Dr Guy B. Cybelius had a summa cum laude PhD in Comparative Literature, specialising in Afro-European Culture. He was also as absent-minded as a scientist could possibly be. At least, that was what the visible signs suggested:
He had red wine with ice for breakfast. He regularly wore two different-coloured socks and considered this a perfectly acceptable fashion choice. He once left home wearing his dressing gown and only discovered the fact halfway through a conference in Geneva. He had forgotten to attend his own wedding, although he maintained that the ceremony had been scheduled at an inconvenient hour. He had also misplaced his passport in the refrigerator, put his spectacles in the bread bin and spent forty minutes looking for his mobile phone while speaking on it. Once, he arrived at his laboratory carrying a suitcase instead of his briefcase. Nobody asked why.
Dr Cybelius was a respected man. A very respected man.
On a rainy Tuesday morning, while he was attempting to repair a broken electric kettle with a teaspoon and a roll of laboratory tape, the telephone rang.
‘Dr Guy B. Cybelius?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is the Permanent Secretary of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences.’
There was a long silence. Dr Cybelius looked at the kettle. The kettle looked back at him, metaphorically speaking.
‘I am calling to inform you that you have been awarded the Nobel Prize.’
‘Oh.’
Another silence.
‘You are invited to attend the ceremony next week in Stockholm. You will also be expected to deliver a formal speech. A physical letter containing all the details is already on its way to you.’
Dr Cybelius dropped the teaspoon.
‘That is a problem.’
‘Sir?’
‘The speech. I don’t do speeches.’
The Permanent Secretary laughed politely. Dr Cybelius did not.
Public speaking and Dr Cybelius had been enemies for decades. Their relationship was not merely strained. It was theological. Several years earlier he had been invited to speak before five hundred students and professors emeritus at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He had prepared a magnificent twenty-page speech, printed it, stapled it and placed it carefully inside a blue folder.
On the day of the event, he arrived at the auditorium ten minutes before his scheduled appearance. He looked at the five hundred faces. His blood pressure rose. His hands began to tremble. His vision became strangely narrow. Then inspiration arrived.
He quietly informed the organisers that he had developed a severe attack of acute laryngitis and had completely lost his voice. A doctor was called. The doctor examined him. Dr Cybelius whispered something incomprehensible. The doctor nodded sympathetically.
Someone else read the twenty-page address. Dr Cybelius sat comfortably in an armchair on the podium, drinking hot tea and eating biscuits while five hundred people listened to his thoughts.
It had been one of his greatest professional successes. There was no reason to believe Sweden would be different. He would fabricate something.
His latest research had been based on the unconventional benefits of HO₂.
In his laboratory, he had managed to enhance the behaviour of the two-faced molecules of hydroperoxyl for immediate use in AI-controlled deep-water treatments, allowing automated wastewater plants to model the exact kinetics of unwanted radicals with zero-waste efficiency.
It was a completely new approach. It was revolutionary. It was extraordinarily complicated. And, apparently, in the opinion of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, it deserved a Nobel Prize.
Dr Cybelius spent precisely twenty minutes preparing his written thank-you address. His objective was simple. Remove as many technical terms and equations as possible. Make it understandable to a lower-level audience. He crossed out molecular structures. He removed three pages of equations. He replaced ‘kinetic interaction of transient hydroperoxyl species’ with ‘some rather complicated chemistry’.
He then looked at the finished speech. Perfect. He would deliver it. Or rather, someone else would deliver it. He would simply have another attack of acute laryngitis. Problem solved.
Packing was more complicated.
His cabin bag measured 22 x 14 x 9 inches, or 55 x 40 x 20 centimetres, although Dr Cybelius had spent twenty-three minutes trying to determine whether the airline meant the dimensions in that order. The whole operation took six and a half hours from his already busy schedule.
Red socks: checked.
Twelve teabags: checked.
Fluffy slippers: checked.
Lucky alarm clock: checked.
Latest laboratory handwritten notes: checked.
Carl Arnold’s Compendium of Inorganic Chemistry, the abridged version: checked.
Shirts: checked.
Underwear: checked.
Travel toiletry kit: checked.
A small screwdriver, two pencils, a magnifying glass, three empty notebooks and an unidentified metal object he was certain would be useful: checked.
He closed the bag. He opened it again. He added biscuits. He closed it. He opened it again. He removed the biscuits. He closed it. He opened it once more and put the biscuits back.
