The Prize

cranium, shiny red and almost hairless, his amused eyes all-seeing behind steel-rimmed bifocals, his nose as prominent as a Christmas tree decoration, the ready smile, gave one the feeling that here was genius so simple and assured and secure that it dwelt high above all mundane carpings and concerns and criticisms. Here was the originator. Here was the Maker. No wonder at Krantz’s reverence.

Jacobsson tried to concentrate on the laureate as mere man, not Maker, and momentarily regretted that he had to subject such a one to the low curiosity of the press.

How, he speculated, could a Stratman bring his lofty brain processes down from the rarefied summit to consider earthly matters of a telegram from Stockholm, a sea passage on a Swedish ship, a reaction to a Baltic community? Could Jacobsson have known the reality of the brain processes of the laureate, he would have had his answer and have been astonished.

For Professor Max Stratman, folded into the leather chair, one hand rubbing the meerschaum pipe, legs comfortably crossed, had his mind on matters of less than cosmic interest. Earlier, replying to questions about his trip from Atlanta to New York to Goteborg, he had been reminded that for the first time since the end of the war he was in a foreign country, no more than two or three hours from his native land, the land of his birth, and upbringing, and learning, and sorrow. Proximity evoked ancient memories: taking turns with Walther at the keyhole of the library for glimpses of the peasants his physician father treated in their country home; he and Walther running and skipping, beside his father, through the pungent grass, to the stable; Walther and Rebecca and the infant Emily-no, not infant, she had been older and hitting a rattle against the high chair-gathered about the table, to partake of the roast chicken, on Christmas Day when dinner was not lunch but dinner at noon, and he was there, glowing with pride in his family and with pleasure in the woollen muffler that Rebecca had knitted for him.

His thoughts had turned to his Emily-could he have imagined then that she would be his Emily?-and now he fixed on her, once more, as he had with compulsive regularity since the arrival in Stockholm. It was for Emily that he had made this long, risky journey, or perhaps less for Emily than for Walther and Rebecca and the remembrance of that Christmas noon.

Only after his arrival in Stockholm had Stratman authoritatively learned that the trip had not been necessary. The Nobel Foundation made occasional exceptions to the rule that their winners appear in person. He was told that when Ernest Hemingway won the literature prize, he had been recovering from a skull fractured and a spine broken in an African aeroplane crash, and he had been permitted to accept the $35,000 reward by post in Cuba. Had the Nobel givers known his own heart condition, they would, Stratman was sure, have granted him the same consideration as Mr. Hemingway. He decided for the tenth time, despite Dr. Ilman, that the trip had been worth the chance, rather than make public-to his colleagues and to Emily-his impairment.

The episode on the ship had proved him right. That last night at sea, even Emily’s slight security had been proved wanting. What on earth had possessed her to encourage that young man to violate her privacy, knowing full well that she was incapable of accepting his attentions? Ach, the distortions of the human head, forever substituting wish for reality. No doubt, it had been an irrational effort by Emily to stand on her own two feet, mature and independent of her Uncle Max, to cut the final umbilical cord. The not unexpected disaster had been a setback. Now, in Stockholm, she was edgier than at home, more withdrawn, and the evening before had even turned down the invitation of a gallant Swedish attache to escort her to the opera. Yes, the episode on the ship had been the setback. It had reminded Emily that she was helpless, and certainly, Stratman told himself, it had reminded him of her need and his responsibility.

Dimly, he heard his name, and then realized that he had another responsibility, and that to perform attentively for his generous Nobel hosts.

‘Professor Stratman,’ the Stockholm Aftonbladet journalist was repeating, ‘would you not say that the Nobel Prize was given you more for an invention than for a discovery?’

‘I would put it this way, more precisely-I made a discovery, and then I made an invention.’

‘But it was the invention that won the prize, nevertheless.’

‘It is possible.’

‘Do you believe that this is in strict observance of Alfred Nobel’s wishes? While it is a fact that, according to his 1895 will, he offered one part of his money “to the person who shall have made the most important discovery or invention within the field of physics”, the Swedish Academy of Science has traditionally ignored inventions. After all, your American, Thomas Edison, who died only in 1931, did not win the Nobel Prize for that reason. How do you feel about this?’

