The Footsoldier's Tale

by Daniel Ribot

It was half past two in the morning and we all stood by the kettle at the far side of the lab, washing down our caffeine pills with sweetened fair-trade instant coffee. No milk. No-one could keep milk in this place without it disappearing. In any case, we had no money for fripperies like milk, what with PhD grants being what they were, and not all of us having a grant anyway. We were all here, at this time and in this place, to do real science. Sure, we had to work at night when the equipment was free and the undergraduates were out partying or whatever, but we had the chance to work, experiment and discover. Maybe in a few years we would be all working as science teachers or dental lab assistants, but we would always have this to look back on; Imperial College, Professors Gill, Rangwala, Wilmslow and Becker, access to the only hadron-electron particle scanner in the country and joint authorship on a number of research papers. 

I had arrived at Imperial from the University of Southampton. The Universities of Coventry, Gottingen, De Paaw and Felixtowe had led me here as I slowly became a physicist, then a particle physicist and eventually a particle engineer. I was good, people told me so, but I wasn't the genius some of them made out, especially my mother. Had I been a genius, I would have a tenured post by now rather than subsisting on a series of short-term  grants. Having said that, it wasn't all bad. If things went to plan, I would be Dr Lawrence Griffiths, PhD, in less than a year. My supervisor, Professor Tom Gill, always made encouraging noises about my work, which was reassuring. This was, despite everything, a good lab to work in and my colleagues were quickly becoming friends. I sipped my coffee and listened to the nightly gossip. 

Malc, all frizzed red hair and wild sideburns, told us of his encounter with Professor Wilmslow, who had put in a rare appearance at the department yesterday. He was leaving his office with his patent leather satchel gaping open and stuffed with papers when Malc lollopped towards him. Noticing the crumbs on the professor's beard, Malc quipped that he hoped he had enjoyed his biscuit. The professor, fearing some sort of innuendo, had walked off muttering. Malc copied the movements of the great man escaping as the rest of us laughed. Johan was not fond of Wilmslow, despite his Nobel prize. He repeated his favourite Wilmslow aphorism by calling him a neutrino, because he had no positive charge and no weight. The conversation then took its usual twists and turns of office banter, romantic speculations and the abject state of scientific research in the country today.

Soon we all settled into our tasks, drifting through the cavernous lab buildings to our various work stations. Malc, Johan and I were currently working on a particle assembler, a machine capable of putting together particles into atoms, atoms into molecules and molecules into various forms of matter. It was part of a global race to develop teleportation technology. Already two of the three main problems in teleportation had been overcome. The first was the advances in scanner technology that now allowed the 3D mapping of objects down to the level of sub-atomic particles.  Second, the discovery of Karamov-Dumov dissembler rays that smashed matter into particles almost instantaneously. In the past couple of years these advances had  left only the particle assembler as the key element that was needed to put a teleporter together. The particle assembler's job was to rebuild the atomized matter at the destination point. It was perhaps the most complex element of the whole process.

Not surprisingly, many teams all over the world were trying to get there first. We thought we had a good chance of making it, despite the competition.  Our prototype, thanks mainly to Malc and Johan, was almost perfect. My job was to sort out the slight errors that hindered that perfection.  This was a crucial task, as atoms and molecules are such flexible building blocks. A slight variation in the atomic composition could be catastrophic. Even a 90% accurately assembled cheese sandwich might end up looking like something else: a glass of cranberry juice, an aspic jelly or a handful of stone chippings. Perfect accuracy was vital, so I had had a good deal of work to do. It had taken me about a year and five months to iron out all the bugs in the system, but I was reasonably confident that I had managed it. 

What we had done, rather than test the particle assembler on its own, was to rig up a whole teleport machine in one go. It was done partly as a joke, although one that most of the other doctoral students helped us out with, giving us access to  whatever we needed. Every night we would arrive and assemble the machine, conduct our experiments and disassemble it the next morning to return its components to the various labs, offices and workshops they came from. 

Tonight we were hopeful of a breakthrough. Again, we would test the particle assembler by attempting to teleport a book. We had all made a half-serious arrangement to bring in a book each and scan every page and record its hadron-electron make-up. Then we would try and teleport the book in the lab and would be able to check if it had made a perfect transition. We left the books scattered on the window sill, ready to use. Today, we used Johan's book. He had a copy  of 'Pride and Prejudice' that his sister had recommended. Johan's opinion was that the book was awful and he was happy to sacrifice it for scientific purposes. We put the book in the machine that we jokingly called 'the grinder' and engaged the  Karamov-Dumov dissembler ray. The book disappeared from the grinder and re-formed, in a cloud of acrid smoke, within the new particle assembler.

Our success was complete. The tension of the past few months dropped from my shoulders. This was it! We had done it! Bloody gone and done it! I jumped into the air, punching the skies like a madman. Malc seized the teleported book and whooped. He leafed through the pages reading extracts from Austen's masterpiece. "Even the greasy fingerprint on page 24!", he shouted. Me and Johan turned to each other and laughed. Soon all the research students had gathered, cheering and showering us with congratulations. Even the cleaners and security guards came in to see what we had done. The best thing was, everything was on record. Our book had been scanned before and after, showing 100% accuracy. I was overwhelmed. All those months of work had provided staggering results. This was just the biggest thing that had ever happen to me. For a scientist, for anyone, how could it ever be  better than this? The next day we were congratulated by the entire department. Malc flourished the book and retold the story in his own ebullient way. "Even the fingerprint!", he exclaimed, showing the book to the professors. Wilmslow took a special interest in the volume, although he did not stay for the celebrations that took place that afternoon in the 'Slug and Lettuce'. 

* * *

The court case dragged on for the best part of a year. Professor Wilmslow claimed the credit for inventing the first teleporter and accused us of plagiarizing his work and stealing his research. It was he, Professor Ken Wilmslow, Nobel prize winner and big cheese of the scientific establishment, who had made the crucial breakthrough in teleportation technology. We were just three PhD students trying to make a name for ourselves and biting the hand that fed us. That was the story he stuck to throughout the trial. The University, unsurprisingly, backed its Nobel laureate against the lowly doctoral students. Even the department tried to buy us off and threaten us. We were outraged but there was little we could do about it. Eventually, Johan gave in. He graduated with a PhD and returned to Holland and a job at Phillips. Malc and I stuck to our guns and were suspended from the University. We lost the case.  In the end the key piece of evidence was Wilmslow's greasy fingerprint clearly present on page 24 of Johan's copy of 'Pride and Prejudice'.  It was taken by the judge as irrefutable proof of Wilmslow's claim. I remembered Malc's tale about the crumbs on Wilmslow's beard. He had probably gone down to the lab, found the book and started reading the Austen classic while eating a pastry. The old bastard had become a legend in his own lunchtime. 

Nauseated by the whole experience, I gave up my PhD research. Malc swallowed his pride and begged to be allowed to graduate and was eventually re-enrolled at Imperial. Today, I am back living with my parents and teaching at a local school. On the walls of the science-block common room, I am mocked by newspaper cuttings showing Professor Wilmslow receiving his second Nobel prize for physics. It was awarded for his work "developing teleportation technology". I read in them part of his speech that pays tribute to unsung heroes; the PHD students and humble researchers who are the true footsoldiers of science. I stare at these press cuttings as I get ready for my Year Eight bottom-set combined science class. I hate this job. My students treat me like I'm a total moron. The real pisser is that they are right.