Noumenon

“It’s your discovery, you give the presentation,” Professor McCloud had said back in his study. From behind his mahogany desk he’d stared at Reggie like a mad dog, ready to bite if he didn’t get his way.

Of all the professors in the world, Reggie had to get the only one who wasn’t eager to slap his name all over a graduate student’s research. “Sir, defending my thesis is one thing, but this … I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can.” McCloud coughed heavily into his handkerchief, his thick white sideburns jumping with his jawline. “They’re just people, for cripes sake. If you can stand a bunch of crusty old intellectuals judging you on every eh, but, and I think that comes out of your mouth you can stand a few colleagues and digital recorders.”

“But—”

“See! Besides, the discovery has been validated. So they’re not going to make fun of you. They’re not even going to be there for you. They’ll be there to hear about the idea, to marvel at the concept. When it’s all over they won’t even remember you were there. It’s the information that matters, Straifer, not your mumbling, fumbling presentation.” He leaned closer to Reggie, his chins jiggling. “If you’re passionate about this mysterious, stroboscopic star of yours, it would be a crime to force an old, gluttonous man like me to make the case for you.”

“The professors’ point is valid,” chimed in an electronic voice from Reggie’s pocket. He pulled out his phone. The Intelligent Personal Assistant’s icon was blinking—he’d set it to interject-mode. “In the past twenty-five years, projects requiring similar screening before financing have been seventy-eight percent more likely to succeed when the original researchers have presented their findings directly. Third party involvement—”

“Thanks, C.” Reggie turned the phone off and gave the professor a glare.

Ten minutes later, he’d reluctantly agreed.

Oh, but how he wished now, as he stood in front of this crowd, that he’d told Dr. McCloud and the computer both to shove it.

And there the professor sat, in the third row, nodding at every other syllable that came out of the presenter’s mouth. His focus momentarily shifted to Reggie, and he gave him a go-for-it grin.

He turned his attention back to the presentation. Had he heard right? Dark matter? Was the professor from Berkeley seriously suggesting they focus the long-range studies solely on dense dark matter regions? He almost laughed. That was a ridiculous way to allocate these funds. What could twelve dark matter studies reveal that one couldn’t alone?

But dark was sexy. Anything with a “dark” label: matter, energy, forces, etc. What was sexy about his discovery?

It’s like the star’s encrusted, he said over and over in his mind. He had to word it right. Word choice made all the difference. That would make his star interesting, notable. And, hopefully, it would be enough to convince them to allocate him a team.

This variable star, designation LQ Pyxidis, was unique. He had to make them see there was something special about it. He knew it was a great find waiting to be fully unveiled by an actual visit.

He just needed them to agree.

We’re going off-world, Reggie thought excitedly. We’re going into deep space. For the first time in human history, people were going to try and visit the wonders of the universe. Reggie wanted to be a part of that in some way. But, more importantly, he knew LQ Pyx had to be a part of it. He could feel it. This variable star was important.

Reggie turned on his tablet and scrolled through his notes. As always, the simple, black-and-white snapshot the JWST 3 had taken of his star made him pause. It was easy to see how lopsided LQ Pyx was; energy spewed off to one side, the output orders of magnitude greater than the star’s opposite hemisphere. And the readings shifted consistently. Either the star rotated unusually slowly for having such a dramatic solar jet … or something was orbiting around it, obscuring the star’s normal output.

It’s like it’s encrusted. Encased.

Dr. Berkeley—what was her name again? He couldn’t remember; his brain felt like it was draining out of his ears. Anyway, she was almost done with her Q and A session.

Reggie pulled a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed his forehead. It tore, and a few bits of the soggy paper stuck to his face. He hastily brushed them away, hoping he’d gotten them all.

It was almost his turn. He looked up and down the table, glancing at each of the other presenters. It was a long line of veteran researchers. Three of them had authored textbooks he’d used as an undergrad. Two of them had authored books he’d cited in his own doctoral thesis. He could pick out an accolade for each and every one of them—when he wasn’t too nervous to remember their names. They were all seasoned, all well respected—even those whose theories were controversial; they had the excitement of popular contention going for them. And one hosted a highly acclaimed TV series, The Cosmos and You. They’d all made names for themselves, all had fantastic careers in full bloom.

And then there was Reggie.

His chip-phone buzzed near his eardrum, and the display screen implanted behind his iris sprang to life. “Are you ready? Do you have all of your notes? No last-minute requests? We’re about to move on.”

“Yes,” he mumbled. “I’m ready.”

“Okay, prepare to rise. We’re moving to you in five, four …” the countdown continued only in visual form. His heart leapt as each purple number faded before his eyes.

“Thank you, Dr. Countmen,” said the moderator. That’s her name. “Next, may I present Mr. Reginald Straifer.”

As he stood, Reggie could have sworn he heard a collective snicker under the obligatory opening applause. Why couldn’t the board have awarded him his doctorate before the conference? Was a face-saving title too much to ask for?

All five-foot-seven of him trembled. But the irritation was subtle—he’d tensed every muscle to keep himself still. Gawky, with a mouse-brown mop on his head, a squat nose, and shy eyes, he knew he wasn’t exactly the picture of confidence.

Relax. Pretend. They’re here for the work, not you.

“Th-th-thank you. I—I’m here to propose one of the convoys be built with the express purpose of visiting variable star, LQ Pyxidis. Or, as I like to call it, Licpix.” Silence. Reggie tugged at his collar.

“Deep breath, sir,” C said from Reggie’s pocket.

That elicited a small giggle from the first row. “Quiet mode, please,” he asked, then did as the AI suggested. “Uh, if we could have the animation on screen.”

The lights dimmed, and a reproduction of LQ Pyx in full color appeared on everyone’s implants. Reggie reminded himself to keep things colloquial—the reporters were broadcasting to the world—and then he launched into his spiel.

As he explained about the strange jet of energy, and how it might not be a jet at all, he felt himself falling into a rhythm. He demonstrated how the star’s wobble might indicate an extremely massive partner they could not make out at this distance. And he presented his hypothesis about the hidden partner’s location—how it most likely encompassed the star.

“It’s crusty—eh, encrusted. It’s like a light bulb that’s become part of a child’s arts-and-crafts class. Say the child thought the bulb might look better with a smattering of paint and plastic gems. So she covers the bulb—glue and glitter everywhere—but happens to miss a spot. What would we see when that light bulb is illuminated? Most of the observable light would come from a small expanse of surface, even though the bulb’s fundamental output has not changed. Overall, it would appear dim, with a single bright point: much like this star.

“It’s simply concealed. Something unusual is blocking out the starlight, and it is crucial that we travel to LQ Pyx to discover exactly what that is.”

Finished with his presentation, he took a deep breath and sat down. Bracing himself for an onslaught of probing, nitpicking questions, he eyed the crowd.

After a moment a palsy ridden hand went up. An elderly gentleman in a tweed jacket and bow tie stood. “What do you believe to be the culprit, young man?” He had an accent Reggie could not place. “If we go there, what will we find?”

Reggie accepted a glass of water from one of the stage aides and took a hearty gulp before answering. “Well, I, uh … If I knew that we wouldn’t have to go, would we? An extremely small and dense version of the Oort cloud, perhaps. Or maybe an asteroid globe instead of a belt. Wouldn’t that be something, to discover new possibilities of orbital projection? It could be the beginnings of a new system—we could be seeing a stage we’ve never observed before. This could change our theories on planet formation. I … I don’t really know.”

The old man nodded, and his bushy white eyebrows knitted together. “And what about Dyson?”

The question surprised Reggie. “You’re asking if it could be artificial?” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

The audience erupted into conversation, everyone murmuring to their neighbor. The auditorium rumbled with speculations. A knowing glint came into Professor McCloud’s eyes.

“Why not indeed,” the old man in the bow tie called to Reggie, a smile lifting the bags on his face.

“That old man made me look like an idiot,” Reggie said. He lifted his glass and threw back the rest of his golden ale. The brew smelled like old T-shirts. “Made me seem like an American hick who should just slink back to the Midwestern town I hail from.”

After the presentation session, Professor McCloud had ushered him to a nearby pub. Oxford had many to choose from, and yet they’d come to this hole-in-the-wall. It was dark—not for the sake of ambiance, but because half the overhead lamps were out. Cigar smoke permeated everything, including the ripped vinyl cushions of their booth. The décor reminded him of a poker lounge from the 1970s without any of the charm.

All of the other patrons were at least sixty, like McCloud. Reggie suspected this was a regular hangout for tenured dons.

Something I’ll never have to worry about becoming now, he thought.

“That old man made you look like a genius,” McCloud countered, taking a sip of his Jack. He gestured for the waitress to bring another glass for Reggie. “You’ve speculated about artificial constructs around Licpix before, why didn’t you bring it up yourself?”

Reggie tilted his glass so he could look at the seal on the bottom. He wished he was looking at it through more beer. “It’s silly.”

“The reason?”