Читать книгу The Alien's Secret Volume 1 - Robert M. Doroghazi - Страница 7

The four inner planets of the Earth’s solar system are of the terrestrial type, with a small dense mass and rocky surface made mostly of the heavy elements. The next four planets are much more massive, with a thick atmosphere made of light elements and without a solid surface. Pluto is similar to neither and, depending on who you talk to and which day of the week it is, may or may not be considered a planet.

Oria is the first and largest planet in their twelve planet system. All of the planets are of the terrestrial type and decrease uniformly in size so that the twelfth planet, MA’ton, is only 9 percent of the size of Oria and is sixteen times farther away from Oria, as Oria is from the center of their solar system. All planets lie in the same plane and if they rotate, spin in the same direction.

Infinitely more remarkable than this difference in our planets and theirs is what occupies the center of the Orian system. The life and warmth of our solar system are supplied by a small star that we call by the generic name of the sun. At the center of the Orian system is a binary, a star and a black hole that orbit each other and rotate in the same direction as the planets. The star Mhairi is 2.3 times the mass of our sun and the black hole has the gravity of 7.2 times our sun.

The modern history of Oria began 523 years ago with the birth of Odibee Rankin. Rankin’s work to propose, then prove the existence of, then produce the virtual photon, allowed Oria to unlock the secrets of the black hole. Rankin then designed and supervised the construction of a Cube to surround the binary. The Cube, named for Rankin only after his death, harnessed the unlimited and eternal power of the black hole and beamed it back to Oria, initiating a half-millennium of unequaled prosperity, which paradoxically indirectly led to the revolution.

Rankin was the third of five children. His parents, Arpodd and Ana, emigrated from Annag, a backward planet outside the solar system that at the time was almost three weeks travel from Oria. Rankin never said why his parents left Annag, but because there was little opportunity for advancement, it was not uncommon for people who wanted a better life for their families to leave.

Before Rankin, Orians were slow to accept outsiders. They were not overtly xenophobic, but neither were immigrants accepted with open arms. Rankin’s parents got tired of hearing, “They’re takin’ our jobs, they’re takin’ our jobs…and they don’t even talk no good Orian.” It made no difference that the immigrants were taking the menial jobs that no Orians wanted. Orians were also concerned that immigrants would dilute their culture: “Them people’s gonna destroy what we’se worked so hard to build here.”

Rankin’s example changed everything. Although there was still some complaining about immigrants, especially among the less educated, most Orians came to realize that the influx of bright, hard-working people from anywhere who wanted to get ahead was a catalyst, not a drag, for future economic and cultural growth.

Throughout the Orian system, children usually speak their first clearly intelligible words at thirteen to fifteen months. Simple sentences, like “I love Mommy.” or “This is hot!” or “I want more!” at two to two and one-half years of age, and they begin to write at three and one-half to four.

Arpodd and Ana’s favorite story of Rankin’s childhood was his first words. Rankin had just turned four and had yet to say anything, not a single word. When he wanted something, which seemed to be surprisingly often, he would point, or more commonly, just take it. When he was mad, he would either make a fist, or if that didn’t work, he’d bite.

One day the family was having supper. Mrs. Rankin said, “Arpodd, I’m so worried about Odibee not talking that I made an appointment for him to see the doctor next week to be tested. All of the other kids his age are talking, most know their numbers and colors and some have even started to write.

I don’t know what to think,” she said as she shook her head in frustration. “Aunt Senna says that maybe he can’t hear well, but I think his hearing is fine.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his hearing, Mom,” said Rankin’s oldest sister Buttay. “When you tell him you have something for him, he sure seems to understand.”

Ana glared at her husband. “Arpodd, that cousin of yours, Toba,” she said in a way which made it obvious she didn’t liked him at all, “says he’s ‘touched’ as he called it. He says he might even be ‘ep-ti-lep-tic’. Your cousin’s so stupid he can’t even say epileptic right. Then he said when Odibee goes to school he’ll probably have to ride the short bus.”

There was a pause.

“What’s the short bus?” said Ana, clearly not understanding the term.

“Mom, that’s for the retarded kids,” said Buttay, who seemed quite happy to explain. “They make them wear a helmet so they don’t hurt themselves. I heard that some of those kids just sit and bang their heads against the wall, or even chew on their hands and bite their fingers off. Somebody told me one girl tore her own ear off then started chewing on it.”

Ana looked ready to collapse. “Arpodd, that damn cousin of yours thinks our son is retarded!” she said as her face reddened and her eyes blazed. “Of course, if anyone knows what stupid is, your cousin’s a world’s expert. When he eats he smacks his lips so loud that it’s like banging two garbage can lids together. You can’t have a meal in the same room with him. He almost made me cry. I wanted to punch him,” she said holding up a fist, “and I would have, if he’d said one more word about our boy. I said, ‘Listen here, Toba, my son isn’t touched. Don’t you say that ever again. Ever.’ ”

There was a loud “No!”

“Who said that?” said a startled Mrs. Rankin as she looked around the table.

“No,” said young Odibee again as he shook his head to indicate his obvious disagreement.

“No.”

A smile came over Mrs. Rankin’s face. She immediately got up and hugged her son.

“Oh, Dear, I’m so happy,” she said as she smothered her son in kisses. “Arpodd, there’s nothing wrong with him. There’s nothing wrong with our boy. He can talk. He’s fine,” she said as she started to cry.

“I knew he was fine,” said a gloating Arpodd, as Ana continued to hug and kiss her son.

She put her hands on both sides of Rankin’s head to focus his attention, looked him in the eye and said, “Odibee, you’ve had us all so worried. Why haven’t you talked, why haven’t you said anything?”

Rankin looked at his mother and said in no uncertain terms his first complete sentences: “I’m not touched. I’m bored.”

Whether apocryphal, or just one of those myths that can never be proven or disproven, but makes a heck of a good story and gathers its own credibility as time goes on, and it’s told and retold, ‘Pop’ Rankin, as Odibee called his father, was supposed to have said, “His first word was ‘No!’ He’s going to be a banker.”

At Rankin’s time on Oria, boys’ developmental and socialization skills were thought to develop more slowly than girls. Both sexes start kindergarten at age five, but girls were transferred to first grade at age six, while boys, no matter what their performance, stayed in kindergarten for another year. This presumption has since been shown to be wrong, and although still debated, is attributed by most to the predominant female chauvinism of the time.

Rankin muddled through first grade with average to slightly above-average scores. The teacher, an elderly lady just punching the clock until retirement, reported that he often disrupted the class by speaking out of turn while the others were trying to learn, doodled in the margins of his notebook, just stared out the window, or even some times told the teacher she was wrong and tried to correct her. He stood in the corner so often that he knew every dimple at his eye level in the concrete block wall. Although the teacher never put it on paper, she considered Rankin: “Very hard-headed. He has the typical pushy parents. They really get on my nerves, constantly telling me how smart their little boy is. I just don’t see any potential. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he ended up in prison.”

Rankin’s second grade teacher was Mrs. Halane Frohart Hunnte. On the third day of school, during the history lesson, Mrs. Hunnte said, “The Governor of Oria at that time was Belier Agneau...”

Rankin blurted out, “...and he built the first space ship on Oria.”

Mrs. Hunnte couldn’t believe that any second grader would know that, but she kept her composure. “No, Odibee, that was his grandson.” But rather than scold Rankin for interrupting, as the first grade teacher would have done, she said, “How did you know that?”

“Oh, I read about him this summer at the library,” he said almost casually.

It was at that moment that Mrs. Hunnte realized Rankin was not a hard-headed trouble maker who talked too much in class; he was bored stiff. She knew Rankin was special, that he had a gift.

The next week, during the math lesson, Mrs. Hunnte was walking up and down the aisles of desks as a student wrote two and three-figure addition and subtraction problems on the board. As she walked by Rankin’s seat, she noted a piece of paper on his desk that contained what appeared to be math symbols and even equations.

When the lesson was over, as she dismissed the class for recess, Mrs. Hunnte said, “Odibee, will you stay a few minutes, please?” When all the students were out of the room, Mrs. Hunnte said “Odibee, will you come up to my desk, and bring that piece of paper with the extra math you’ve been working on.” Rankin walked up and handed Mrs. Hunnte the paper. She looked at it, recognized nothing, and said, “Odibee, tell me about this, please.”

