Authors: Pete Barber
“What’s the liquid?”
“Water. The bots need a supply of hydrogen; they’ll extract it from the H2O.” He leaned close, his mouth twisted into a conspiratorial grin. “Shall we l . . . let them loose, Mr. Eudon?”
Nazar turned to the viewing window. He’d tolerated enough dramatics.
The professor picked up a wall phone and spoke. A short, bearded man wearing a white lab coat and silver gloves walked through a door in the side of the fermentation tank below and climbed the stepladder until he was level with the top of the junk pile. He unscrewed the cap from a soup-can-sized container and poured a liquid over one of the old tires. Then he pulled off the gloves and dropped them and the empty container into the box.
“Is it safe? I mean, couldn’t these nanobots disassemble him?”
“The nanobots operate according to programmed start and stop parameters. These bots will only become active with the application of sunlight, and they’re programmed to terminate after eleven minutes.”
The lab technician closed the door, sealing the chamber. Nazar heard a whirring sound. He looked up. Sixty feet above, silvered blinds slid back from the domed glass roof of the fermentation vessel. Sunlight flooded in, concentrated by the dome, and shone a spotlight on the garbage pile.
“1:43 p.m.” The professor read off a wall clock.
“How much material can they process in eleven minutes?” Nazar asked.
“Well, I’ve n . . . never used such varied feedstock.”
Nazar spun and glared at the professor. “You mean you’ve never tried this before?”
“Not with this particular m . . . mixture. I thought we should try something special in honor of your visit. This s . . . seemed more . . . um . . . theatrical.”
“Hmph.” Nazar turned away. He did not enjoy being a guinea pig.
Movement in the chamber caught his attention. Lower-level items moved and caused the trash to bump and settle.
“The tire moved.” Nazar said.
“Yes.” The professor laughed, an unpleasant, piercing sound, which made Nazar wince. “Yes, it did. L . . . L . . . Look at the pizza.”
Nazar watched the pizza slip out of sight as the garbage slid lower, like snow melting in a heated saucepan. The water at the bottom of the vessel had turned bright orange.
“Won’t they eat through the box?” Nazar asked.
“Carbon-free glass,” the professor replied.
As the last of the junk submerged, Nazar noted the time: 1:48 p.m.—five minutes.
The liquid bubbled and belched and rose higher in the containment vessel. Gradually, the orange coloration faded, and the agitation slowed. Eleven minutes after the process started, the box was half-f of still, clear liquid.
“I see solids at the bottom,” Nazar said.
“Carbon-free items: certain types of glass, aluminum cans, and so on.”
“I don’t understand how a few bots can convert that much material in eleven minutes.”
“C . . . convergent assembly. The nanobots we placed on the pile used energy from sunlight to assemble molecular machines. Each machine made more machines, and so on. In the nanoworld, things are p . . . processed at nanospeed. A single assembler performs over one million processes in a second. One makes a million, and each of those makes another million. Within s . . . sixty seconds, the initial stock created a huge army of nanobots.”
“But why so much liquid?”
“Obviously the bots don’t create m . . . matter—that’s impossible—they are simply rearranging atoms and transforming them into the atomic sequence we program them for. Rather like tearing down a Lego house and rearranging the blocks to make Lego cars.”
“What’s in the box now?”
The professor squinted at the container. “I’d say about two hundred gallons of l . . . liquid from which we can distill about sixty gallons of ethanol.”
Nazar’s eyebrows lifted and his mouth opened, but when no sound came out it triggered another bout of piercing laughter from the professor. This time, Nazar laughed with him. He reached out and shook the professor’s hand.
“Professor, this is indeed a breakthrough. What was the catalyst?”
“Not what, Mr. Eudon. Who!”
The professor’s flippancy irritated Nazar, but he waited.
“The
who
is Dawud Ferran, or D . . . David Baker, as he’s known in America. Yes, that is who. But why is David Baker here? And the answer to the question is because of you, Mr. Eudon. He’s here because of your wise and farsighted investment in the s . . . skills of your fellow countrymen. His family is from Beirut, Lebanon.”
“He came out of my scholarship program?”
