Professor Lionel Woodgrove needed a full five minutes before he clicked the ‘Send’ button. The glow of the computer monitor being the only source of light in the small university office, his eyes bathed in the message, probing, wondering what might come of this, the end result of 15 years of research. As shocking as his findings had been, there was something more, something beyond the surface that he felt hadn’t been uncovered. Unanswered questions, their relentless tug at his conscience had always prodded him further, to find their answers. His life had been almost entirely consumed with their resolve, that restlessness never abating until they were found. His wife had said something of that sort a thousand times before she left, he recalled.However, what was done was done, including this email. Slowly, as the tired ache of his eyes crept into his consciousness, he realized that there was another feeling creeping over him. His chest was getting tighter, his arm numbed from the shoulder down. And then he was on the floor, unable to move. As his consciousness departed, he felt one final thought race from the depths of his mind, into three words which formed at his lips, the last he would ever speak. Though no-one around him would hear them, he knew that someday, maybe soon, someone else would discover what it had taken him fifteen years and a cardiac arrest to find. Yes, it all fit, the one unifying factor.
As he closed his eyes and his heart beat for the last time he said, “they were here” and died.
~~
Outside the Oval Office, Hampton Rockwell, the 53rd President of the United States was looking at the night sky. Behind him he heard the footsteps he knew to be his Chief of Staff, Jefferson Peters. Rockwell took another drag of his cigarette and blew it into the air in front of him.
“Now why do I still smoke these things?” he asked without turning around.
Peters shrugged. “They’re more addictive than herion, that’s why.”
“True, but you’d think that with all the damage it does to me, I’d find enough motivation to never pick another one up again.”
“Sir, I hardly think that one cigarette a day is going to kill you.”
“Even so, when the right course of action is known and yet you take the wrong one, that must be the very essence of irrationality. Why do you suppose we do that?”
“I don’t think I know, sir.”
Rockwell looked up at the night sky, as though seeking an answer.
“Did they sign?” he said, peering out.
Peters smiled, feeling more comfortable with politics than philosophy.
“All of them. Sir, you really left them no choice.”
“I know.”
“But may I ask, Mr. President, how did you know they wouldn’t take the other option?”
It had been a negotiation with the trade unions over increased legal control of employee contracts. The Presidents’ record with union negotiations was icy at best, a record he was not the least bit embarrassed by.
“I’ve found that people just like to feel that they are in control, even though all evidence says otherwise. It’s amazing, the influence of pride in what passes for rational thought.”
“It was the finest piece of negotiating I have seen in a long while, Mr. President.”
“Thank you Peters. But I know you didn’t come out here just to kiss my ass.”
“No sir,” here Peters faltered for a moment. “Sir, we received an email a few days ago which appears to be from a Professor Lionel Woodgrove. He mentioned that he was your godfather.”
Rockwell turned.
“Yes, he is. What did it say?”
“It was a scientific report, a little left-field. He requested a meeting.”
“Of course. I haven’t seen Uncle Woodgrove since I was in college. Call his office and arrange a meeting for next week. And have a copy of that report on my desk tomorrow morning.”
“That won’t be possible sir, the meeting I mean. After receiving the email, we called his office to confirm. From what we can make out, your godfather passed away shortly after sending the email. It appears he suffered a major heart attack.”
Rockwell was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was softer, fragile.
“He was a brilliant man. Quiet, solid. Lived for his work. Didn’t have a friend, or wife at the end. Yet, he was perhaps the most interesting person I have ever met.”
His eyes focused again on the man before him.
“Have the report on my desk in an hour.”
The sound of Peters’ steps grew distant again and then disappeared inside. Rockwell knew that whatever his godfather had been, he was an intensely rational man. Whatever that report held, whatever reason the professor had for sending it to him, he was sure it was vital he find out. He took in his last drag from the cigarette and crushed it underfoot.
Humanity was inherently flawed, he thought, but as long as he admitted his own irrationality, he would be in control of it. As soon as he began imagining he was any different, that he was an agent independent of his desires, he would lose all hope of achieving such independence. The cigarettes may indeed bring him closer to death, but how was that different to life anyway? Every breath, every step of every day brought him closer to the end, a fact his godfather had bared witness to. As he walked inside, he could not help but feel that it was all a terrible waste.
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Can’t wait for part two……… keep up the good work.
Is herion as potent as heroin?