Tom recognised the name, but had never met the man in person.
‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ Tom queried.
Frederick rose, rather slowly, from his seat at the back of the auditorium and made his way, cautiously, down the stairs to where Tom was standing.
‘The honour is all mine, I assure you, Professor Halligan,’ Frederick said warmly, grasping Tom’s hand and shaking it effusively. ‘I have been following your career rather closely.’
The man reminded Tom of his favourite grandfather. His hands were soft, but his grip was firm. His round face was framed by neatly-trimmed hair and beard that were alabaster white. When he smiled, his whole face lit up and his eyes changed colour from sea-green to azure blue. His tall, slender figure had a slight stoop, yet he looked the reverse of feeble. He was dressed immaculately, in a three-piece tweed suit that had obviously been designed by one of the leading fashion houses. His shoes were of the finest Italian leather, his shirt Savile Row. Frederick Volker certainly had expensive tastes when it came to couture, Tom mused.
‘Is there somewhere a little more private we could go?’ Frederick enquired.
‘Of course,’ Tom replied. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’ With that, Tom picked up his briefcase and led the elderly gentleman out of the room and down the corridor to his office.
As an Institute Professor, he was entitled to a corner office, which afforded windows on two sides and was larger than the normal faculty offices. The position of Institute Professor was the highest possible honour that could be awarded by the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and it put Tom in a group of elite academics, who had ‘Demonstrated exceptional distinction by a combination of leadership, accomplishment and service in the scholarly, educational and general intellectual life of the Institute or wider academic community,’ according to MIT's policy manual. In reality, Tom had been rewarded for what he enjoyed doing the most, namely teaching and research.
‘Please, take a seat,’ said Tom gesturing to one of the high-backed leather Chesterfields.
‘Thank you, Professor Halligan,’ said Frederick, lowering himself into the sumptuous armchair.
‘Please, call me Tom.’
‘Thank you, and you must call me Frederick. By the way, Charles Brannigan sends his regards.’
‘You know Charles?’
Charles had been Tom’s mentor at the Brookhaven National Laboratory, on Long Island, New York when he was doing his dissertation there. At the time, it was the location of the world’s largest collider before being superseded by the one at CERN.
‘Yes, we bump into each other now and again, conferences, seminars, that sort of thing,’ Frederick replied, vaguely.
Tom wondered what could have instigated a conversation between these two eminent figures that involved him, but decided not to say anything.
With the pleasantries out of the way, Tom was becoming anxious to know what had brought this distinguished gentleman all the way to New England, in person, to see him.
‘So, what can I do for you, Frederick?’
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Frederick replied, sensing Tom’s anxiety. ‘Are you aware that we recently lost our Director General?’
Tom had read in the newspapers about the death of Professor Morantz. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. It must have been a shock. Suicide, wasn’t it?’
Sadness clouded the older man’s gaze. ‘Yes, Professor Morantz had been under a great deal of pressure, for some time. There had been various setbacks with the collider which, I understand, he took personally.’
Tom could tell by the inflection in his voice that Frederick was finding it difficult to discuss the circumstances surrounding Professor Morantz’s death.
‘He has left a void that can only be filled by somebody with exceptional credentials,’ continued Frederick. ‘After much deliberation, the council would like to offer the position to you, Tom.’
‘Me! Why me?’ said Tom, astonished.
‘As I said earlier,’ Frederick replied, ‘I’ve been following your career closely and I believe that you have everything we are looking for. Academically, you are regarded as the definitive authority on subatomic particles, by your peers. The research that you have done on quantum electrodynamics has advanced the way forward in terms of our own search for the God particle, while your published articles expound theories that go far beyond our current understanding of the origins of the universe. In short, you are a visionary with the passion and knowledge to support your hypotheses, and that’s exactly what we need to drive the project to the next level at CERN.’
‘I… I’m flattered, if not a little taken aback,’ stuttered Tom.
‘I know this is all very sudden,’ replied Frederick, ‘and I don’t expect a decision straight away. But we are at a very critical point. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that we are on the verge of a breakthrough, the outcome of which could hold the key to how the universe and everything in it was created.’ He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Tom. ‘I’ll leave you to your deliberations. I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston if you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll phone you in two days for your decision.’ He then shook Tom’s hand, turned on his heels and left.
Tom stood there, speechless.
The day had started off as unremarkable as any other day. His alarm woke him just before 6 am. He poured himself a coffee and stared out of his window at the campus as it came to life. He was living in Ashdown House, one of the undergraduate apartment blocks, normally reserved for students with families.
He had been there for nearly six months, since leaving his marital home after discovering his wife was having an affair with one of his colleagues. There was no drama or culpability; he and Susan had just drifted apart. If anybody was to blame, Tom blamed himself; the number of nights spent in his research lab or at his computer, creating theoretical models or typing up a new paper, must have contributed to the act of driving his wife into the arms of another man.
He finished his coffee and donned his tracksuit. He was learning to take an intrinsic pride in his appearance. He had to admit that he had let himself go a little, especially around the midriff; this fact was pointed out by Susan in one of their ‘heart to heart’ discussions shortly after their breakup, along with the fact that his haircut and most of his clothes made him look older than his 36 years.
The hair was the easiest to resolve. He had gone to the on-campus hairdresser, sat down in one of the barber’s chairs and said simply, ‘Make me look younger!’ It had worked. The stylist, used to giving the students the latest fashion haircut, had moderated her urge to replicate the most commonly requested ‘messy bed-head’ look and, instead, went for a more George Clooney meets Matt Damon, sophisticated but sporty, style. It had taken years off him and had even elicited the odd wolf-whistle from some of his female undergraduates.
The clothes were next; not such an easy fix. He had never been a follower of fashion per se; the latest trends were as alien to him as a sub-atomic particle would be to a football coach. Luckily, that wasn't the case with his brother, Matt, who would always buy him a designer shirt for Christmas or his birthday. It was to him he turned for advice as his fashion guru.
Growing up, the two brothers had always been like chalk and cheese. Tom's fascination for science stemmed from a chemistry set bought for him by one of his uncles. At school he would always get top grades in chemistry, physics and mathematics, so by the time he was eighteen it was inevitable that he would go to university.
Matt, on the other hand, was the archetypal athlete. At school, there wasn’t a sport that he didn’t excel in, but it was baseball where he really shone. Whilst captaining the local youth team, he was spotted by a New York Yankees’ talent scout and signed up to a four-year apprenticeship. Leaving home at sixteen, he moved into dormitories on the outskirts of Manhattan, where he spent twelve hours a day practising and perfecting his swing until, finally, he was called up to play in the Major League.