WP

A/N: Thanks to all for your reviews, I read and appreciate every one.

Chapter 4 – Size Matters

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

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Saturday, April 12, 2014, morning

Amita Ramanujan stirred and stretched, and blinked at the spring sunshine streaming into her Boston apartment. Normally, she reveled in Saturday mornings, lying in bed late next to her boyfriend, Jim MacDonald. She glanced sideways at him, he was still asleep, turned on his side, and ordinarily she would move in closer and cuddle with him, perhaps ruffle his sandy hair. This morning, however, was different, and she wasn't entirely sure why.

Well, that wasn't quite true. She did know why – it had to do with the phone call she'd gotten from Larry Fleinhardt last evening, his voice brimming with exuberance as he let her know that he'd just found out that Charlie Eppes was coming home. In fact, Larry had informed her, Charlie had arrived in L.A. that very evening; and Larry would see him the next day. She took the news with a polite, 'That's great!' and asked Larry to tell him hello for her. At Larry's good-bye, she'd hung up, and then plunked down in the nearest chair, where she'd sat for a good ten minutes before shaking herself. Charlie Eppes had nothing to do with her any longer, or her with him. She'd moved on, she was in a serious relationship, she told herself. She felt nothing other than a warm wish for the well-being of a good friend and colleague.

Now, this morning, her eyes drifted again to Jim's sleeping form. He was a physics professor at MIT, and they'd clicked the moment they met. At first, the relationship was simply a solid friendship – after ending her relationship with Charlie, she wasn't up for anything more - but Jim had decided after several months of friendship that more was precisely what he wanted. Amita had resisted at first, why, she wasn't certain – he was bright, good-looking, kind – the perfect man, really. Finally, he'd won her over, and they had begun dating. Recently, he'd been hinting at marriage, trying to draw her into a serious discussion, a discussion she kept dodging, without a clear understanding of why she was doing it.

She stared at the back of his head, her eyes on his spiky sandy hair, but in her mind, all she could see was a head full of dark, tousled curls.

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Charlie stopped in to see Dean Wilson the first thing Saturday morning.

When he arose that morning, Charlie found that Alan had gone to the store; his father had left a note, which Charlie discovered as he trudged into the kitchen in search of coffee. He stood there, inhaling the familiar sight and scent of the kitchen, and just for an instant, was transported back in time. Wisps of long submerged memories floated through his mind, remnants of a former life, a life that had been disrupted, derailed.

He got a cup of coffee and checked his email, looking for any sign of a response to his cognitive emergence and dimensional theory papers. They had been approved for release over a week ago, and the recipients should have had several days by now to examine them. There was nothing, and nothing in the delivered mail either; and he felt anxiety start to simmer in his gut again. Granted, it had only been a week, not long enough to analyze his theories with any depth, but he would have thought that there would be something – some kind of acknowledgement that the papers were out there, and were being read. Was it possible that his worst fears were being realized – that he had been forgotten, and no one cared enough to read his work? His sip of coffee stuck in his throat, and he swallowed hard and stared at the screen.

They had given him a new, clean laptop when he had left the think tank, and confiscated his old one. It was protocol, apparently; they wanted to be sure that a departing person would not leave, inadvertently or otherwise, with confidential information on their computers. His new laptop was sleek and fast, but it was empty; the only email was junk. He had to modify his filters, he thought absently, still trying to fight down the unsettling feeling that his papers were being ignored. After a quick phone call, he gathered up a copy of each paper, grabbed his car keys, and headed for his Prius.

Behind the wheel, he hesitated. His driver's license had expired and he'd had a hard time just sitting on the passenger side of Don's SUV the day before, but campus wasn't far, and he had to get to there – he had told the Dean he would be there at nine, and Alan still wasn't home. He would have to take a chance, and drive himself, legal or not. He turned the keys in the ignition, and noted with gratitude that it started immediately – Alan had apparently kept it maintained while he was gone. With a twinge of relief, he found that driving was something that came back easily, although he drove slowly, white-knuckled, all the way there. As the campus pulled into view, he caught his breath, and once he got the Prius safely into a parking spot, he just sat there for a moment, trying to control the tears that suddenly stung his eyes. Cal Sci, of all places, was home. Thank God, he at least had that.