Stratman studied his meerschaum a moment, then looked up. ‘It would be presumptous of me, a guest as well as a beneficiary of Mr. Nobel’s will, to comment on how the Academy of Science chooses to interpret that will.’ He paused, reconsidered, then resumed. ‘I think it would be fair to say this much. To the best of my knowledge, the prize in physics has frequently been given to inventions in physics. The Academy of Science has in no way ignored Mr. Nobel’s desires. Several examples come to mind. I think of Herr Guglielmo Marconi. In 1895, he invented the wireless telegraph. In England, using a kite as an aerial, he demonstrated that this invention worked. Soon he was building a radio station for the Pope and amassing a fortune of twenty-five million dollars for himself. In 1909, I believe, he was awarded half of the Nobel Prize for “services in the development of wireless telegraphy”. That is one case. I give you another, in another field. In 1903, my friend Willem Einthoven began constructing an instrument to detect heart ailments. In 1924, he won the Nobel Prize “for his discovery of the mechanism of the electrocardiogram”. That was an invention, pure and simple. A more recent case comes to my mind. In 1956, three Americans, William Shockley, John Bardeen, Walter Brattain, all of the Bell Telephone Laboratories, shared the Nobel physics prize for “their discovery of transistor effects”. This, too, was an invention, the invention of the transistor to replace vacuum tubes. It turned upside down the world of electronics. In those terms, is the photochemical system I have discovered to convert and store solar energy an invention? The answer is yes-it is an invention. Does this kind of invention fall within the boundaries of the Nobel awards? Again, evaluating against historical precedent, the answer is yes.’

Someone in the middle row raised his hand and began to ask another question, but Stratman held up his pipe for further attention. He was not through, and again he addressed himself to the busily writing Aftonbladet journalist.

‘I might add-in honesty, I might add one more point,’ said Stratman. ‘You made mention of the neglect of Thomas Alva Edison by the Nobel Committee. Strictly speaking, Herr Edison was not a physicist, not a chemist, not a physician. He was entirely the inventor. I do not know, but possibly this made him ineligible for a Nobel Prize. I want to say, I think he was one of the most remarkable scientists that the world ever produced. He took out over one thousand patents-he invented the phonograph, the electric lamp, the mimeograph, the alkaline storage battery, the kinetograph-but he conceived only one scientific discovery as such, the Edison effect, so vital to radio and television. Perhaps I am, as my colleagues call it, sticking my neck out to speak further, but at my age, such things do not matter. It is my opinion that between 1901 and 1931 Herr Edison should have received a Nobel Prize in physics. This is not an adverse commentary on the judges of those days. Their task was not an easy one. Indeed, they had to give themselves limitations. Omissions are understandable to me. I only make an opinion, with the comfort of hindsight. Herr Edison should have won the prize.

‘Also, while we speak of these matters, I believe Herr Wilbur Wright, who lived until 1912, and Herr Orville Wright, who lived until-think, yes, 1948-both alive during the time of the Nobel Prizes-should have been honoured in physics for developing the first practicable aircraft. Now, my neck is far out, but you see I favour the inventions in physics as much as the discoveries. I think the Swedish Academy of Science does, too-or why would I be here?-and that their sins of omission have been admirably few. The only overall omission I would criticize is the pitifully few prizes given to pure theorists-let us say like Herr Einstein and Herr Bohr and Herr Schrodinger. Experimentalists-discoverers, inventors-are too frequently honoured. They are important, very important, but most discoveries utilize and verify either Einstein’s theory of relativity or the old conversion of momentum theories. At the same time, the abstract theorists, the elite of physics, are too frequently overlooked. To my mind, that is the major defect in Soviet science today. The Russians devote so much effort and money to satellites, nuclear weapons, rockets, that they neglect basic research and abstract theory, and one day, they will suffer for it.’

Stratman raised his head, seeking the Aftonbladet journalist, and said, ‘I hope that answers your questions’. His eyes swept the hall. ‘You see what happens when you ask me provocative questions? You will be here all the day and tonight. Now, I am ready for more, if you are.’

The reporter from the Stockholm Dagens Nyheter was standing, and Stratman