After a sleepless night, he left for the airport six hours before the flight.
He arrived in Stockholm at precisely 8 PM.
The next morning, at nine o’clock, Dr Cybelius arrived at Lilla Frescativägen 4A and entered the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. He was carrying his cabin bag, his blue folder and his lucky alarm clock.
A clerk at the reception desk looked at him.
‘Name, please?’
‘Dr Guy B. Cybelius.’
The clerk typed something. Then he frowned.
‘I am sorry, Doctor. You are not on the list.’
Dr Cybelius smiled.
‘That is impossible.’
The clerk checked again.
‘It says here that you are not scheduled to attend the Chemistry Nobel Award ceremony.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Dr Cybelius produced his invitation letter.
‘I received this last week.’
The clerk examined it. Then he looked at Dr Cybelius. Then back at the letter. His expression changed.
‘One moment, please.’
A supervisor arrived. He examined the letter. Then he examined Dr Cybelius. Then he examined the letter again.
‘Doctor, there appears to have been a misunderstanding.’
‘About the ceremony?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘About the prize?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
The supervisor pointed to the letter.
‘You have been awarded a Nobel Prize.’
‘I know.’
‘In Physics.’
Dr Cybelius stared at him. The room seemed to become very quiet.
‘What?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Chemistry?’
‘No.’
‘But my research…’
‘I am sure it is excellent.’
‘My laboratory…’
‘Very impressive, I expect.’
‘The hydroperoxyl…’
The supervisor smiled apologetically.
‘Physics.’
Dr Cybelius took the letter from his hand. There it was. Black on white:
THE NOBEL PRIZE IN PHYSICS
He read it three times. His hands began to tremble.
‘Perhaps there is another Dr Guy Cybelius? Without the B. maybe?’
The supervisor checked the records.
‘No.’
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could it be a clerical error?’
‘Apparently not.’
The supervisor handed him another document. The official motivation read:
For scientific and technological achievements, awarded to Honourable Dr Guy B. Cybelius, in recognition of his pioneering analytical breakthrough, which has recently brought the greatest possible benefit to humankind.
Dr Cybelius read the sentence. He read it again. Something stirred in the back of his memory. Six months earlier. The garage. His executive-sized dark-blue car. He had been in a hurry. He had opened the wrong fuel cap and accidentally poured petrol instead of diesel. The car had started. The engine had worked perfectly. He had driven to the laboratory. He had not thought about it again. Suddenly, he understood.
‘Of course.’
The supervisor looked concerned.
‘What is it?’
‘The car.’
‘What car?’
‘The fuel.’
‘What fuel?’
‘I put petrol instead of diesel.’
The supervisor waited.
‘And it worked.’
The supervisor still waited. Dr Cybelius looked at him.
‘Maybe because the car was one hundred per cent electric.’
There was a silence. The supervisor closed his eyes. Dr Cybelius looked at the clock. Nine twenty-seven. The Nobel ceremony was approaching. And then he remembered something even worse.
His speech. The twenty-page speech. The carefully prepared speech. The speech explaining hydroperoxyl, wastewater treatment, radical kinetics and AI-controlled chemistry. It was sitting inside his blue folder. A chemistry speech. He had five minutes. Five minutes before he was expected to speak about Physics.
Dr Cybelius opened the folder:
Page one.
Ladies and gentlemen, members of the Nobel Committee, it is an extraordinary honour to stand before you today and speak about the transformative potential of HO₂ …
His breathing became faster. He turned the page.
The hydroperoxyl radical …
Faster.
In wastewater treatment …
His hands were shaking.
The kinetic behaviour of unwanted radicals …
The room began to spin. His heart pounded. His mouth went dry. He looked at the supervisor.
‘I think…’
The supervisor leaned towards him.
‘Yes?’
‘I think I am having…’
He stopped. The word seemed impossible to pronounce. The supervisor looked alarmed.
‘A panic attack?’
Dr Cybelius nodded. He looked down at his chemistry speech. Then at the official Physics letter. Then at the alarm clock. Five minutes. Four minutes and fifty-eight seconds. His eyes widened.
And for the first time in his entire academic career, Dr Guy B. Cybelius discovered something that neither Comparative Literature, Afro-European Culture, hydroperoxyl radicals nor one hundred per cent electric cars could solve.
He had absolutely no idea what to say.
Read Part 2:
