Galileo's Lost Message Read online

  At this, the class breaking into snickers of delight at his self-deprecating humor, Professor Woodbridge volunteered genially, “Ah, excellent! I see that most of you are actually awake this morning. Now, let us continue. Where was I? Oh yes, Galileo and Newton. Ah, yes, that reminds me of a good story involving these two towering scientists.”

  At that moment the bell rang, signaling the end of class, at which Professor Woodbridge roared above the instantaneously erupting din, “Please read the first ten pages of Chapter 3 before the next class!”

  Moments Later

  Professor Woodbridge trudged into his office and launched himself wearily into his dilapidated leather swivel chair, measurably lost in thought despite the tumultuous end to his Monday morning class. Placing his feet on the desktop, he sipped coffee from an ancient looking cup that appeared to have last been washed during the Pliocene. Had he gazed out the window, he would have noticed off in the distance a beautiful sun-crested array of clouds over the pinnacle of the university administration building. Instead, he peered purposely into nothingness, his mind clearly transported elsewhere.

  At forty-seven, a slight graying of his hair at the temples was the only evidence that betrayed his age. At well above average height, he was possessed of a rugged and hardened physique. His attire was another matter, there being a distinct lack of attention to his personal appearance. Though he wore a perfectly starched white dress shirt, he rarely sported a tie; this occasion being no exception. His lone redeeming piece of attire was his pristine jeans, but only because his favorite pair had sprung a leak that had been beyond repair. Although his collar-length hair was appealing in a haphazard way, it was apparent that Professor Woodbridge possessed nothing resembling a comb or hairbrush. His only visible attempt at personal care was his oxford loafers, which were shined immaculately.

  Enshrouding him on all sides were stacks of papers, books and boxes, an enormous mass of disorganization that could have only been achieved through years of careful planning. Indeed, a cockroach would have been hard pressed to maneuver through such a maze of clutter. It was obvious that Professor Woodbridge had never been one to belabor such trivial activities as orderliness. Indeed, he despised all forms of planning, including university administration and its infantile politics, he himself going to extraordinary lengths in order to avoid involvement in committees, social events, indeed anything at all associated with the cultural hegemony of the academic community.

  What would have appeared to the untrained observer as a distinct penchant for sloth was in fact something entirely different. Woodbridge was possessed of a very common malady among the academic intelligentsia - he was in fact afflicted with a compulsion towards disarray. And it was clearly terminal, having abated not a single iota over the course of a lifetime of academic pursuit. In a word, Dr. Woodbridge was a classic academic - he loved what he did - and he practiced it with single-minded determination nearly every waking hour of his existence.

  He had long since lost track of anything on television. To wit, he had no earthly idea who had won the Super Bowl, and furthermore, he eschewed most forms of modern technology. He not only did not own a cellphone, he also despised computers, preferring to type out manuscripts on an old-fashioned non-electric typewriter. His lone acquiescence to the lightning advance of technology in the late twentieth century was a decidedly sparing use of the internet, studiously deceiving himself with the belief that it was nothing more than a trivial matter of expedience where the search for knowledge was concerned.

  Had he a choice, he would most certainly have lived in another earlier century, although he was known to blurt out absentmindedly to himself on occasion, “There would have to be penicillin.” Everything else within his much too rapidly changing world was in his view simply excessive.

  Leaning back in his unsightly chair, he considered wistfully for a moment, "Of course, I would have loved the first century AD. Yes, that was the golden age of mechanical engineering! That would most assuredly have been exceedingly stimulating!" Still, in his more sensible moments he had to admit to himself that he would have missed air travel, automobiles, electricity, and plumbing - all inventions of the twentieth century. But he would never admit to a need for such devices as televisions and telephones, at which moment, as if on cue, the telephone on his desk chimed offensively.

  Grabbing the receiver from the cradle, he spat churlishly into the mouthpiece, “Woodbridge – what do you want?” his normal recalcitrant mode for those who dared to encroach on his Monday morning solitude.

  A voice on the other end responded mysteriously, "Please hold for the contessa."

  "What?" he blurted in stupefaction. Yanking the receiver from his ear, he stared at it in confusion and muttered to himself, "What the hell..." at which he abruptly hung up, jamming the receiver forcefully back into the cradle. Reclining back within his chair, he glared at the phone as if it were the source of this offense and pronounced with palpable irritation, "Probably some student prank. Now, where was I?"

  Momentarily, the phone clanged yet again. Somehow better prepared for this second intrusion, he nonetheless glowered offensively at it, daring it to continue pealing. Finally, his curiosity betraying him, he yanked it cruelly from its cradle and grumbled, "Yeah, what do you want?"

  A feminine voice on the line inquired politely, "Professor Woodbridge?"

