The Scientist's Revenge (4)

Part 4 — Science on Trial

I had been double-crossed! Was it the lawyers? Or the funding agency? Or my own scientific collaborators?

Someone with a lurid imagination had been convinced that if our plan was successful, then I would be convicted of murder and they would all be accessories. I have no idea how they reached such a ludicrous conclusion. Yes, sure, murder was against the law, but we answer to a higher law: funder-approved grant objectives! You can't convict someone for achieving scientific goals that have been officially endorsed by a peer-review-backed grant panel.

Can you?

That was beside the point now. I learned that my legal team's plan to get me off — and them as well — was to plead insanity. I was off my rocker, they would say, and they had had no choice but to play along; everyone knows that it's impossible to stand up to an academic bully.

I was sticking to my guns. My intellectual integrity was at stake. Not just that — the whole scientific enterprise! Shouldn't we be free to propose any scientific project we wish? And if we are funded to carry it out, isn't it our solemn duty, even in the face of the worst punishments of our corrupt legal system, to complete our appointed tasks? And if not, I ask you, how can scientific progress be expected to continue?

I made these points clearly in court. Eloquently, in fact. They formed the conclusion of what I considered to be my defence lecture.

The bulk of my presentation was devoted to my case for rubbing out the crackpot. I reminded them of the sanctity of science, of its countless achievements over the centuries and its essential role as the foundation on which our entire civilisation rests. These achievements are a wonder in themselves, and there is something obviously broken and profoundly disturbing about anyone who fails to recognise them. But it's worse than that. Because behind every one of those miraculous discoveries are scientists themselves. To be ignorant of scientific facts is appalling, but to disrespect actual scientists is unforgivable. And this monster went so far as to track down a renowned scientist in the place where they should be most safe — their very office in their university — and subjected them to the most despicable ridicule.

I think I made all of these points clearly, even though I gave myself only forty-five minutes, and was not allowed slides.

The judge had given me the cue to start my lecture: "I understand you intend to plead insanity?" When I was finished he seemed satisfied with my response.

It was hard to tell how the jury felt; I can only assume they had been warned ahead of time against standing ovations.

They reacted more visibly when the crackpot was questioned. They were clearly entertained while he expounded his theories of the universe. I found it stomach-churning, but I suppose I should have been pleased that it made them laugh.

They were less happy when he was asked about his occupation.

"I make YouTube videos."

"On science?" my lawyer asked.

"I started with science videos," he said, "but no-one watched them. Now I record myself playing video games."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I make commentary while I'm playing the game."

"And people watch that?"

"My channel has four million subscribers. I make a fortune."

When the jury delivered its verdict, I think it's fair to say that there were surprises for everyone.

"We do not accept the defendant's plea of insanity. On the other hand, we cannot condemn him for the attempted murder of this scientific crackpot — given what we have heard today, we wish he had been successful. Our conclusion is that both of them, the defendant and the crackpot, are so insufferably annoying that they should both be given lifetime imprisonment."

"Annoying at a criminal level?" asked the judge.

"Absolutely. Criminally annoying, and in cold blood."

The judge shrugged. "This is highly unusual, but I cannot help but agree with you."

Then the two of us, that crazy crackpot and I, were both taken away and put in a cell together.

"This is intolerable," I said.

To my surprise, the crackpot had more practical concerns. "We have to escape."

"How do we do that?"

"If you can get us to the roof, I can take it from there."

No problem. When the officer came to collect us I distracted him with a short explanation of differentiable manifolds, and the crackpot knocked him out. We took the stairs to the roof.

"Now what?" I asked.

He pulled a comb from his pocket. "Simple. We rub this comb against our hair and clothes to generate static electricity, and that will counteract the electrostatic force of so-called gravity, and we can jump off the roof and float down to the ground."

"All right — you first."

He started rubbing himself with the comb. He was actually going to do it!

"No, look," I pleaded, "This is crazy. You can't negate gravity with static electricity."

"Of course you can, I've done this hundreds of times with pieces of paper."

"But... but..." It was all too stupid for me to formulate a sensible argument. While I struggled, police officers appeared, and stood at a distance trying to think of ways to stop him from jumping,.

One of them argued, "But you're bigger than a piece of paper."

"That's why I'm rubbing a lot more than usual."

I tried: "And you hold the comb above the pieces of paper."

"Of course. I'll leave the comb up here."

I turned to the police. "I don't know what to say!"

"Tell him he's an idiot."

"I can’t do that. That's bad science communication. Does anyone have a blackboard?"

"There's a whiteboard in the meeting room downstairs."

"I really prefer blackboards.”

“I’m afraid a whiteboard is all we’ve got.”

“All right. Just this once I can make an exception."

It didn't matter. It was too late. He had jumped.

I was surprised how bad I felt for him. He looked genuinely surprised as he fell through the air. He had the same look on his face as I do when a trivial calculation just refuses to work. This expression didn't last long, however, because then he hit the ground.

I was released on grounds of emotional trauma. It took some months of therapy to recover from the experience, but eventually I decided that everything had worked out for the best.

For one thing, I never got any more crackpot visitors.

---

Next week we take a break from fiction. Well, sort-of: I’ll be submerging myself in the murky world of the science and philosophy of consciousness and free will. Don’t be afraid. I know this is the realm of pseudo-intellectual poseurs and windbags, but I promise we will make it through, and maybe, just maybe, we will be wiser at the other end.