Synopsis:
The world’s biggest supercollider, locked in an Arizona mountain, was built to reveal the secrets of the very moment of creation: the Big Bang itself. The Torus is the most expensive machine ever created by humankind, run by the world’s most powerful supercomputer. It is the brainchild of Nobel Laureate William North Hazelius. Will the Torus divulge the mysteries of the creation of the universe? Or will it, as some predict, suck the earth into a mini black hole? Or is the Torus a Satanic attempt, as a powerful televangelist decries, to challenge God Almighty on the very throne of Heaven? Twelve scientists under the leadership of Hazelius are sent to the remote mountain to turn it on, and what they discover must be hidden from the world at all costs. Wyman Ford, ex-monk and CIA operative, is tapped to wrest their secret, a secret that will either destroy the world. . . or save it. The countdown begins. . .
BLASPHEMY
By
Douglas Preston
Copyright © 2008
1
JULY
KEN DOLBY STOOD BEFORE HIS WORKSTATION, his smooth, polished fingers caressing the controls of Isabella. He waited, savoring the moment, and then he unlocked a cage on the panel and pulled down a small red bar.
There was no hum, no sound, nothing to indicate that the most expensive scientific instrument on earth had been turned on. Except that, two hundred miles away, the lights of Las Vegas dimmed ever so slightly.
As Isabella warmed up, Dolby began to feel the fine vibration of her through the floor. He thought of the machine as a woman, and in his more imaginative moments he had even imagined what she looked like—tall and slender, with a muscular back, black as the desert night, beaded with sweat. Isabella. He had shared these feelings with no one—no point in attracting ridicule. To the rest of the scientists on the project, Isabella was an “it,” a dead machine built for a specific purpose. But Dolby had always felt a deep affection for the machines he created—from when he was ten years old and constructed his first radio from a kit. Fred. That was the radio’s name. And when he thought of Fred, he saw a fat carroty-haired white man. The first computer he had built was Betty—who looked in his head like a brisk and efficient secretary. He couldn’t explain why his machines took on the personalities they did—it just happened.
And now this, the world’s most powerful particle accelerator . . . Isabella.
“How’s it look?” asked Hazelius, the team leader, coming over and placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder.
“Purring like a cat,” said Dolby.
“Good.” Hazelius straightened up and spoke to the team. “Gather round, I have an announcement to make.”
Silence fell as the team members straightened up from their workstations and waited. Hazelius strode across the small room and positioned himself in front of the biggest of the plasma screens. Small, slight, as sleek and restless as a caged mink, he paced in front of the screen for a moment before turning to them with a brilliant smile. It never ceased to amaze Dolby what a charismatic presence the man had.
“My dear friends,” he began, scanning the group with turquoise eyes. “It’s 1492. We’re at the bow of the
He reached down into the Chapman bag he always carried and pulled out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. He held it up like a trophy, his eyes sparkling, and thumped it down on the table. “This is for later tonight, when we set foot on the beach. Because tonight, we bring Isabella to one hundred percent full power.”
Silence greeted the announcement. Finally Kate Mercer, the assistant director of the project, spoke. “What happened to the plan to do three runs at ninety-five percent?”
Hazelius returned her look with a smile. “I’m impatient. Aren’t you?”
Mercer brushed back her glossy black hair. “What if we hit an unknown resonance or generate a miniature black hole?”
“Your own calculations show a one in quadrillion chance of that particular downside.”
“My calculations might be wrong.”
“Your calculations are never wrong.” Hazelius smiled and turned to Dolby. “What do you think? Is she ready?”
“You’re damn right she’s ready.”
Hazelius spread his hands. “Well?”
Everyone looked at each other. Should they risk it? Volkonsky, the Russian programmer, suddenly broke the ice. “Yes, we go for it!” He high-fived a startled Hazelius, and then everyone began slapping each other on the back, shaking hands, and hugging, like a basketball team before a game.
FIVE HOURS AND AS MANY BAD coffees later, Dolby stood before the huge flat-panel screen. It was still dark—the matter–antimatter proton beams had not been brought into contact. It took forever to power up the machine and cool down Isabella’s superconducting magnets to carry the very large currents necessary. Then it was a matter of increasing beam luminosity by increments of 5 percent, focusing and collimating the beams, checking the superconducting magnets, running various test programs, before going up to the next 5 percent.
“Power at ninety percent,” Dolby intoned.
“Christ damn,” said Volkonsky somewhere behind him, giving the Sunbeam coffeemaker a blow that made it rattle like the Tin Man. “Empty already!”
Dolby repressed a smile. During the two weeks they’d been up on the mesa, Volkonsky had revealed himself as a wiseass, a slouching, mangy specimen of Eurotrash with long greasy hair, ripped T-shirts, and a pubic clump of beard clinging to his chin. He looked more like a drug addict than a brilliant software engineer. But then, a lot of them were like that.
Another measured ticking of the clock.
“Beams aligned and focused,” said Rae Chen. “Luminosity fourteen TeV.”
“Isabella work fine,” said Volkonsky.
“My systems are all green,” said Cecchini, the particle physicist.
“Security, Mr. Wardlaw?”
The senior intelligence officer, Wardlaw, spoke from his security station. “Just cactus and coyotes, sir.”
“All right,” said Hazelius. “It’s time.” He paused dramatically. “Ken? Bring the beams into collision.”
Dolby felt a quickening of his heart. He touched the dials with his spiderlike fingers, adjusting them with a pianist’s lightness of touch. He followed with a series of commands rapped into the keyboard.
“Contact.”
The huge flat-panel screens all around suddenly woke up. A sudden singing noise seemed to float in the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“What’s that?” Mercer asked, alarmed.
“A trillion particles blowing through the detectors,” said Dolby. “Sets up a high vibration.”
“Jesus, it sounds like the monolith in
Volkonsky hooted like an ape. Everyone ignored him.
An image appeared on the central panel, the Visualizer. Dolby stared at it, entranced. It was like an enormous flower—flickering jets of color radiating from a single point, twisting and writhing as if trying to tear free of the screen. He stood in awe at the intense beauty of it.
“Contact successful,” said Rae Chen. “Beams are focused and collimated. God, it’s a perfect alignment!”
Cheers and some ragged clapping.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Hazelius, “welcome to the shores of the New World.” He gestured to the