It was Saturday, but the Dean was traditionally on campus on Saturday mornings, and Charlie had called ahead, just to be sure. He'd never met the man in person; Dean Mackenzie Wilson had come into the position about a year after Charlie had gone into witness protection. Charlie had heard about the change through Amita, so he had asked the authorities at the Tank for an extra phone call to discuss his position, and due to the circumstances, it had been allowed. Dean Wilson had assured him then, four years ago, that he would honor the agreement that had been previously set – namely, that Charlie would be granted his position as head of the mathematics department upon his return. As Charlie stepped into the Dean's office, however, he sensed immediately that something was wrong.

Clutching the copies of the papers to his chest, he stepped forward and extended his hand. "Charles Eppes," he said, and the Dean rose and shook his hand.

"Good to meet you, professor," said Wilson. He lips were smiling, but his eyes were cool, professional. Not unpleasant, but not welcoming either. Charlie got the impression that it was an expression reserved for people who didn't matter – Wilson could have been greeting the janitor. "How can I help you?"

Charlie was stunned into a second of silence by the question. The mere fact that the man asked it implied that he didn't grasp the situation. He pulled himself together, and sat in the chair in front of the desk as Wilson seated himself. "Well, obviously, my presence would indicate that I'm out of witness protection," Charlie said. A trace of sarcasm laced his words; he couldn't help it. "I've come to discuss my return to campus."

Wilson pursed his lips and tented his fingers in front of them. "Ah, yes," he said, after a brief pause. "I seem to remember an agreement." He bent and pulled open a lower file drawer, riffled through it, then selected a document, which he placed on his desk and proceeded to read, frowning as he did so. "I'll have to discuss this with the trustees."

Charlie could feel real alarm now, thick in the back of his throat, but he tried to speak calmly. "What's to discuss? The agreement guaranteed that I would be placed back in my position upon my return, provided the absence was less than seven years. I understand that it's near the end of the semester and I won't be teaching right away, but I can assume administrative and research responsibilities immediately."

Wilson's smile had faded, and he raised an eyebrow. The expression was supercilious; condescending, and so was his tone when he replied. "Five years is a long time, professor, and the contract specifies that the decision be reviewed and renewed every three years. I don't recall that we held a review, which would make this agreement, if not void, at least questionable. In addition, Dr. Paul Samuels has been holding that position since you left. It has been on a temporary basis, but based on his performance – and your continued absence - the trustees and I had decided to offer it to him on a permanent basis. We were going to speak to him this week, in fact. I would suggest that you submit a formal request for the position, with your resume, and I will review it with President James. Even if you don't come back as department head, we may be able to offer you a teaching position."

Charlie could feel fear and anger spiraling inside him, and he tamped them down with an effort, and rose slowly, his eyes flashing. "I understand that you don't know me, Dean," he said tightly. "The president of the university and the trustees do, however. As for a resume, why don't you take a look at these?" He stepped forward and slapped his papers on the desk, and with a curt nod, turned and walked out, his head held high.

He made it out into the hallway and around the corner into the men's room before his composure vanished. Thankfully, the restroom was deserted, and he leaned back against the cool tile wall, his legs shaking. Had people really forgotten him, what he could do? Then another thought occurred to him – one that was far worse. What if they hadn't forgotten what he could do – what if he simply couldn't do it anymore? His cognitive emergence work, his dimensional theory – perhaps they weren't everything that he thought they were. It could be that they were flawed, and that was why no one had bothered to contact him. The lack of contact could simply be a polite, embarrassed silence.

He leaned against the wall for a good five minutes before he managed to make his feet move. There was still one more thing he could do, to salvage a bit of what was left of his life, and he'd always felt secretly it had been his true calling – his work with the FBI. He could always spend his time consulting – Don was in charge of three offices now, not just one; surely there would be enough cases to keep him busy. His head still reeling, his mind occupied by that one last hope, he made his way down the quiet hallway, and somehow managed to drive home.

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Saturday, April 12, 2014, afternoon

Professor Larry Fleinhardt stepped into the university president's home study with raised eyebrows, and looked at its owner, Matthew James. He'd been to James' house before, but not frequently, and the president's urgent request was definitely unusual. James was sitting behind his desk, and Dean Mackenzie Wilson was seated across from him in one of a trio of leather armchairs. Larry inclined his head politely, as James rose from his seat. "President James," said Larry by way of greeting, as he stepped forward. "Dean Wilson."

James didn't come out from behind his desk, but he did extend a hand as Larry came forward. "Professor Fleinhardt, thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, take a seat."