  "You got him," he replied gruffly, but he softened a bit in response to the apparent courtesy of the caller and appended, "What can I do for you?"

  "Professor Paul Woodbridge? THE Paul Woodbridge?" the voice exclaimed urgently, and her accent, though cultured and precise, was clearly Italian.

  Now obviously confused, he responded with a query of his own, "I'm not sure, signora. To which Paul Woodbridge are you referring?"

  "The author, of course,” was her response. “Professore, please be so kind as to inform me, am I indeed speaking to the world famous expert on Galileo?"

  At this rather transparent attempt at flattery he calmed and, intrigue sweeping over him, he responded curtly in a half-hearted attempt to disguise his growing interest, "Suppose I am. What would it be to you?"

  From the other end emanated, "Thank God! I apologize for intruding on your valuable time, Dr. Woodbridge, but I have made a discovery that I believe you will find most interesting. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to say, I am Antonietta Floridiana, Contessa da Vinci."

  Lurching violently, he queried incredulously, "Vinci? Vinci, in Italy?"

  "Why yes, do you know it?" the voice replied pleasantly.

  "Of course, Contessa. Everyone knows the birthplace of Leonardo."

  "Well, that is a subject for discussion, Professor Woodbridge. But the purpose of my phone call to you today is regarding an entirely different and most important issue, I assure you."

  “And what might that be, Signora Floridiana?" he asked, all spurious thoughts having by now completely vanished from his consciousness.

  At this she proffered, “This may sound preposterous, but I believe that I have come into possession of a document that was written by our mutual icon - Professore Galileo Galilei. This document needs verification by an expert such as you," and, apparently fearing that he might be disinterested, she added breathlessly, "And here is the most important part - if the document is authentic, I am confident that there will be significant ramifications."

  Now completely transfixed, he asked with obvious curiosity, "What sort of ramifications?", but before she had time to answer he added, "And what makes you think that the document is genuine?"

  She responded diffidently, "For purposes of security, I cannot divulge too much more to you by telephone, Professor Woodbridge. But let me say that the document seems to point to an as yet undisclosed discovery by Galileo. So you see, the impact of the document may or may not be significant. As to your second question, I came into possession of this document partly by accident, but also partly because I am - just as are you - shall we say, a ‘fan’ of Galileo. In fact, I bought
a piece of furniture at auction purported to be from Galileo's private study. I discovered the document in a hidden compartment within."

  Lurching yet again, he exclaimed, "What? You have a piece of Galileo's furniture? I'll bet that wasn't cheap!" seemingly missing the point altogether. But then he continued with, "Have you been able to verify that the piece indeed belonged to Galileo?"

  "Would that I could, Professor Woodbridge, would that I could," she replied enigmatically.

  "What does that mean?" he responded in like kind.

  "Signore, I mean - Professore - I am not in a position to give you further details by phone. Let me just say that given your distinguished reputation, I would have expected no other response from you. That is precisely why I have contacted you - for the purpose of verifying the authenticity and also to decipher the poem."

  Now completely flabbergasted by the entire conversation, he replied incredulously, “Did you say poem?”

  “Certamente,” she responded matter-of-factly, “Our Galileo seems to have written a secret message, and for reasons as yet unknown to me, he saw fit to encode it within a poem.”

  At this admission he stared incomprehensibly at the receiver, slowly absorbing the potentially far-reaching implications. Regaining his senses, he offered reticently, "Well, okay, I suppose I could do that for you. Could you send me some photographs?"

  At this she rejoined pointedly, "I am afraid that is impossible, Professor Woodbridge. You must do so in person, and time is of the essence. I have taken the liberty of reserving you a first class seat on the 4:40 TWA flight out of Hopkins this afternoon, arriving tomorrow in Firenze at 11 in the morning.”

  "What!” he blurted in obvious consternation, “I can't do that! I'm in the middle of a semester!"

  "Suit yourself, Signore,” was her incongruously placid response, “You realize of course that you will be missing the opportunity of a lifetime. I do hope most sincerely that you will reconsider.”

  He contemplated a moment and, curiosity rapidly transcending his irritation at her discernibly overconfident offer, he inquired, "You said there is a seat reserved for me. Are you buying?"

  “Yes! Yes, of course," she exclaimed, "And I shall meet you at the airport in Firenze tomorrow morning."

  "Alright, let me think...Okay…" he stammered, "Okay…okay, I'll do it!" Uncertain as to what else there was to say, he inquired inanely, "How will I know you, Contessa?"

  "Oh, you needn't worry about that, Professore, I shall know you. I have your photograph from the cover of your latest book on Galileo."

  "Oh, that. That photo was taken two years ago." he mumbled absently, already starting to pack in his mind.

