State of the Union

“Mister Chairman, this next bit is not in the prepared statement I submitted to you, but 1 can’t help but interject it, with your permission.”

Tavish nodded, mostly because he hoped that whatever Wilson had to say would annoy Hitch more than it would him.

“Over the past several decades,” Wilson said, letting his gaze travel along the arc of faces behind the raised bench at the head of the room, “it has become increasingly difficult for scientists to obtain proper funding for any research, even the most pressing and—potentially—most rewarding. Success in scientific research has become more a function of a researcher’s ability to raise funds than his scientific acumen. That has been particularly true since the midterm elections in ’94.” Wilson paused. There was considerably more he wanted to say, but there would be time, later, for the rest. Deeds were ever so much more impressive than words.

“We have to be open-minded about obtaining research grants. A scientist who wants to stay in business has to be willing to accept offers, even if there are disagreeable strings tied to the money.” He hesitated again, thinking that there had often been disagreeable strings attached even back when the money had come primarily from congress. Then he looked to the committee chairman and said, “I’ll return to my prepared statement now.”

The primary thrust of my research has always been time. On a theoretical level, that needs no more than computer, paper and pencils, and a brain. I have, of course, made use of whatever experimental data others have managed to collect, measuring the differing passage of time at different distances from the center of Earth, and at different velocities, and so forth, using those data for my calculations.

Four years ago I published a paper which suggested, among other things, that it might be feasible to build a working time machine—given rather liberal funding. I was unable to obtain that funding through any of the usual channels. Those people responsible for judging the merits of such requests saw the words “Time Machine” and immediately freaked out without bothering to properly evaluate the proposal or submit it to peer review. It was impossible, it was impractical, and anyhow, there were all of those nasty paradoxes we’ve been reading about since H.G. Wells.

It wasn’t long before the department chair suggested that, tenure or not, it might be wise if I quit giving the university such a black eye. Research funding for my colleagues might be adversely affected if people thought that there was a certifiable lunatic on the faculty. I had little choice, actually. I continued my theoretical work, but decided that unless I won a very large lottery prize, I would never get the chance to see if my device could actually be built.

Then, just over three years ago, a week before fall semester finals, two visitors came to my office at the university, and arrived just at the end of my scheduled office hour, when I was always available for any students who want to come in and talk.

These two were obviously not students, even though it isn’t unusual to find people in their thirties attending school. They were simply dressed too well. One wore a knee-length leather coat. The other’s coat was genuine camel hair. The suits they wore underneath were likewise expensive and tailored, the sort a professor can’t hope to afford unless he pens a bestseller.

There was nothing particularly distinctive about either man except for their clothing. I detected no accents or anything like that. They were quiet. They were polite. They sounded well-educated.

“Dr. Wilson,” the man wearing camel hair said, “we would like to talk with you for a few minutes if you have the time.”

I allowed that I had a little time available and asked both men to sit. With three of us and winter coats, the office was rather crowded. They took off the coats and sat.

Camel hair introduced himself as Frank Zarelli and his companion as Carl Pastor. Zarelli also introduced himself as an attorney. It wasn’t until somewhat later that I learned that Pastor was a CPA.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I think, perhaps, it’s more what we can do for each other,” Zarelli said. “You wrote a paper last year suggesting that it might be possible to build a working time machine.” I nodded.

“Since that time, you have been totally unable to get any research funds to actually build that machine.” I nodded again.

“I represent a group of... clients who might be willing to fund that experiment,” Zarelli said.

A nod simply wasn’t enough this time. I leaned forward. At the possibility of funds I came close to salivating—a Pavlovian response that any academic would recognize. “That would be welcome,” I said.

“Just how much money would you require?” the other man, Pastor, asked.