A Spellbinding Thriller about a Science History Professor on the Run for his Life and an Unpublished Einstein Theory that Could Change the World. Debut novelist Mark Alpert brings one of the most explosive books of. List of free sample resumes, resume templates, resume examples, resume formats and cover letters. Resume writing tips, advice and guides for different jobs and companies. Final Theory by Mark Alpert, Paperback Chapter One Hans Walther Kleinman, one of the great theoretical physicists of our time, was drowning in his bathtub. A stranger with long, sinewy arms had pinned Hans's shoulders to the porcelain bottom. He clawed at the stranger's hands, trying to loosen their grip, but the man was a shtarker, a young vicious brute, and Hans was a seventy- nine- year- old with arthritis and a weak heart. Flailing about, he kicked the sides of the tub, and the lukewarm water sloshed all around him. He couldn't get a good look at his attacker — the man's face was a shifting, watery blur. The shtarker must have slipped into the apartment through the open window by the fi re escape, then rushed into the bathroom when he realized that Hans was inside. It started in the center, right under his sternum, and quickly filled his whole rib cage. A negative pressure, pushing inward from all sides, constricting his lungs. Within seconds it rose to his neck, a hot choking tightness, and Hans opened his mouth, gagging. Lukewarm water rushed down his throat, and now Hans devolved into a creature of pure panic, a twisting, squirming primitive animal going into its fi nal convulsions. No, no, no, no, no, no! Then he lay still, and as his vision faded he saw only the wavelets at the surface, rippling just a few centimeters above him. A Fourier series, he thought. When Hans regained consciousness he was lying facedown on the cold tiled fl oor, coughing up bathwater. His eyes ached and his stomach lurched and each breath was an excruciating gasp. Coming back to life was actually more painful than dying. Then he felt a sharp blow to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and heard someone say in a jaunty voice, . The back of Hans's head banged against the wet tiles. Still breathing hard, he looked up at his attacker, who was kneeling on the bathroom rug. A huge man, a hundred kilograms at the least. Shoulder muscles bulging under his black T- shirt, camoufl age pants tucked into black leather boots. A bald head, disproportionately small compared with his body, with black stubble on his cheeks and a gray scar on his jaw. Most likely a junkie, Hans guessed. After he kills me, he'll tear the place apart, hunting for my valuables. Only then will the stupid putz realize I don't have a goddamn cent. You can call me Simon, if you like. His eyes were small and brown, his nose was crooked, and his skin was the color of a weathered brick. His features were ugly but indistinct — he could be Spanish, Russian, Turkish, almost anything. But I needed to show you that I'm serious. And better to do that right away, eh? He'd already accepted the fact that this stranger was going to kill him. What disturbed him was the sheer impudence of the man, who kept smiling as Hans lay naked on the fl oor. It seemed clear what would happen next: Simon was going to order him to reveal the number of his ATM card. The same thing had happened to one of Hans's neighbors, an eighty- two- year- old woman who'd been attacked in her apartment and beaten until she gave up the number. No, Hans wasn't afraid — he was furious! He coughed the last drops of bathwater out of his throat and propped himself up on his elbows. I don't even have a bank card. I'm interested in physics, not money. You're familiar with the subject, I assume? Was this putz making fun of him? Who did he think he was? After a moment, though, a more disturbing question occurred to him: How did this man find out my name? And how does he know I'm a physicist? I'm not as ignorant as I look. I may not have any advanced degrees, but I'm a fast learner. What are you doing here? On a very challenging and esoteric topic. But I have some friends, you see, and they explained it very well.? What do you mean, friends? Clients would probably be better. I have some very knowledgeable and well- financed clients. And they hired me to get some information from you.? Are you some kind of spy? I'm an independent contractor. Let's just leave it at that. The shtarker was a spy, or maybe a terrorist. His exact affi liation was unclear — Iran? They were all after the same thing. What Hans didn't understand was why the bastards had targeted him of all people. Like most nuclear physicists of his generation, Hans had done some classifi ed work for the Defense Department in the fi fties and sixties, but his specialty had been radioactivity studies. He'd never worked on bomb design or fabrication, and he'd spent most of his professional life doing theoretical research that was strictly nonmilitary. I know nothing about that! And nothing about warhead design either. My fi eld is particle physics, not nuclear engineering. All my research papers are available on the Internet, there's nothing secret about them! I don't care about warheads and I don't care about your papers. I'm interested in someone