However, even though event wave depictions are not strictly “true,” all those we are able to view follow known history to the letter—indeed, on a scale of centuries, the differences are essentially arbitrary. No one has recorded an event wave where Alexander the Great was never born, or where Rome lost its war against Carthage, or where the pyramids were never built. In the greater scheme of things, event wave depictions diverge from our own reality only by minute degrees of arc, which makes E-particle wave research a historiographic tool of immense power.
And that was why the Christian Research Council approached us about the Jerusalem Project. At first I wasn’t terribly interested—until they were willing to put up ten million dollars in backing, no strings attached. We would direct and conduct all research, their involvement strictly limited to bankrolling the project and receiving progress reports. They had agreed to those conditions readily enough, believing it would make their case that much stronger when (that was the word they always used, “when”) we came up with proof for the existence of Christ.
Which led directly to another aspect of the “Phil Problem.” Given that independence, I was very hesitant to turn the project over to someone whose loyalty to the sponsors (or at least their goals) was stronger than that to the university. I needed a hard-working drone, not a crusading zealot.
All of this was on my mind as I called Phil up to arrange the interview.
After the initial breakthrough, progress on the Jerusalem Project proceeded at a steady clip. The wave event held steady without fuzzing out, eliminating the necessity of reacquiring a trace fix. Over the next month, Phil all but lived in the lab as he captured Jesus’ last few weeks of life. Despite his self-imposed sixteen hour workdays, he seemed bursting with energy and enthusiasm, in the grip of an excitement that bordered on mania. He was all smiles whenever I dropped by the lab, despite the dark circles under his eyes.
“The entrance to Jerusalem,” he said one day when I looked in, inclining his head toward the holotank. There Jesus, looking as ragged and dirty as any first-century traveler, rode a donkey down the middle of a broad street. All around him a crowd cheered and shouted in a hundred different voices, too many for the computer to translate.
“ ‘When Jesus entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred,’ ” Phil quoted.
“Do you want a day or two off? You’ve been working two weeks without rest. Let Mark or one of the other grad students cover things for awhile. You look dead tired.”
Phil shook his head, smiling. “Maybe later, but not now, not with the wave reaching Passion week. I’m going to see it through to the end.”
“All the way to the crucifixion, eh?”
Phil shook his head again. “No. All the way through to the Resurrection.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Stupid of me. That’s what I meant.”
“You still don’t believe, do you?”
“Believe what? That Jesus lived? That the Bible is literal truth and the word of God?”
“The Resurrection. That Jesus not only lived, but was sent to earth to redeem mankind’s sins.”
I shrugged. “Right now, I don’t know what I believe. A few weeks ago I didn’t believe Jesus existed at all.”
“So if I give you proof of his Resurrection, you’ll believe?”
I laughed. “Well, then I won’t really have any choice, will I?”
He nodded, obviously figuring that this was as much of an admission as he would get out of me. “All right, then. Give me about five days, and I’ll have your proof.”
As I walked away, I mulled over the flip side of that equation, the question that lay unasked between us: And if Jesus doesn’t rise, will you admit that your religion was founded on a lie?
When I finally met Phil in person, I saw immediately that our brief vidconference had not done justice to his impeccable sense of style. He looked more like a Wall Street stockbroker than a particle physicist, wearing a three-piece, charcoal pinstripe Armani suit with razor-sharp lapels, a starched white shirt and a red silk power-tie. I had put on my best suit for the occasion, but it was a shabby, shapeless thing next to Phil’s sartorial splendor.
“Dr. Morley, I’m Richard Lasman. It’s a pleasure to met you in person,” I said, extending my hand.
“Likewise,” he said, shaking firmly. “You have a lovely campus here. Lots of trees and open space.”
“We’re lucky. The founders picked a spot far enough from downtown that we’re still in the suburbs. Please, come in and sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Some ice water would be nice.”
I had my office assistant fetch his drink while we exchanged pleasantries. We talked about a few mutual acquaintances (all of whom had guardedly voiced the same mixed feelings about Phil), then got down to business.
We talked about technical aspects of the project for roughly thirty minutes, and any lingering doubts I had about his intelligence and expertise vanished. A couple of times he was so far over my head that I had to have him “laymanize” things for me. Not only was he the best candidate among all the applicants I had received, he might have been the best in the world at developing phase signal resolution techniques. I was truly impressed and told him so. He was obviously pleased, but maintained the same calm, smiling demeanor he had exhibited during the entire interview.
But it was time to bring up less pleasant matters.
“Well, so much for the technical aspects,” I said. “But there are a few other things I need to know.”
“Ask away.”
“Well, one of the things I’m concerned about…” I began, then trailed off, shuffling through papers as I looked for some way to broach the subject delicately. I didn’t find one.
“I understand you had a drinking problem,” I said bluntly.
“Oh, that’s putting it mildly,” said Phil, still calm. “It was more than a problem. I was a drunk. A violent drunk.”
“Violent?” I asked stupidly, somewhat dazed at this straightforward confession.
Phil nodded, still calm and controlled, but all trace of his smile gone. “Dr. Lasman, I put my wife in the hospital, twice. Once with a concussion, once with a broken arm from when I threw her down our stairway. I just thank God we didn’t have any children then, because I would have beaten them too.”
I sat in silence, too stunned to speak.
“As you probably know, I got into a couple of fights with other faculty members there at USC.” Actually, I had only known of one. “I was drinking half a bottle of bourbon before lunch, calling in sick every other day and had three DWI arrests before they pulled my license. The university was getting ready for hearings to revoke my tenure. I had probably sunken about as low as you possibly can without killing someone.” He stopped talking and shook his head, looking at my stricken expression. “I’m sorry, I seem to have dumped an awful lot on you all at once.”
“Oh no, it’s just—well, after all, I did ask.” I let out a short, nervous laugh. “I certainly can’t accuse you of holding anything back. You deserve a lot of credit for recovering from something like that.”