“David joined us two years ago after completing his Master’s. We had first option on his employment. I interviewed the boy, well, m . . . man, I suppose, but he is so young. I was very impressed.
“We were using the bots as accelerators, but David examined the problem holistically and went for the ju . . . jugular.” The professor leaned in and spoke in a reverent whisper. “Mr. Eudon, I believe David’s nanobots are the most exquisite objects I’ve ever encountered.”
“Professor Farjohn, I’d very much like to meet David.”
“Yes, of course.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Ah, it’s two o’clock. I’m afraid he won’t be available for an hour.”
“Why can’t I meet one of my employees? Is he not working today?”
“David is always here. To be candid, Mr. Eudon, he works constantly—reminds me of myself at his age. Although I confess I am s . . . somewhat in awe of the young man’s mind. I wouldn’t have been a match for him, even in my prime.”
“Why can’t I meet him until then?”
“He’s at p . . . prayers, Mr. Eudon. Didn’t I explain? He prays each afternoon
.
We’ve set aside a small room with the orientation of Mecca marked on the w . . . wall for the Muslims on campus. David is always present. He’s very devout.
“I understand.” Nazar was accustomed to the call to prayers being used in his Middle Eastern operations, often to escape unwelcome work. “I’ve e-mails to catch up on, please find me a guest office, and arrange for David to meet me once his religious obligations are satisfied.”
Nazar spent the next hour running numbers. He didn’t understand nanotechnology, but, if the chemical transformation was scalable, David’s nanobots could be the holy grail of energy production. Ethanol was an ideal fuel, usable in vehicles, or as a substitute for oil and coal in power plants.
Although producing ethanol from corn was politically expedient in the Corn Belt, it used energy that came from dirty nonrenewable fossil fuels. Nanobots used sunlight and water to transform garbage into ethanol, turning the cost model on its head.
Nazar located Eudon Ethanol Inc. in Akron because the sitting US Senator was an influential member of the Sub-Committee on Energy. After what he’d witnessed today, he would need to move the technology to a more remote location—no publicity, not yet. But first he must secure the brains behind the nanobots.
At three-thirty, Nazar thought he heard a knock at his door. He waited a few seconds and there it was again, a quiet tapping.
“Come in.”
When the door opened it seemed to Nazar that a child entered, but something about the posture convinced him it was indeed a man.
“Are you David?”
“I am.”
Nazar switched to Arabic.
“
Masa al-khayr.
Please, Dawud, come in and sit. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
The young man walked toward the desk with a self-conscious, shuffling gait; head down, shoulders hunched. Less than five-feet tall, the boy’s stooped posture cost him three inches. Unkempt black hair merged into a dark scruffy beard and moustache. He sat opposite Nazar and stared at the floor.
“Professor Farjohn demonstrated your nanobots to me this afternoon.”
“I was there.”
“Ah, you brought them in?”
“Yes.”
“Well, young man, you have done remarkable work. I understand you have only been with us for two years?” The boy, for that’s how Nazar saw him, continued to look down. His face remained impassive and sullen. Nazar tried a different approach.
“Where is your family from?”
“Banquet, Ohio.”
“I mean originally.”
“Beirut, Lebanon.”
“Did you know my family is originally from Lebanon?”
“Yes.”
“Dawud, I intend to enlarge the scope of the nanobot project. I need to know whether the nanobots will scale up.”
“They will.”
Nazar smiled. “Good. The professor informs me that you haven’t taken a break since you joined us. Is that correct?”
David finally looked up. His eyes were black slits peering from beneath thick dark eyebrows. “I am perfectly satisfied with my work and my working conditions, Mr. Eudon.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, but I need to ask more of you. I intend to move the laboratory away from Ohio. I would like to offer you a reward if you are prepared to relocate, perhaps a bonus?”
David’s face remained implacable; the monetary incentive made no impression.
“Or an extended vacation, a visit to your homeland to reacquaint with family and friends?”
David cocked his head to the side. “I have a lifelong ambition to complete the Hajj.”
“That’s most commendable.” Nazar stood and offered his hand. David responded.