Larry shook his hand and sat, noting that Dean Wilson hadn't risen to greet him, in fact, he had a decidedly sour expression on his face. Of course, ever since Larry had returned to Cal Sci over two years ago from a self-imposed sabbatical and first met Dean Wilson, he had to admit, they hadn't sustained cordial relations. There wasn't time to ponder that, however; James was handing Larry two thick documents, and Larry took them, as the president said, "We were wondering if you could take a quick look at those for us. I know that you're familiar with Dr. Eppes' work…,"

His words were lost for a moment as Larry looked down and caught the title of the top document, entitled Cognitive Emergence Theory, and underneath it the name of Charles Eppes. His heart skipped a beat; his close friend and colleague had been working on Cognitive Emergence for years – could it be that he had finally released it? He looked up. "Where did you get this? Is Charles preparing to publish?"

"It appears that he already has," said James, as he took his seat again. "I was frankly surprised that we hadn't gotten notification, but when I made some inquiries I found that we are on the list – there was just some bureaucratic red tape that has caused a delay. Copies went out yesterday to a listing specified by Dr. Eppes, and the intended recipients should start receiving them tomorrow and the next day. These copies were personally delivered to Dean Wilson by Dr. Eppes himself this morning."

At the words, 'these copies,' Larry realized that he hadn't looked at the second document, and he did so, a thrill running through him, as he read, Mathematical Modeling of Subatomic Particles with Associated Impact of Dimensional Significance. His eyebrows rose, and he felt his heart quicken with excitement. "Oh, my," he murmured, as he began to flip the pages, scanning through them. "Is this what I think it is?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell us," said James, as he glanced at Wilson. "That topic, in particular, is right up your alley. I know there is much to digest there, but we were wondering if you could take an hour or so to quickly scan through the contents of those papers, and tell us if they have any potential merit."

Larry tore his eyes from the page open in front of him. "Any potential merit! This is Dr. Charles Eppes we as speaking of, here. Charles would never publish something that he wasn't certain was sound. The mathematical community has been waiting for his Cognitive Emergence conclusions for years, and this - ," he picked up the dimensional theory paper and waved it, his voice rising, "- if this is what I think it is, it will have a huge impact on the world of mathematics and physics. Ever since Einstein, physicists have been searching for a unified theory – something that links quantum physics to gravitational theory. This could well represent the first step toward developing the math needed to explain that link. If that is so – this is beyond huge, gentlemen. Scores of the greatest minds have been pursing this for years."

Wilson finally spoke, his voice heavy with skepticism. "Exactly – precisely why I find it hard to believe that the work there is valid. It would be unheard of to come out with two works of such significance, at the same time…"

He let his voice trail off purposely, conveying his doubt, and Larry frowned. James was emanating suppressed excitement about the find, but Wilson almost seemed as though he were willing it to fail. James' next statement clarified the situation.

The president sent a challenging, direct glance Wilson's way, as he said, "Dean Wilson has a quandary on his hands. He apparently had convinced the trustees to name his protégé, Dr. Paul Samuels, as head of the mathematics department, and this morning, Dr. Eppes showed up, requesting that we honor the agreement we made to reinstatement him when he became available."

Larry's eyes widened in disbelief as he turned his gaze on Wilson; who was scowling and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "How could you not honor that agreement?" His voice rose indignantly, and he began to turn a decided shade of red. "Aside from the ethics of the matter, are you crazy?!" He put out his hands; palms up at either side as if he were weighing something, and waved his left hand, sarcasm filling his voice. "Let me see, on one hand, we have Paul Samuels, a great politician, to be sure, but moderately talented when it comes to mathematics, at best." He waved his right hand. "On the other, we have Dr. Charles Eppes, one of the greatest mathematicians on the planet, and, if these works are any indication, poised for further greatness, and acclaim that would put our university on the map!" He fixed a glare on Dean Wilson. "I can't imagine why there is any question, here!"

Matthew James stifled a grin. "Very well, Professor Fleinhardt, please, calm down. I have no doubt that Dean Wilson will come to the same conclusion as you have once we establish the worth of those papers. If you would, please look them over for an hour or two, or as long as you need to establish that Dr. Eppes' theories are at least reasonable. You may remain here, if you wish. Come on, Mack; let's retire to the patio while Dr. Fleinhardt peruses those papers."

Wilson was still scowling but he complied, and James smiled as he glanced at Fleinhardt on the way out. The professor already had his nose in the dimensional theory paper, completely captivated.

A half hour into it, Larry Fleinhardt sat up with an incredulous, slightly loopy smile and whispered, "Oh my, Charles." He shook his head, and chuckled. "Size matters." Still smiling in amazement, he read on, his smile broadening as he went.

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End, Chapter 4