<tb>
The next thirty years of Henry Talbot's life, now devoid of promise,
were fulfilling and content. He worked steadily and drank as the mood
fell upon him, publishing on the average one paper a year. These papers
were thorough, the experiments well worked out, without contrived
results or varnished sloppiness. The publications were accepted
everywhere as solid research papers.
Henry Talbot's name became familiar in the nuclear field. He did not
find his face on the cover of <i>Time</i>, nor was he ever invited to
participate as an "expert" on any television quiz programs, yet he was
well known to nuclear researchers--at least those in his own country.
He was honored with a banquet on his fiftieth birthday. <i>Person to
Person</i> once tentatively proposed to visit him, but the idea was
squelched, a visit to a more buxom personality being substituted.
Sex never reared its ugly head. He had not had time for it when young,
and so had never fallen into the habit.
At the age of sixty-five he retired. He canceled his subscription to
the <i>Physical Review</i>, bought a fishing rod, subscribed to the <i>New
Yorker</i>, and tried Florida. He started at Tallahassee and fished his
way down to Ocala. By the time he had reached St. Petersburg, he had
decided to try California.
In California he took up golf. He bought a hi-fi set and a dozen
progressive jazz records, advertised as unbreakable. They proved not to
be, although in fairness to the advertiser it must be said that Henry
Talbot had to exert himself.
He decided to try a world cruise. He left the scheduled tour in Japan
and visited the Institute for Theoretical Physics in Tokyo, spending
some time there just generally chewing the bilingual rag. When he
returned to the United States, he renewed his subscription to the
<i>Physical Review</i>, canceled his subscription to the <i>New Yorker</i>, and
looked around for another position.
He went to work for the Arnold Research Corporation on a part-time,
semi-retired basis. But he had his own lab, his hours were his own, and
in a few weeks he was working full time. No one was disturbed by this,
he did not apply for more money or recognition, he kept to himself, and
he began publishing his one paper each year.
On the tenth year afterward his paper was missing, though not missed.
He began to spend less time in his lab and more in the library and
behind his desk, scribbling on scraps of paper or staring into space.
He was forgotten by the Arnold Research Corporation. He was content
with his books and his monthly check.
In his seventy-fourth year, Henry Talbot published a paper in
the <i>Philosophical Magazine</i> on what he called the "Warped Field
Theory." The theory was entirely his own, from beginning to end, and
constituted--in his opinion--the first real breakthrough in theoretical
physics since Albert Einstein's little idea in 1905. The day the
article came out he sat behind his desk all day, puffing on his pipe,
not merely content but really happy for the first time in his life.
<tb>
Life continued undisturbed for three more months. Then Larry Arnold,
Jr., came into his office, carrying a copy of the <i>Philosophical
Magazine</i>. Larry Arnold, Jr., was not a scientist but, as he put it,
he was scientifically minded and was general overseer, public relations
man, and coordinator of coordinators of research.
He humphed a few times, groaned as he sat down across the desk from
Henry, wheezed twice, smiled once, and said, "Good morning, Dr. Talbot."
"Good morning," Henry replied, folding his hands and trying to look
humble yet brilliant.
"I read your article," Arnold said, feebly waving the magazine around
before him, "and I don't mind admitting I didn't understand a word
of it. Well, I'm not a man to hide his lack of knowledge so I went
right out and asked some of the men working here about it. They didn't
understand it either. I called up a few people around the country.
I--Dr. Talbot, I don't know how exactly to say this to you. I don't
know what you intended with this article, but it's got people laughing
at us and we can't have that."
Henry kept the same humble look on his face; he fought to keep the same
expression. He didn't know what his face might look like if he relaxed
for a moment.
"We didn't expect much research from you when we hired you. Well, we
know we're not paying you much, and we don't mind if you don't put out
much work. Hell, we don't care if you don't put out <i>any</i> work. We get
our money's worth in good will when people know we've got an old pro
like you on our payroll; the young kids can see we won't kick them out
when they're all used up. But when you put out papers like this one--"
and here he waved the magazine a bit more violently, getting warmed
up--"when you do this, and it says Arnold Research Corporation right
here under your name, people don't just laugh at you. They laugh at the
whole organization. They think that this whole place is going around
doing fantastic research like this--this warped field."
He stopped when he saw the look slip a bit from Henry's face, and he
saw what was there beneath it. He dropped his eyes and wheezed twice,
then heaved his bulk out of the chair.
"I didn't mean to slam into you that way, Dr. Talbot. You know it's
an honor to have you associated with the firm. We were even thinking
of giving you a testimonial banquet next week on your seventy-fifth
birthday.... It is next week, isn't it? Well, what I mean to say is--I
mean we all appreciate the good solid research you've been doing all
these years. It's just that--well, you won't fool around like this
any more, now will you? And we'll just forget all about it. No hard
feelings."
He left quickly, and the door closed behind him.
For the first time in seventy-five years, or in the last sixty-nine at
least, Henry Talbot cried.
After he cried, he became angry. He wanted to shout, so he left the
office early and hurried to his apartment where he could shout without
disturbing anyone, which he did. He then took out the vodka, settled
Bucephalus, his cat, on his lap and began to pour.
Several hours later Henry Talbot sprawled in the armchair and took
stock of himself. He came to two conclusions:
1. At his age, what did he care about fame? He knew his theory
was sound, and if the people in his own country didn't appreciate
it, what difference did it make? Now, free from rancor, he could
understand how they must have received his paper. They all knew old
Dr. Talbot--seventy-five and not dead yet. What a ridiculous age
for a nuclear physicist! Now he's turning theoretical, they must
have chuckled. So they started his paper. And when they came to the
first unorthodox assumption, when they reached the first of the many
mathematical complexities and indeed paradoxes, they must have closed
the magazine and had a good laugh over a cup of coffee.
Had the article been written by some unknown twenty-five-year-old, they
would all hail him as a new genius. But coming from old Henry Talbot,
the article was ludicrous.
Well, he didn't care. Abroad, he was not so well known. Some countries
would not have heard of him at all. They'd read the article seriously,
one or two men would understand it. They'd run some experiments to
confirm or deny the hypotheses and Henry was confident the experiments
would prove him right. He had only to wait. Of course he hadn't much
time left, but perhaps they would do it in a year or two, and perhaps
he'd still be here to see it and have the last laugh.