The Absolutely Foolproof Alibi

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  The Absolutely Foolproof Alibi

  by James P. Hogan

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  Science Fiction

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  Fictionwise, Inc.

  www.Fictionwise.com

  Copyright ©1988 by James P. Hogan

  First published in Minds, Machines, and Evolution, May 1988

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  The phone on Professor Osbert Osternak's desk rang. “Excuse me,” the snowy-haired chief scientist of the Erwin Schrödinger Memorial Research Institute said to the younger man sitting across from him. “Yes? ... This is Professor Osternak, yes. Who is this, please? ... Oh?” The old man's eyebrows shot upward almost to his hairline. “Oh really? That is most interesting.” He settled back in his chair and sent an apologetic shrug across the desk. It seemed that this was going to take a while. “Yes, that is true, quite true.... Yes. That is so. But how do you ... of course. Amazing! And so it happens.... So, what can I do for you?..."

  Dr. Rudi Gorfmann, Osternak's deputy, wearing a black bow tie and dress shirt beneath his white lab coat, sighed impatiently. The old fool would be prattling on for half the evening now, and Gorfmann wanted to be on his way to Innsbruck for the Celebrity Club's charity fund-raising banquet. He stood up and turned to face away across the office. With its antiquated wooden bookshelves and -paneling—even a chalkboard!—it was as much of an anachronism as the person it belonged to. Gorfmann paced across to the window of the Gothic “Keep,” which on its rocky eminence beneath the peaks of the Bavarian Alps, frosty against the darkening sky, formed an incongruous focal point for the Institute's modern laboratory blocks and reactor housings. His reflection stared back from the glass: a clean-shaven face, neatly groomed blond hair, gold-rimmed spectacles. Meanwhile, Osternak's voice babbled on behind. “This is unbelievable. When does he intend to do this? ... Ach, so.... Can we get together and talk about this?..."

  Old scientists should be forcibly retired at forty, Gorfmann fumed to himself. Newton, Einstein, anyone of brilliance ... none had done anything useful beyond their twenties. All they had achieved after that was to place the seal of unchallengeable authority on ideas that had become outmoded, making further progress impossible until they died off and made room for new blood with new vigor. If it weren't for such tyranny of age and tradition, Columbus would have landed on the moon, Watt would have harnessed fusion energy, and the Wright brothers would have built the first starship. And Rudi Gorfmann would have ... He realized that Osternak had stopped talking on the telephone, and turned back to face the desk.

  “I'm sorry,” Osternak said, gesturing for Gorfmann to be seated again. “But it was rather important. I know you have a dinner to get to. Now, where were we?"

  Gorfmann remained standing. “I protest at this policy of indecisiveness and timidity that you are imposing on the Institute,” he repeated.

  “But I'm not imposing anything, Rudi. The directors are in full agreement that—"

  “On scientific issues they follow your lead, which makes it the same thing. My question is, are we scientists, dedicated to discovery in a spirit of boldness, with confidence in our own judgment? Or old women cowed by superstitions and frightened of anything we don't understand?” Gorfmann jabbed a finger in the direction of the window. “Outside, in that building down there, is what's probably the most significant breakthrough in the entire history of physics, maybe in entire history, period—a tested, proven, up-and-running transfer gate. We are talking about a working time machine! The implications are staggering. Everything we thought we knew about logic and causality will have to be revised. The very fundamentals of physics—space, time, energy, matter, charge—all take on new meanings. Unimaginable technologies will grow from it...."

  “Rudi,” the professor interrupted patiently. “I am aware of all this."

  “What I'm saying is that it is ours!” Gorfmann said, punching a fist into his other palm. “Us—the scientists here at the Institute. It was our work that made this a reality. The rewards and the recognition that it deserves belong to us."

  Osternak nodded. “And I'm sure that in time you will receive them."

  Gorfmann snorted derisively. “When, with the snail's pace of the way things are moving? Fifty years from now? A century? What use is that to me? I am young, and I still have a life ahead of me that I mean to enjoy. I want the rewards and everything that goes with them, now. But all we get is restrictions, restrictions, this ridiculous blackout on publicity, and tests, tests, and more tests.” He waved a hand in Osternak's direction. “Look, I'm sorry if this success has come a little late in life for you—there is nothing I can do about that. But it doesn't have to be that way for me. I say we should go public now. I would like to make the first official announcement during my speech tonight."

  Osternak shook his head. “It is too early for anything like that. You said yourself a moment ago that the implications are staggering. It is precisely for that reason that we cannot risk the turmoil that this kind of news would unleash, until we understand all of the ramifications fully.” The professor waved at the equations strung across the blackboard on the wall. “We still don't understand the effects on mass-energy conservation, or the intricacies of sequential nested loops. From the animal experiments it appears that two passes through the chamber in too short a time can severely disrupt the central nervous system. We have no idea why. I understand your feelings, but with things like that unresolved, our byword for the foreseeable future can only be caution."

