That Strange Phone Call

The professor came out of the airport in San Francisco as though breathlessly surfacing from a long dive. He went over to a taxi.

"Can you take me to Union Square?"

The taxi turned onto US Route 101 North. The professor collapsed on the back seat and gazed out of the window, his eyebrows arching, wrinkles crinkling, eyes narrowing.

Even the taxi driver could see it in his face.

What an awful journey: an hour waiting on the plane in Salt Lake City before take off, then missing the connecting flight to London and now looking for a hotel with his gut as heavy as lead.

The taxi raced along Bayshore. It was a summer evening in 1989. Out on the bay, a glimpse of bluish mist hanging over the water created a sight that would have soothed the most restless of spirits, but had not the slightest effect on the professor.

The taxi stopped at Union Square, the victory monument towering over the center of the plaza. The taxi drove off and the professor walked towards one hotel, then decided on another.

The distress of this unplanned night in San Francisco would have warranted the best downtown hotel, but for just a few hours, it made no difference where he stayed.

The professor walked up to the reception desk and mumbled, "I'd like a room for the night...."

The telephone on the desk rang, interrupting him, and the man behind the counter quickly picked it up.

"Who? When did he arrive? Are you sure? Who's speaking? One moment, please...."

Then, turning to the professor, "It's for you, sir. Professor Teller wants to talk to you."

The professor grabbed the phone.

"Who is this? Who's speaking?" Questions stuttered without even waiting for an answer. "Who? From where? I don't understand ... Who is this?"

On the other end of the line, a voice with a strong Hungarian accent answered.

"It's Professor Edward Teller. I heard you were going away to have an operation, so I'd like to wish you all the best for a speedy recovery. But I also wanted to take this opportunity to have some information about your experiment, the charge level and optimal electric field ... if I'm not disturbing you, of course."

The professor, with a barely visible movement of his lips, uttered polite trivialities followed by equally trivial technical suggestions.

"Proceed gradually with the charge. After a certain period, within a few weeks, heating will occur ... we're still in the experimental stage and have to advance with caution...."

But his face told a different story.

How the hell does he know where I am, if I didn't even know I was coming here? So they're following me. Why?

The call ended with mutual niceties.

.".. let me know how it goes. We're all thinking of you."

"I'm happy you called. Thank you so much for your concern. See you soon."

He hung up the phone and asked to be taken to his room.

"Did you have a good trip?" asked the bellboy. "Shall I get you a drink from the bar? Do you want me to raise your room temperature?"

The professor did not answer, closed the door and even forgot to tip him. He threw himself onto the bed, closed his eyes and began to think.

Teller, the man who inspired the figure of Dr. Strangelove – the mad scientist who could not keep his arm from making the Nazi salute. When he arrived in the US, he fought with all the scientists involved in the Manhattan Project. For him, Los Alamos was a den of Communists. He wanted to produce the H-bomb at all costs, even though not one of his calculations was correct ... he got the military establishment to set up a laboratory just for him, because he couldn't get along with anyone else. He's an awesome person, a hugely intelligent man but entirely out of control and too close to the military. If someone had sent me an envelope containing five bullets, I'd feel better than I do now, receiving his best wishes for a speedy recovery. Recovery. ... Right, but what's wrong with me?

So many tiny tumors in the colon caused by something that no one could explain.

Why did they delay the plane to organize this stupid farce of a phone call before I left for London? The message is clear: "You're being followed. Don't speak to anyone. We can find you whenever we want. Get lost, because the things you know must never be revealed."

I'm not so paranoid that I can be scared by a "good luck" phone call. But it's still a call from the father of the hot fusion bomb to the father of cold fusion, which already indicates a slight difference of opinion, if only for a question of temperature. If Teller had called me at home or at the university, that'd be fine ... but in this hotel ... my fears are definitely founded.

"When you know why you're afraid, you no longer fear," he said out loud.

The professor seemed heartened by this clarity, brightened up, took a packet of peanuts from the fridge, ate them and started thinking again.

Why is he having me followed? Everything I do has been made public now. ... We talked about it all at the press conference, me and my colleague. There must be something about the research I'm doing or have already done that worries Teller. We both started as chemists. Like me, he did research into hydrogen. His thesis dealt with the first detailed treatment of the hydrogen molecular ion and I'm doing something similar. Perhaps he knows something I don't. Maybe he wants to use what I've discovered for purposes different from mine. One thing is sure: this is just the beginning, he won't stop, and it's certainly not a good start.

The Scientists Involved In Enea's Report 41

Florence, summer 2006.

Claudio leans forwards and murmurs into the ear of Norma, a blonde girl sitting in the row before his, "That's the eighth time he's said 'so to...