Rankin, the hard-headed troublemaker, lit up. He became instantly animated. “Mrs. Hunnte, thanks so much for letting me tell you about this. It’s so exciting. I read about this last summer at the library. Four hundred years ago there was a mathematician named Lascap Tamref. He was a very smart man. The smartest man of his time, I think. He told people he had developed a proof for a corollary to the Wilbeck equation that was considered unsolvable.”

Rankin was talking, spewing out facts so fast that Mrs. Hunnte interrupted. “Odibee, slow down…slow down, young man, we have all the time you need.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Mrs. Hunnte…Mrs. Hunnte…Mrs. Hunnte,” he stammered on, “four days after Tamref told his friends he’d solved the equation he died in an accident. It was really bad. He was out hunting for garduls, I think. He liked to hunt them you know, and fell off a cliff. Everybody knew how smart he was. They looked through his house and couldn’t find anything. They call it Tamref’s Last Theorem. I’ve read almost fifty of the papers written since then, and nobody has been able to solve it, nobody in four hundred years. Look, here, see,” as he pointed to some symbols, “I almost have it, I know I’m really close. There’s only one variable that doesn’t fit.”

Mrs. Hunnte was stunned. All she was able to say was “Odibee, can I have this piece of paper?”

“Sure. I don’t have any copies,” said Rankin, “but I can write it out again if you want me to. I know it really well. I have it memorized.”

“I’m sure you do, Odibee, I’m sure you do,” she replied.

At lunch time Mrs. Hunnte gave the paper to the school’s math teacher and said, “I’ve always dreamed I would be fortunate enough to have a student like this, and if one came along I would be able to recognize the child as such.”

The next week Rankin was enrolled at the provincial university. Before he died, Rankin paid tribute to Mrs. Hunnte as, “Outside of my family, the most important person in my life. She was the first one to recognize my potential.” Rankin himself donated the money to fund the Hunnte Chair of Education at The University of DiGamma in honor of his second grade teacher.

The piece of paper Rankin handed Mrs. Hunnte is now one of the most treasured artifacts in the Rankin archives.

Hundreds of mathematicians from around the galaxy have studied it for centuries and concluded that Rankin was in fact,, correct: the corollary is unsolvable. It appears that Tamref was a better braggart than he was a mathematician.

Not surprisingly, at the University, Rankin was immediately attracted to physics. Later in life, he loved to tell his children and grandchildren of the day when he was eleven years old, walking back to his dormitory after spending the afternoon in the library, when he said to himself, “I want to study the black hole.” After a while, his family tired of hearing the story, but telling it brought the great man such obvious pleasure that they always did their best to listen intently.

Before Rankin’s time it was believed that no particle, wave, or entity, anything, nothing could escape what was considered the most powerful force in the Universe: the gravity of the black hole. Study of the black hole beyond the event horizon was thought impossible, the limit beyond which nothing, not even light, could escape. But Rankin noted that the field equations describing the behavior and relationship of energy, light, mass and gravity did predict the possibility of virtual photons, and it would be the virtual photon that would allow him to study the black hole.

A good number of Rankin’s instructors dismissed his ideas as that of an admittedly very brilliant but equally naïve, young, just-turned teenager boy who was out of his league. They’d seen prodigies like this before: some were destined for greatness, some were destined to flip hamburgers, or drive a taxi, or overdose on the drug-of-the-week, only to be remembered when their obituary appeared in the local paper. But Rankin did what comes natural to all true leaders—what makes them leaders—which seems to be an inherent sequence in their DNA: he was willing to challenge authority, to question accepted dogma, to consider what was previously considered impossible.

By a novel solution of the field equations, he proved that virtual photons do indeed exist. His insight, in retrospect, was obscenely simple: use a minus sign instead of a plus sign. For example, 2 x 2 = 4. But: (-) 2 x (-) 2 also = 4. A “virtual” photon can be quite real.

