The Scientist's Revenge (3)

Part 3 — Search and Destroy

Thank you for your kind words after I recounted my humiliation at the hands of the crackpot. The outpouring of disgust and disbelief at how that miserable moron behaved has been truly gratifying. It is also heartwarming that so many of you appreciate just how difficult it was for a scientist like myself, who should be one of the most revered figures in our society, to speak openly about such a degrading experience.

Fear not, my friends. Justice will be done.

That's right. I dared to tell my traumatic story to the world, and in doing so, many more scientists have come forward and revealed that they have been through the same — and worse. We agreed that something had to be done, and everyone was very happy for me to be the one to do it. We must send a message to woolly thinkers everywhere!

Now here we are, 18 months later: my grant proposal received top marks from the panel, my research team have been assembled, and we tracked down my assailant and are about to strike.

You may be wondering: who is he, and where does he live?

You may have guessed that he had escaped from a maximum-security mental institution — but No! Let us not insult the cerebrally and psychologically unfortunate by associating them with the likes of a scientific crackpot. Do not fall into the trap of increasing the stigma these poor people already face!

I, of course, am not prone to crude prejudices, but I was, nonetheless, compelled to due diligence, and my team did make a close examination of all nearby hospitals and psychiatric institutions. I am happy to report that all of the patients, without exception, accepted the reality of the force of gravity. They, like you and I, were thoroughly shocked to hear about a person who does not.

It took some time to find him, but eventually we succeeded. It was good old-fashioned sleuthing. We found lists of members of crackpot organisations and societies, and infiltrated them one after another. We naturally hired undergraduate volunteers to do the infiltrating; we didn't want to expose the fragile psyches of any professional scientists to toxic levels of stupidity.

Finally we had a match. Then we had to work out what to do.

We had a lot of discussion about the best way to bump him off. I was in favour of firing him into orbit, so that he could see for himself that the Earth was indeed not flat. We appealed to all the usual space-loving gazillionaires. After all, they had no problem expending vast sums on sending useless people into space. This time it would be in the service of science education, and at a discount price, since it was only one way. What a poetic ending: a Flat-Earther perpetually in orbit around the Earth!

They were all keen. In fact, so keen, that a vicious bidding war ensued, including legal threats from each organisation in the event that we chose their competitors. In the end it was easier to do it ourselves.

It was hard to think of a better plan. The closest was to wire him up to a network of electrodes, and set him a series of basic science questions, and zap him every time he got one wrong. The obvious problem was, of course, that he might get them right. We would have to come up with questions that were on the one hand indisputably easy, but on the other guaranteed to flummox his twisted perception of reality.

Ugh! The whole point of research grants is to avoid teaching, and yet what I am doing? Writing a fucking exam! No way!

We decided on a simpler plan.

Our target's gang of drips met regularly in a pub. We sent in our "agent" (a first-year student who was abysmally failing the first semester of introductory physics; to be honest the best outcome for everyone would be if he switched sides), to convince the target to pay me another visit. We thought the guy would be suspicious, but when he was told that ever since our meeting I had been spotting one flaw after another in mainstream science, and I needed his help to make sense of it all, there was no holding him back.

When he showed up the next day, I was ready.

I would offer him a cup of tea, and spike it with a deadly poison.

I have no idea what the poison was. That was the job of the chemistry professor we had sub-contracted. He negotiated 10% of his staff time over the length of the entire grant, just to come up with a poison for us, so it had better work!

It was a pill that would dissolve in hot tea. The pill was already waiting in the bottom of a tea cup, so that I wouldn't have to touch it.

When the crackpot came into my office, he announced, "So you've realised that you were wrong!"

Oh, how his arrogant tone made my blood boil! Why hadn't I just put a revolver in my desk? I would have much less trouble listening to an insulting monologue if at the end I could just pull out a gun and shoot him. That's what my colleagues in archeology would do.

Instead I had to remain calm and civil. "Exactly!" I cried. "Come in! Sit down! We have a lot to discuss. Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"Do you have herbal?"

Shit! I should have guessed that a total flake like him would drink herbal tea.

An expert assassin would have said, with relish, "I think you'll find that it has a distinct herbal twist," but there was no way I wanted anyone to think we paid that chemist 10% of his salary just to grind up some plants.

Then he spied my packet of chocolate chip cookies. "You go ahead," he said, "I'll take a cookie."

Fine. No problem. I could squish the pill into the cookie. It would be just like tricking a dog into taking its medicine. I just had to make sure I didn't put my fingers to my mouth after touching the pill.

I put on my best bumbling professor act, the one I usually reserve for getting out of admin tasks, and fumbled around with cups and plates and the cookie packet. He was occupied surveying the books on my shelves — shaking his head dismissively at them one by one — so I managed to flip over a cookie, push the pill into it, then turn it back over on the plate.

He took the plate, and I took my tea. We sat down at my meeting table. He picked up the cookie and was about to bite into it.

Then the door burst open and my legal team and two policemen charged in.

"Don't move!" one of them yelled. "You're under arrest for attempted murder."

The other policeman strode towards me with handcuffs.

"Aggh!" I cried. "Let me wash my hands first."

"Don't you dare! Those hands are evidence."

I needn't have worried about touching my face. Once my hands were handcuffed behind my back I was perfectly safe.

Then they took me away to stand trial.

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Next up: Part 4 — Science on Trial

Oh no! What a terrifying outcome! It’s a scientist’s worst nightmare — having to defend themselves to normal people! Brace yourself for the gripping conclusion…