“It’s funny you should mention that, Professor,” Sam said, “…because I happen to have an appointment with someone I was pointed towards this very morning, for that very reason.”
“Pointed? By whom, exactly?” Professor Westdijk asked, biting into the ridiculous morsel that clearly pained his gums.
Sam checked his notes, “Uh, one Albert Tägtgren?” Sam waited for the professor to light up and recognize the name, but he only nodded, chewing like a horse.
“And what does he do?” Professor Westdijk asked with his mouth full.
“I think he is a structural engineer involved in building Alice,” Sam replied, still hoping there would be more detail behind the man he was to see.
“Nope, don’t know him. It’s a pity, because I know a lot of people working on Alice,” he told Sam, lifting his crooked finger to summon the waiter. “Earl Grey, please.”
“What exactly do you do at CERN, if I may ask,” Sam mumbled to avoid the waiter from hearing.
“I am just an advisor on the CMS… as soon as those inept assholes are done building the damn thing of course. There are about twenty five of us, physics experts in different practices, working on the detector. Most of them are from England and Germany. I am the only one from Holland,” the professor explained. “But I hope you can figure out what happened to Alice. At least that would help the project along, otherwise everything will be put on hold to wait for the closing of the investigation before anything can continue. As you can imagine, with one giant circular tube in which the experiment is to be held, we need all components in running order before any of the other detectors can be activated.”
“I understand,” Sam said. In fact, he did not know exactly how the LHC was to operate, but the professor need not know that. “So everything is held up? I just hope I can get more detail on the electrical workings of the Alice detector, otherwise I will have no way of figuring this one out.”
“Good luck,” the old professor laughed, his cheeks dark pink and his goatee riddled with bread crumbs.
“You make it sound so much easier than my nightmares told me it would be,” Sam smiled miserably, shaking his head.
“Agh, don’t fret, Sam. In time this will also dissipate and what worries you today will be just a memory,” the professor said, wiping his hands on his cardigan. Sam looked at his watch.
“Well, there are questions to be asked. I must dash, Professor. Thanks so much for the conversation. I don’t feel so horribly out of place amongst the guests here now,” he told the old scientist.
“I’ll probably run into you there. Try not to get overwhelmed, alright? It’s just a project. A multi-billion Euro project that will probably come to nothing but factions of physics professors at loggerheads about what they actually achieved by the experiment,” the old man chuckled as Sam waved goodbye and left the hotel, ten minutes behind schedule.
Sam took the time travelling to the CERN facility to enjoy the environment. From what he had learned in his research the construction companies had utilized the unearthed soil and gravel well, but employing the best functional landscaping to create a vast landscape of hillocks and small lakes to form a man-made park. It looked beautiful, with rolling mounds of green lawns and large bodies of water. The tall fence of the facility came into view along the road and Sam’s stomach sank.
He hated to admit that he was not one for science or particle physics and he knew very little about mass construction and super machines. Now he would have to either maintain a ruse of knowledge or let everyone know that he, the great prize winning journalist, was now at the mercy of their tolerance in his ineptitude. Maybe he just felt that way because his life of late had been slightly off the norm. Of all the intense adventure he had survived, perhaps his life could only dip into boredom and lackluster, who knew.
“Credentials,” the guard asked through the driver’s window.
Sam showed the man his press pass and after a brief call to the office, the guard returned. “Section 8 only, Mr. Cleave. There is a restaurant in Section 8 for you to wait. Please do not venture off to any other part of the facility.”
“Thank you,” Sam replied.
As he expected, it was a maze of white coats and hard hats that enveloped him as he searched for Section 8, where Albert Tägtgren would meet him.
“He is probably already waiting, pissed as hell,” Sam muttered to himself as he searched the select few males seated alone in the huge spread of tables in the restaurant, which reminded him more of a mess hall one would find in Star Trek.
“Sam Cleave?” someone said.
“Aye,” Sam almost shouted, elated that he did not have to go along asking every engineer-looking man his name. A very neat blond man appeared in front of him, extending a hand. He wore square glasses and his wedding band was the same color as his tie, Sam noted.
‘Looks like a seventies serial killer to me,’ Sam entertained himself in thought.
“Albert Tägtgren, at your service. Penny Richards told me you would be coming,” he smiled cordially. Sam was relieved that the man with the Swedish accent was not pissed as hell after all.
“I’m sorry I am late, Mr. Tägtgren,” Sam started.
“Please call me Al,” the engineer told Sam. “Everyone calls me Al. It is less… Swedish?” He laughed and took Sam by the upper arm. “Coffee?”
“Oh, no thank you. I just had about a liter of caffeine at my hotel just to wake up. Long night of research,” Sam explained, looking around at the chatting crowd of scientists and construction men.
“Research on CERN?” Al asked him.
“Afraid I still don’t know everything I’m supposed to know,” Sam admitted, choosing the honest, ill-informed path. But it was a good choice, because Albert Tägtgren was the kind of man who enjoyed enlightening laymen on his line of work. He spent the next two hours explaining structural engineering requirements and basically what the collider’s experiments would entail. Sam’s head spun with all the talk of the Higgs boson particle and the speeds at which the collider will propel particles to cause tiny crashes every few seconds, or so he understood the gibberish. Eventually Sam had to remind the over-zealous engineer what he really interviewed him about.
“So, after that bit of background,” he said in his boyish teasing, “can you fill me in on the structural damage sustained during the recent fire?”
His host grew silent for a moment, not expecting that Sam had kept his focus through the entire lecture. Tägtgren cleared his throat and fumbled with his security card. First he surveyed the area as if he was about to share a secret… which he was.
“Mr. Cleave, I have a theory, but honestly I am too reluctant to voice it, especially to a journalist, you understand?” he said under his breath. Sam was very satisfied with the man’s response.
“I understand completely. But if you want, we can keep this off the record,” he assured Albert, switching off his recorder and putting it away. “I am far more interested for myself what the truth is, than to appease a bunch of business moguls looking to find a political scapegoat.”
“Well, I am very happy to hear that, Mr. Cleave, but this is definitely not about politics or competition. In fact, it goes beyond the believable and dare I say, explainable,” Albert whispered urgently.
Chapter 6
Purdue had his fill of the roast pork and asparagus, baby potatoes and creamed spinach Healy had prepared, but what he could not stomach was the erratic behavior of his hostess. By the evening he had begun to regret coming to see her, but something about her hints kept him at the gambling table. The wind howled outside the deathly quiet house. Morose and slightly unsettled, Purdue bided his time before thinking to excuse himself, but Lydia Jenner had way too much to get off her chest to just let her guest up and leave like that.