Solving such a mathematical problem is no small feat, but it was really just numbers and figures on a piece of paper. Rankin had to be able to produce virtual photons. His second stroke of genius was applying a lesson he learned from playing card games. Everyone knows the percentages; the winners knew when to play the cards as no one else would. It gave Rankin the idea that the only way to produce a virtual photon was to assume it was not an absolutely exact perfect opposite of its real photon partner or they would immediately annihilate. There must be a subtle difference, an asymmetry. He would use this asymmetry to produce virtual photons that could stand alone, that could be separated and survive apart from their other virtual, but now real, self.

Energy density fluctuates spontaneously in space. Rankin discovered that at the event horizon—the rim, edge, border of the black hole—vacuum fluctuations can be dampened so that an area of negative energy could be created, and more importantly for his purposes, sustained. This represented energy borrowed from another area of space, necessitating a corresponding area of positive energy. From these areas of negative and positive energy, Rankin was able to produce, respectively, virtual and real photons.

In nature, this pair would instantaneously annihilate, and thus in reality could never be measured. But Rankin posited that if the pair was produced immediately adjacent to the event horizon, the virtual photon could be induced to cross the event horizon into the black hole before the pair could annihilate. The virtual photon would have a real existence in time and space.

Once past the event horizon, the virtual photon would be like everything: drawn instantly toward the churning, a million times hotter-than-the-sun soup of sub-atomic particles called the singularity at the center of the black hole.

But negative energy is gravitationally repulsive. Rankin predicted that the virtual photon would come to within one ten-million-billionth of a meter of the singularity, but would then be forced back out through the event horizon where it could be measured and quantified. This would allow Rankin to do what was never done before—what was previously thought impossible—to study the inside of the black hole. The black hole, the darkest, most enigmatic, mysterious, and powerful inhabitant of the cosmos, was about to unlock the secrets of its limitless power to a teenager who still shaved only once a week whether he needed to or not.

Rankin’s work had a profound impact on the concept of time. He proved conclusively that time-travel, travel either backwards or forwards in time, was impossible. His theories have been universally reconfirmed; so that time travel is no longer even contemplated (at least until the next Rankin comes along).

Previous theories suggested that time would come to an end inside the black hole. Rankin showed that time does not end but actually begins at the singularity (It is now a generally accepted concept: to break new ground, do what is the opposite of what everyone else believes.) His theory is consistent with and confirms the concept of time as an infinite line progressing only in one direction. As black holes continue to swallow up all visible matter, dark matter, dark energy and other black holes, there will eventually be only one black hole and one singularity in the Universe. The inevitable result is that when the entire mass of the Universe is at the singularity, there will be another big bang, with the continuation of the infinite and unidirectional line of time.

Rankin also felt there were only three physical dimensions. He avoided calling space-time a dimension; rather, he thought it was merely a human construct to explain the interaction of time with the three obvious dimensions. He was an overt agnostic for multiple dimensions. “One says there are six dimensions; the other says there are ten, but we can’t see the other three or seven because they are rolled up somewhere in a little microscopic ball and last only for a billionth of a second. Sorry, but I am not impressed.”

Rankin spent a good part of his later years writing a four volume work entitled simply, A Memoir, now in its 106^th printing.

Volumes I and II, were devoted to integrity. Rankin was a great, great man, but he wasn’t perfect. He tried to admit when he was wrong, and worked hard to overcome his weaknesses. But he never, ever…ever let anyone question his honesty. Never! Although some disagreed with him, any attempt to question his integrity invariably worked to the detriment of the accuser.

Rankin was one of those rare scientists whose abilities transcended his discipline. He attributed this to two things. First was judgment. He discussed the difference between intelligence (sheer mental brain power), and judgment, the ability to weigh variables and draw the best conclusion. Almost four hundred and forty years after his death, even when viewed through that marvelous judgment-enhancing instrument of hindsight, all of Rankin’s major decisions were correct.

The second was willpower. Rankin described this as an inner strength, a self confidence. A leader’s willpower generates hope and credibility; it allows the common man to dream and to hope.

Rankin cultivated what he called the “mien of leadership.” It was his intention to show everyone that he was somehow a cut above, that he had inner control and discipline. How could anyone be entrusted to make the difficult decisions at the time of greatest need if they could not control their own emotions?