  “Caution, caution, all I ever hear is ‘caution'!” Gorfmann exploded. He turned his hands upward appealingly. “It wasn't caution that—"

  “I'm sorry, Rudi, but I must insist.” For the first time there was an edge of sharpness to Osternak's voice. “The consequences of inviting pestering and interference from outside would be catastrophic at this stage of the project. That position is final. I want your solemn word not to utter one word about it, either tonight or on any future occasion, without express official direction. Is that understood?"

  Gorfmann marched across to the door and grasped the handle without saying anything.

  “Rudi,” the professor called as he opened the door. Gorfmann turned and looked back. “Your assurance, please.” Osternak's tone left no room for debating.

  Gorfmann bit his lip in suppressed frustration. It was either that, he could see, or he'd be out of a job before he got out of the building. And that would mean an end to any chance of benefitting from his involvement with the project—ever. Not to mention the impossibility of getting hired by any other of Osternak's cronies in the business, and a complete ban on publication. The old fart could ruin him. He glared balefully through his spectacles and nodded his head once, stiffly. “Very well. But I protest.” With that he turned about and marched out of the office.

  “Have a good evening, Rudi,” the professor's voice called after him.

  As Gorfmann came out, he noticed a cloth lying on the floor on the opposite side of the corridor, outside the cleaners’ closet next to Professor Prandtl's office. Such sloppiness offended him, and at another time he might have tossed it back inside. But at this particular instant he was too annoyed to bother and walked away, making a mental note to have a word with the cleaners about it tomorrow.

  * * *
*

  Feeling debonair and resplendent in his black tie and evening dress, Rudi Gorfmann walked up to the spotlit podium and smiled to acknowledge the applause following the toastmaster's introduction. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” He paused and looked around the tables of white shirtfronts and glittering hands and throats. “I have something confidential to announce concerning our work at the Erwin Schrödinger Memorial Research Institute.” He looked from side to side ominously. An expectant silence fell. “Up there, in our castle-laboratory in the mountains, we are not really making a Frankenstein monster. But the image is one of the conditions that we have to meet under the terms of our contract. You see, we are funded by the proceeds from the will of an eccentric German billionaire who had a fixation about bats and cats.” Appreciative laughter came from around the room. “But seriously, thank you again for asking me to come and say a few words tonight. It is probably not often that a professional scientist gets an opportunity to speak on these occasions. Therefore I will make the most of that opportunity by saying a few words about science...."

  At his table afterward, he was the center of attention. “I thought that what you said about quantum mechanics was fascinating, Dr. Gorfmann,” the platinum blonde sitting on one side of him said. “I believe that quantum mechanics might be the explanation for telepathy and ESP. What do you think?"

  “First one must be certain there is something that needs explaining,” Gorfmann replied profoundly.

  “Oh, it's been authenticated, no doubt about it,” a tall, thin-haired man opposite declared airily. “In fact I have irrefutable experience of it myself."

  “I am sure some people would consider it irrefutable."

  “But we have a lot of science in the world already, and a lot of people still aren't happy,” a bejeweled, middle-aged woman said from farther along. “It can't guarantee happiness, and that's what counts."

  “What can?” Gorfmann asked. “That's not what science ever set out to accomplish. Its purpose is discovery, no more."

  “But people don't look at it that way,” the bejeweled woman's husband said, as if that meant something. “What I mean is, those people who spend lots of money on gadgets because they expect wonderful things, and then find out that they're just as miserable."

  “More so. They're broke,” a sandy-haired man said. The others smiled.

  “Then perhaps they should re-examine their expectations,” Gorfmann suggested.

  Buffoons, all of them, he thought inwardly. Functionally incompetent, overindulged children. If intellectual defectives like these could brainwash a society of drones into lavishing them with accolades and riches, what would those of genuine ability accomplish if they put their minds to it? It was the likes of Osternak, with their pathetic notions of modesty and professional ethics, who kept the glamour out of science and deglorified it, consigning themselves to second-class roles in the world when they could have been running it. Things would change when Gorfmann got where he was aiming.

  “What do you think is the best way of teaching children to be rational and logical?” the brunette who was with the sandy-haired man asked.

  “You can't. They already are. But you can unteach them."

  The head waiter came to the far end of the top table, which was where Gorfmann was sitting, and asked the club secretary something. The secretary indicated Gorfmann with a motion of his hand, and the head waiter approached. Gorfmann looked up inquiringly.

  “Dr. Gorfmann?"

  “Yes."

  “I'm sorry to interrupt, but there is a telephone call for you. You may take it at the table if you wish."

  “Oh?” Gorfmann looked surprised. He wasn't aware of anything urgent. “Very well. Yes, thank you. I'll take it here."

  The head waiter nodded in the direction of one of the doorways, and another waiter who had been waiting there came forward carrying a cordless phone on a tray. He deposited the tray beside Gorfmann's plate and retired to a discreet distance. The other guests diverted their attention to leave Gorfmann a measure of privacy.

  “Hello? This is Rudi Gorfmann speaking."

  “Just checking,” a man's voice replied. There was a hint of a chuckle in it, as if the speaker was feeling pleased with himself and couldn't quite contain it.

  “Who is this, please?"

  “It doesn't matter. Let's just say that, as I know you'll be pleased to learn, you're even cleverer than you think."

