Quantum. Tom Grace

which was located in a remote corner of the hospital. When they reached the electronically locked double doors of the unit, the head nurse buzzed them through and had them sign the visitors’ sheet.

      The unit was built in a curved, two-story block that jutted out from the hospital’s north face. Twelve singlepatient rooms followed the outer curve. Sealed windows in each provided a view of the Huron River. A glass-curtain wall isolated the patient room from the hallway while providing a direct line of sight for the medical staff. SpaceLab monitors hung from the ceiling, displaying the vital signs of each of the patients.

      ‘You have visitors,’ the nurse announced pleasantly upon entering Sandstrom’s room.

      She quickly checked the IV bags and glanced at all the vitals displayed on the small in-room monitor. Satisfied, she moved on.

      ‘Hey, Ted,’ Nolan said as they entered.

      A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The sight of Sandstrom’s burned flesh didn’t shock him; he had seen far worse on SEAL missions around the world. Instead, it triggered memories and feelings he had hoped to leave behind upon his discharge.

      ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?’ Sandstrom wanted to know, a bitter tinge of sarcasm in his raspy voice.

      ‘No, because you’ll either lie to spare our feelings or, worse yet, you’ll tell us the truth.’

      ‘Nolan,’ Kelsey barked, annoyed by his insensitive comment.

      Sandstrom feebly raised his hand. ‘He’s right, Kelsey, I feel as good as I look. At least they’re treating me well, and the pain meds keep the edge off. How’s Dorothy?’

      ‘She’s holding up very well,’ Kelsey replied. ‘She sends her love.’

      Nolan pulled a chair around to the side of the bed for Kelsey and then sat on the chair’s flat wooden arm.

      ‘Any word on the guys who did this?’ Sandstrom asked.

      ‘Nada,’ Nolan answered. ‘The police set up roadblocks all over the area but came up empty. The FBI is slowly sifting through what’s left of your lab for any physical evidence, but that’s going to take a while. I’ve asked a guy I know at the CIA to take a look at this as well.’

      ‘CIA?’

      ‘Yeah, there’s an international angle to this that the folks at Langley are better equipped to handle than the Indiana State Police. The guys who hit your lab looked and sounded an awful lot like Spetsnaz.’

      ‘What’s Spetsnaz?’

      ‘Russian army Special Forces. No one in the Russian government is crazy enough to launch a mission like this on U.S. soil, so it’s more likely that these guys are mercenaries and somebody with very deep pockets sent ’em here. Enough with this talk, though. How about some good news?’

      ‘Please,’ Sandstrom said with a desperate weariness.

      ‘The boards of MARC and ND-ARC had a teleconference this morning regarding the joint venture for your project.’

      ‘I thought you said this was good news.’

      ‘I did,’ Nolan replied. ‘Despite the setback due to this incident, both boards have decided to pursue the project. This, of course, depends upon your ability to resume your work after you get out of here.’

      ‘So, are you telling me I still have a job?’

      ‘Yep, they still think you’re a good bet.’

      ‘As bad as this whole situation is, it’s temporary,’ Kelsey added. ‘You’ll recover, the lab will be rebuilt, and your work will proceed.’

      ‘I know, life goes on and all that jazz,’ Sandstrom said bitterly, his anger and sadness readily apparent.

      ‘Yes, Ted, it does. You and Raphaele made an important discovery, and now you have to follow it wherever it leads. It’s what Raphaele would have wanted you to do.’

      ‘How the hell would you know what Raphaele wanted me to do? We were a team. We were going to solve this thing together.’

      ‘Actually, after you moved into the new lab, Raphaele was going to retire.’ Kelsey held up her hand to stop the question she saw forming on Sandstrom’s lips. ‘We had a long talk with Dorothy yesterday after the funeral. She told us that Raphaele felt that he’d done all he could for you, and it was time for him to step aside. Had none of this happened, Raphaele would be telling you this right now and wishing you well. He would also have given you this.’

      Kelsey set the thick manila envelope on the edge of Sandstrom’s bed. He stared down at it; across the top was his name scrawled in Paramo’s hand.

      ‘What’s in it?’

      ‘Letters. Dorothy said they were Raphaele’s most prized possession. Sometime back in the forties, he corresponded with another physicist. In Raphaele’s opinion, the man was one of the greatest minds he’d ever known. He also felt that something in these letters might help you figure out your discovery.’

      Sandstrom’s eyes never left the envelope as Kelsey spoke. There were only a handful of twentieth-century physicists who Raphaele Paramo considered truly brilliant, and as best as Sandstrom could recall, Paramo never mentioned having significant communication with any of them.

      ‘Who was Raphaele’s pen pal?’

      ‘We don’t know,’ Nolan replied, just as curious about the letters as Sandstrom was.

      ‘We were tempted to read the letters on the way back from South Bend,’ Kelsey admitted, ‘but it wouldn’t have been right. These letters were meant for you.’

      ‘Well, I want to know. Open the envelope and read me one of them.’

      Kelsey smiled as she unclasped the oversize envelope. Inside, she discovered a collection of old brown file folders bound together by string. Each folder bore the date of the letter it contained; the correspondence spanned almost two years.

      ‘I guess we should start at the beginning.’

      Kelsey untied the string and opened the first folder. Surprisingly, the paper, which was older than anyone in the room, had barely yellowed – Paramo had kept his treasured letters safe for more than fifty years. The author’s penmanship was fluid and precise, like the work of a calligrapher.

      ‘Fifteen September 1946,’ Kelsey began. ‘Dear Raphaele… ’

      After a few lines about personal matters, the author shifted direction into the realm of theoretical physics. The tone was conversational, as if Raphaele and the author were sitting in a bar having a discussion over a glass of beer. The man would pose a thesis, then let his imagination run wild, challenging his thesis from several different directions.

      More than once Sandstrom had to ask her to stop so he could digest what he’d heard. The beautifully written prose was interspersed with mathematical notations and explanatory doodles. The first four-page letter took nearly an hour to read.

      “‘— and I look forward to your thoughts on this. Your friend, Johann Wolff.’”

      ‘Amazing.’ Sandstrom sighed, physically drained by the effort he’d put forward to follow the letter. ‘I’d have to study that letter more carefully, but I’d swear that part of what you just read dealt with interaction-free measurement.’

      ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Kelsey agreed.

      ‘I’m sorry to be the dumb guy in the room,’ Nolan said, crossing his arms over his chest, ‘but what is it about that letter that has you both so stunned?’

      ‘If Kelsey and I understand this letter correctly, Wolff was working on quantum optics.’

      ‘And why is this significant?’

      ‘The significance is not what, but when,’ Kelsey said. ‘Wolff was thinking about interaction-free