Some found Rankin cold and aloof. The latter was a misinterpretation, the former was not correct. He was uniformly pleasant and courteous. Until the day of his death he always addressed his physicians as “Doctor,” never by first name. The most famous picture of his later years shows Rankin waiting his turn in line to buy a ticket for an interplanetary transport. He thought he had made a reservation but it was for the wrong day. Rankin was told they would find a place for him, but when he found out this would cause another passenger with a confirmed reservation to be bumped, he adamantly refused.

A contemporary once said that Rankin had “the gift of silence.” Rankin considered this a compliment. He never tried to be glib and never told jokes. He wanted people’s respect, not laughter.

In A Memoir, Rankin discussed how a leader should choose their assistants, and how to groom the next generation of leaders. Some clearly accomplished great things, but because of their own insecurity surround themselves with weak people, or even worse, sycophants. Rankin said they “pulled up the drawbridge behind them.” He felt that a basic obligation of a great leader was to train the generation that would follow in their footsteps.

Rankin understood that his amazing intellect did not make him smart at everything. He always sought out the assistance of other smart, honest people, especially ones who were willing to voice their own opinion. He may not agree with them, but he did try to understand their point of view.

Rankin looked for young people who were still hungry, not old fogies (like his first grade teacher) who were satiated by their past accomplishments or who had risen to the top by never rocking the boat. Not surprisingly, many older individuals who thought it was their turn, but were passed over for advancement by Rankin, were bitter. Considering that all of Rankin’s major appointments were successful, he made it clear in A Memoir that he did not owe the complainers an apology or an explanation.

Rankin’s aide de camp was Howlin Schnowzrr. Schnowzrr was thirty-two when she joined Rankin, when implementation of his plans to build the Cube began in earnest. She controlled access to him and had his complete confidence. More than once she saved him from embarrassment, much like Harry Truman’s secretary just filing his irate letters rather than sending them.

Zolt Phaebuhr joined Rankin six years after construction began on the Cube. Rankin’s accomplishments were so profound, with such a pervasive affect on society, that there was no doubt he would become the head of government upon completion of the Cube. Rankin needed an intellectual basis for his proposals to reorganize the government and someone with the political savvy to bring the ideas to fruition.

The forty-year-old was a perfect choice. He was erudite, shrewd, and had an ability to sense the political wind finer and more acutely than a rooster’s ability to sense the sunrise, or Henry Aaron’s ability to slam a rookie’s hanging curve ball into the left field bleachers.

Rankin’s financial advisor was the thirty-five year old Bingum Preyes. He always thought she was the smartest person he ever met. Preyes is still considered one of Oria’s greatest financial geniuses, the J. P. Morgan of her time. The Septadians consider her treatise, The Investment of Capital for Public Projects, to be one of the ten greatest economic works of the galaxy.

One of Preyes’ greatest strengths was also her greatest weakness. She told people exactly what she thought. She was beyond blunt; she was utterly tactless and had already infuriated several important business and political leaders before she was discovered by Rankin.

An illustrative example of her over-the-top in-your-face candor was at the last position she held before joining Rankin. The bank was considering a loan on a construction project, and she was asked to make recommendations. In an elegant report she outlined her reservations and predicted it would fail. The president of the bank overruled her and the loan was made. Six months later things were going badly and the president recommended a second loan to bail them out. Preyes again predicted the project would fail and finished her report with the comment, “...and if you had just listened to me the in the first place we wouldn’t be in this mess.” She was absolutely correct and instantly unemployed. The project did fail, and the bank president was ultimately canned.

But with Rankin, and later Phaebuhr, to provide a steady hand of guidance and political cover, her brilliance shone through. Preyes, more than anyone else, was responsible for the financial success of the Rankin Cube, and Rankin never failed to give her full credit for her achievements.

Rankin’s one regret about A Memoir, the last volume published just months before his death, was a single line; quoted by his supporters and misquoted by his opponents. It was one of those things that allow the naysayers, the constant criticizers, those who have never really done anything on their own, a chance to chip away at the accomplishments of the great ones:

“Nobody gives you real power—You have to take it.”

A dispassionate observer of Rankin’s life can draw only one conclusion: a single person can have a profound effect upon history.