  “Look, I don't—” There was a click, and then a buzz came on the line. Gorfmann put the phone down and sat back in his chair, baffled. The waiter, who had been hovering, came forward. Gorfmann nodded, and the waiter took the tray away.

  The platinum blonde next to him glanced around and saw that the others were still talking among themselves. She laid a hand lightly on his arm and leaned closer to whisper. “Some friends of mine will be getting together later at the Claremont. Do you know it?"

  “The ski lodge, higher up in the pass, above the Institute? Yes, it's very nice up there."

  “It will be just a few late-night drinks, and maybe a small party. If you've no other plans, perhaps you'd like to join us?” The blonde held his eyes pointedly. “It can be a very friendly atmosphere."

  Gorfmann considered the proposition. He had left his car at the Institute and driven down to Innsbruck with Dr. Hoetzer, since they had some technical things to discuss. So Hoetzer would have to drop him off at the Institute, but it was on the way to the Claremont, anyhow. “Thank you,” he said. “No, I have nothing else planned. Shall I meet you up there later?"

  “I'll be waiting,” the blonde whispered. “My name is Lisa.” Gorfmann smiled at her conspiratorially.

  He sat back in his chair to sip his wine and surveyed the room with a satisfied eye. Yes, indeed, it was going to be a good life, he decided ... once he had found a way to get around that doddering fossil, Osternak.

  * * * *

  “I tried talking to Osternak about it tonight before we left,” Gorfmann said, gesticulating in Hoetzer's wagon as they drove back up through the pass from Innsbruck. “I wanted to say something at the banquet, in fact. But he wouldn't listen. I think he's getting past this kind of work. Perhaps we should start organizing ourselves to do something about it.” He eyed Hoetzer surreptitiously as he spoke, gauging his reaction.

  “Well, let's see what happens at the policy meeting next week,” Hoetzer replied tactfully. They came out of the last of the bends on the steep climb from the Weiderwasser bridge. The lights of the Institute's main gate came into sight ahead. “Where's your car parked, Rudi?” Hoetzer asked, happy to change the subject.

  “In front, outside the Keep,” Gorfmann replied.

  The general parking area for staff was inside the main gate, adjoining the maze of alleys and yards between the various buildings, known collectively as the “Compound.” At the front of the Keep, however, there was an enclosed gravel forecourt with a small parking area reserved for senior personnel, which opened onto the road via a separate gate.

  “I wonder, could you do me a small favor?” Hoetzer asked.

  “What's that?"

  “I need to pick up a generator set that I'm borrowing. It's just behind the gate from the compound into the center parking area. I could use some help lifting it into the wagon."

  Gorfmann pulled a face in the darkness. He wanted to go home, change into more casual wear, and then be on his way up to the Claremont to meet Lisa as quickly as possible. But there was no way out of it. “Of course,” he said, forcing a genial tone.

  “Thank you so much."

  “Not at all."

  They turned into the main gateway, and Hoetzer stopped to let the security guard know what they were doing—the guard seemed aware of the arrangement already. Then they drove across to the other side of the almost empty parking area, and Hoetzer reversed into a slot in front of the Compound gate. “Hardly the best dress for this kind of thing,” Hoetzer said cheerfully as he climbed out.

  “No,” Gorfmann agr
eed. He took off his topcoat, folded it, and put it on the seat before joining Hoetzer on the other side of the gate. The generator was mounted on a steel-frame base with a lifting bar at each end. Gorfmann looked it over and undid his tie before tackling it. They manhandled the generator through the gate and across the few meters to the wagon. “The guard seemed to know about this already,” Gorfmann remarked as Hoetzer opened the rear door.

  “Oh yes. I cleared it with security this afternoon. I just didn't want to drive all the way down to Innsbruck and back up again with the weight."

  “Very sensible."

  They heaved the generator up onto the tailboard, and the wagon sank on its suspension as it took the load. Hoetzer slammed the door shut and dusted his hands together in a manner indicative of a job well done. “Thanks so much,” he said again.

  “Don't mention it. Look, I'll tell you what.” Gorfmann gestured in the direction of the Compound gate. “I can just go on through the Keep and get my car. It'll be quicker than driving around, and you won't have to stop."

  “It wouldn't be any trouble...."

  “No, the walk would be quicker."

  “Well, if you're sure."

  “Yes. I'll see you tomorrow."

  “Okay, then. Good night, Rudi."

  “Good night. Thank you for the ride."

  Gorfmann walked back through the gate and began crossing the Compound through the jumble of shadows cast by the surrounding structures and laboratory buildings. As his mind turned to thoughts of the promise that lay ahead with Lisa, his pace quickened, and he began whistling to himself.

  “Hey, Rudi,” Hoetzer's voice called from behind him. Gorfmann stopped and looked back. Hoetzer was standing just inside the gate, holding something up. “You forgot your coat."

  “Oh, silly of me.” Gorfmann turned and retraced his steps.

  “That won't do. You're turning into an absentminded professor already,” Hoetzer said, handing it over.

  “I hope not. We've got one too many of those already."