else's work, not yours.? Did you get the wrong address? He pushed Hans down on his back and placed one hand flat on his rib cage, leaning forward so he could put his whole weight on it. Your professor at Princeton fi fty- fi ve years ago? The wandering Jew from Bavaria? The man who wrote Zur Elektrodynamik bewegter K? Surely you haven't forgotten him? The shtarker's hand felt impossibly heavy. Mein Gott, he thought. This can't be happening. He thought you were one of his most promising assistants. You worked together quite closely in his last few years, didn't you? Simon was pushing down on him so hard he could feel his vertebrae grinding against the cold tiles. But more than that, he trusted you. He conferred with you about everything he worked on during those years. Including his Einheitliche Feldtheorie. On his left side, on the outer curve, where the tensile strain was greatest. The pain knifed through his chest and Hans opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn't even draw enough breath to cry out. Oh Gott, Gott im Himmel! All at once his rational mind disintegrated, and he was afraid, he was terrified! Because he saw what this stranger wanted from him, and he knew that in the end he would be unable to resist. Hans took a deep breath, and as the air whooshed in he felt the knife of pain again on his left side. His pleural membrane was torn, which meant that his left lung would soon collapse. He was weeping from the pain and shuddering with each breath. Simon stood over him with his hands on his hips, smiling contentedly, quite satisfied with his work. Do you see what I'm looking for? I'm sorry, Herr Doktor, he thought. I'm going to betray you now. And in his mind's eye he saw the professor again, saw him as clearly as if the great man were standing right there in the bathroom. But it was nothing like the pictures that everyone knew, the photographs of the unkempt genius with the wild white hair. What Hans remembered was the professor in the last months of his life. The drawn cheeks, the sunken eyes, the defeated grimace. The man who'd glimpsed the truth but, for the sake of the world, couldn't speak it out loud. The pain ripped through his torso, and his eyes sprang open. One of Simon's leather boots rested on Hans's bare hip. I'm going to get some paper from your desk and you're going to write everything down. Who knows, you might even enjoy it. A moment later Hans heard rummaging noises. With the stranger out of sight, some of Hans's fear lifted and he was able to think again, at least until the bastard came back. And what he thought about were the shtarker's boots, his shiny black storm- trooper boots. Hans felt a wave of disgust. The man was trying to look like a Nazi. In essence, that's what he was, a Nazi, no different from the thugs in brown uniforms that Hans had seen marching down the streets of Frankfurt when he was seven years old. And the people Simon worked for, those nameless ? Who were they if not Nazis? His lung was collapsing and each breath was a torture, but he wasn't going to help this Nazi. I think you need another bath. Once more Hans struggled to raise his face to the surface, bashing himself against the sides of the tub as he clawed at the shtarker's arms. If anything, the second time was more terrifying than the fi rst, because now Hans knew exactly what lay ahead — the tightening agony, the frantic twisting, the mindless descent into blackness. It took a tremendous effort to emerge from the abyss, and even after Hans opened his eyes he felt like he hadn't fully awoken. His vision was fuzzy around the edges and he could take only shallow breaths. When Hans looked up he saw the silhouette of the shtarker, but his body seemed to be surrounded by a penumbra of vibrating particles. If you look at the situation in a logical way, you'll realize that all this subterfuge is absurd. You can't hide something like this forever. This is amazing, Hans thought. If only I had a camera! Perhaps you didn't know this, but your professor had other confidants. He thought it would be clever to parcel the information among them. We've already contacted a few of these old gentlemen, and they've been most helpful. One way or another, we'll get what we need. So why make this hard on yourself? Upon closer inspection it became clear that they weren't particles at all but infi nitely thin strings stretching from one curtain of space to another. The strings shivered between the undulating curtains, which curled into tubes and cones and manifolds. And the whole elaborate dance was proceeding exactly as predicted, exactly as Herr Doktor had described! Kleinman, but my patience is wearing thin. I don't enjoy doing this, but you leave me no choice. The diaphanous curtains of space had folded around him. Hans could see them so clearly, like curving sheets of blown glass, brilliant and impenetrable, yet soft to the touch. But the other man obviously couldn't see them. Who was this man, anyway? He looked so clownish standing there in his black leather boots. Kleinman, could you tell me where the nearest electric outlet is? He saw nothing but the lacy folds of the universe, curving around him like an infinitely soft blanket. 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