and ideas listed here, but I emphasize that this is strictly up to you.”
As Tern read the sheet, his eyes widened. “Where? ... How?”
“I’m afraid I cannot, at this stage of our scientific relationship, divulge the source of the information on that sheet,” said Roger. “I can only say that I’m sure you will find it useful information, taken as a guideline, but it must not be used as a rigid plan or program. You are under no obligation to make reference to it or even to acknowledge its existence. In fact, we would prefer that you did not.”
Tern looked at Roger with suspicion. “You provide this kind of guidance to all of your Awardees? How many are there?”
“We provide some limited indication of fruitful lines of inquiry to the scientists we support,” said Roger. “Yours is our seventh Iris Foundation Award since the initiation of the program earlier this year.”
Tern now looked somewhat less agitated. “What are your restrictions on publicity and media contacts?” he asked.
“We do not intend to directly publicize your Iris Foundation Award ourselves,” Roger answered, “but you may do so if you wish. If asked, we will acknowledge that you are an awardee. We feel that the success of your ongoing work will provide a better basis for publicity than the mere awarding of funds. But you understand your local situation better than we do. We’ll leave those details up to you.”
Discussion of physics and funding continued for more than an hour. Tern was still staring at the bank draft on his desk when Roger left.