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We were in a shed outside of Matthew's house. It smelled like a mix of motor oil and potting soil, and every available surface was covered with bits and pieces, tools and small parts. There were motors and wires strewn all over. One tangle of multi-colored wires formed a knotwork pattern that dangled from a nail on the back wall, and I was fascinated by it for a moment, as if it contained all the mysteries of the universe.
Matthew's workbench was buried in this mess, but none of the disorganization seemed to bother him in the least.
I've seen this before. A lot of the engineers I talk to are meticulous in their work, but sloppy in their environment. It's like there's a balance to be struck—as if being well organized in one area meant you had to be a slob in another.
Matthew had put his wooden crate down on top of a pile of other objects, and it just continued to move.
And it wasn't the only thing.
All around us were blinking lights and whirring motors and moving gadgets with no obvious purpose. And as I looked closely at all of them, I saw the same makeshift little battery attached to each. It might be different sizes, but it always had some shared characteristics.
"All of these things run off of your battery?" I asked.
"I build them and then I build the battery and they just keep working."
"And what do your parents say about this?" I asked.
"Pop says it's a nice hobby. Momma says it's ok as long as I don't forget that Jesus is Lord."
I did not have a response for that, other than a mumbled "Amen."
"Matthew, if what you're telling me is true, you've done something ... I mean, I don't even have a word for it. You've done something amazing."
"Pop says that most batteries run out after a few months or maybe a year or so, which makes these good ones."
"Good ones," I repeated. "Matthew, there are no batteries like these! Even the best batteries have to recharge every now and then! You're telling me that this one," and I nodded to the ice skating model, "has been running for 29 years without a charge! It's ... it's impossible!"
"Momma says nothing is impossible when you have Jesus in your heart."
"You must have him then, Matthew, because this is just unbelievable."
I asked him to show me more, and he obliged. We went through his entire collection of tiny motors and toys and gizmos. Everything ran from his little batteries, and all of it certainly looked as if it had been around for years. At the very least, over the course of the next few hours I never once noticed anything run to a stop, and Matthew never put anything on charge.
"Can you show me how you make the battery?" I asked.
Without hesitating Matthew turned and cleared a small space on the table. And then he ...
Well, it's actually very difficult to explain. Mostly, he blurred.
His hands started moving all over the place, grabbing bits of wire, snips, a soldering iron, tiny fragments of metal. I looked to see what he would pick up to use for the battery's source of energy, but there were no liquids or crystals or anything that I could see. I took out my phone and recorded everything, dictating any observations I could as he went.
I'm not an engineer. And I'm definitely not a physicist. I'm just the guy my company sends out to check out prospects, to find materials, and to organize a system for getting the work done. I'm kind of like a wedding planner for factories—I don't know all the specifics, but I know the people who do. And I know enough to recognize when something isn't quite right—when a contractor is scamming us or when parts aren't quite up to spec.
So I'd like to think that if Matthew was pulling one over on me, I'd know it. But with the speed he was working, and the flurry of random parts and materials he was using, I was pretty sure this wasn't a scam. If he really were trying to fool me, he would have had to set it all up well in advance. And frankly, there was just no way he could have known I'd be here. No one knew me in this county, and no one knew why I was here.
After a few minutes, Matthew sat back and I got a peek at his work in its final form.
It was a small, cylindrical object. A coil of copper was spun around its outside, and two leads came from one end. Tiny wires ran along its length, connecting seemingly random points all along its exterior. I knew from having watched him build it that there were more points like this inside—an array of them that represented a variety of small electronic components.
"Can I pick it up?" I asked.
"Yes," Matthew said.
I reached out my right hand, slowly, and pinched the battery between by thumb and forefinger. I lifted it gingerly, feeling its very slight weight, and raised it so that I could look at it closer.
In doing this, the two leads coming out of the top jostled, and a huge spark erupted as they made contact.
I dropped the battery and it landed with a thud on the workbench.
Matthew laughed as if he'd just seen the funniest thing on Earth, and I smiled and laughed a little with him.
"I wasn't expecting that," I huffed. "I never saw you charge it!"
"I didn't," Matthew said. "I don't have to charge them anymore. They pick up a charge from the air."
"They ..." I started, but couldn't even finish. "How?"
"Momma says the power of Jesus is all around us."
I thought about this. "You're saying these batteries are powered by ... God?"
"I dunno," Matthew said. "He never told me."
I shook my head. I was breathing heavy. Like I said, I'm no engineer. And I'm not physicist. But I do hang around with a lot of those guys, and I read a lot of technical journals and articles. I know the rudiments of science. I have to. And I knew exactly what this was, now.
Zero point energy.
I can't really explain all of this very well, but I can say that it's all tied up in quantum physics and energy in a vacuum. It's the energy that's left over when you take everything else away. And, according to some folks, it's infinite. If you could tap into zero-point energy, or ZPE, you could power the entire world forever.
Somehow, through a bunch of cobbling and tinkering, Matthew had found a way to create unlimited energy. And he was using it to power a 29-year-old science fair project.