Nazar gripped the small, soft hand and stared hard into David’s eyes. “David, if you stay with the project, I will personally arrange for you to take the Hajj. I can’t spare you this year. Do you know the date of next year’s pilgrimage?”
“October twelfth.”
“Excellent. You will take September and October next year as paid vacation. I will arrange transportation and accommodations in Jeddah.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eudon.”
As David closed the office door behind him, Nazar smiled to himself. Every Muslim was obligated to complete the annual pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia at least once in their lives if they were able. After what Nazar had seen in the lab, David Baker was potentially the most critical resource in his empire. He had found an ironclad way to keep him tied to the project.
A way only a fellow Muslim could understand.
Chapter 4
A successful prototype project at the Akron facility proved David’s nanobots to be robust and scalable. Nazar moved the team to Arizona and began construction of a commercial-scale ethanol production plant. Fourteen months later, toward the middle of September, Nazar made good on his promise. David took eight weeks vacation from the lab and flew home to Banquet, Ohio.
He paid the cab and ran up the path to his parents’ doublewide. This was a surprise visit. David knocked and watched through the window as his father pushed himself, weak-armed, out of his TV chair and shuffled across the living room.
When his father opened the door his face split into a wide grin. “Mama. It’s Dawud!” He hugged his son and pulled him into the hallway.
David’s mother ran to him and held both cheeks in her hands. “Did you eat? Why didn’t you call? I could have prepared dinner.”
“Let the boy in, Mama.” She released her grip on David and closed the front door.
“
Baba
, I have some news.”
“How are you, my son?”
“I’m fine. Come. Sit.”
He led his parents into the living room. They sat on the sofa, looking up at him like children, and waited for him to speak.
“In three weeks, I’m to take the Hajj.”
His father began to cry. David waited. These were tears of joy. Finally, in a pride-filled voice, the old man said, “And the son shall complete the work of the father.”
“
Baba
, you gave up your opportunity for the Hajj, so I might achieve mine. Allah recognizes your sacrifice, as do I.” David’s voice cracked as he felt the power of the words.
“You must wear my Ihram. I brought it from home and held it safe hoping for the day I would hear these words from my firstborn.”
“I am honored, Father.” David’s throat tightened. His eyes too were filled with tears.
“Your mother will wash it tonight. When do you leave?” His father started to stand.
“No. Sit. I don’t go until next week.” The old man grunted as he sank back into the sofa. “I fly from Akron on October ninth direct to Saudi Arabia. Mr. Eudon has arranged transportation and my hotel in Jeddah. Hajj begins on the twelfth.”
“Who will prepare you?”
“I have been studying.”
His father wagged a finger. “No. No! You must be prepared. You should meet with Imam Ali.”
“
Baba
—”
“I will speak to him.”
Ali was Imam to David’s father, his mentor from home. To argue would diminish his father’s pride. His father had forfeited his homeland and his self-respect to save his family. In bringing them from a Lebanese war zone to the peace and safety of Ohio, he had accepted the charity of Christians, a bitter pill for a proud Muslim to swallow.
The tiny town of Banquet proved ideal for David to clear his mind and prepare for the pilgrimage. He had never seen his
baba
so happy. They prayed together daily.
On his last evening at home, his father gave David the Ihram. Tears glistened in the old man’s eyes as he presented the precious garment: two unstitched sheets, laundered and folded, with a pair of simple, open-toed sandals perched on top.
“Dawud, come with me,” his father said, and led him to the front door.
Father and son walked in silence until they passed the town-limit sign, “Banquet, Population 723.” Only then, surrounded by fields, flat and empty after the corn harvest, did his father speak.
“When I was a young man, a few years younger than you are now, I lived with your grandparents in Sidon, in South Lebanon. One night a terrible noise and shaking woke me. The small dresser where I kept my clothes jumped from the ground, crashed to the floor, and splintered to matchwood.” Eyes closed, face screwed into a grimace, his father relived the moment.
“Was it the war,
Baba
?”
His father stopped walking and faced his son, but his gaze was far away. “I pulled on my pants and ran outside. Streaks of light blazed through the sky, so bright it became like day. Planes flew so low I thought they would crash. They roared overhead with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps. Come. Walk.”