  "Ha!" she responded, "Have you gained weight since, Professor Woodbridge?"

  "No!" he responded egotistically.

  "Alright then, I shall see you tomorrow morning. I wish you good travels, Professore."

  “Thank you, and goodbye," he responded and, gently replacing the phone in its cradle, he was instantaneously surprised by the realization that his mood could be altered so dramatically within such a miniscule span of time.

  Arcetri, Italy – Moments Later

  Contessa Antonietta Floridiana da Vinci punched the disconnect button on her cellphone and laid it aside. Seated on a chaise lounge in the garden of her Italian villa, she gazed serenely out over the valley before her. The pale blue tint of the adjacent swimming pool, ringed by tall trees, lent a certain indescribable serenity to the opulent setting. The weather in Tuscany having now turned to that state of seemingly perpetual iridescence that reigned for eight months of every year, she contemplated the exciting challenge ahead.

  Though inscrutable, her visage was at once strikingly attractive and elegant. She wore a simple white knee length high-waisted dress punctuated by a pearl necklace, her long black hair falling loosely to her shoulders. Her aquiline nose and trim figure attested to her Italian lineage and, her meticulous appearance deftly disguising her age, the net effect was altogether quite stunning.

  Emerging from the villa, a young man approached her with apparent familiarity. Possessed of strikingly similar features, the pair obviously mother and son, her femininity somehow transposed itself into an air of machismo in her offspring. His jet black hair flowing negligently over the sweater draped across his shoulders, it was apparent that he had just reached that age when one so striking could effortlessly turn the heads of the fairer sex.

  Approaching her, he remarked casually, "Allora, what did he say, mother?"

  Turning to peer at him in the afternoon light, she responded nonchalantly, "He said yes, of course.”

  "Va bene!" he answered with a confident grin. "I was afraid that my first attempt had failed miserably.”

  "Thank you for trying, my dear," she responded. "I actually think that your call set the stage perfectly. I suspect that he thinks that we are wealthy Italian aristocrats. That must surely have weighed into his decision to come."

  "But we are!" he replied with poorly disguised vanity.

  "Well, perhaps you are right, but we are certainly not so wealthy as all that. I myself am no aristocrat, my dear, although you are, being your father’s son. I, on the other hand, am a peasant who simply married into royalty."

  "Yes, and someday I shall be a Count!"

  "Ha! It isn't all that it is supposed by many to be, my son."

  Ignoring her thinly veiled contempt, he inquired, "So, when does he arrive?"

  "We must meet him at the airport tomorrow morning. Now, let us turn our attention to the documenti," she responded perfunctorily.

  Arcetri - Fall 1641

  Vincenzo Viviani gingerly conveyed the tray down the steps to the garden. Searching about, his eyes fell upon the Great Man standing solitary within the garden. Vincenzo wondered what went through the mind of his professore during all of those hours of solitude, day after day. After all, the Great Man had now been completely blind for more than three years.

  At the sound of footsteps, Galileo declared cheerfully, “Ah, is that you, Vincenzo?”

  “Si, professore. I have brought your mid-day meal. We have wine, with a wonderful array of olives and cheeses, and today we also have figs!”

  “Excellent!” the elderly man replied, “It is a beautiful day, is it not, Vincenzo? I can feel the sun shining on my face. It will be sultry this evening, but it is very pleasant in the garden at this moment. Shall we dine here? Yes, of course, can you lend me a helping hand, please?”

  “Si, professore, certamente,” Vincenzo responded politely and, advancing to give Galileo his hand, he guided him to his seat at the table.

  “So, Vincenzo, what have you learned since our meeting yesterday? Please, impress me with your knowledge.”

  Embarrassed, Vincenzo sought for the appropriate thing to say. Despite the fact that each and every lunch commenced this way, he was always at a loss for words. He felt that the Great Man was so far beyond him in understanding that he seemed to always make himself look foolish. Finally, he found the nerve to commence, proffering, “Professore, I was contemplating the square-cube law. I thought perhaps we could discuss it further.”

  Galileo frowned noticeably and murmured in that distinctly condescending way of his, “But we have been over that, Vincenzo. Surely you understand it by now.”

  Not wanting to appear obtuse, Vincenzo overstated, “Oh, yes, of course I understand it in principle, Professore, but the details still seem to elude my grasp at times.”

  “Allora,” Galileo responded impatiently, placing his fingertips together in a decidedly arrogant gesture, “Perhaps you could begin by recounting the square-cube law for me?”

  Vincenzo winced, aware that although Galileo could not hear him when he did so, the Great Man’s penchant for belittling everyone was nonetheless painful to him. Thus, Vincenzo commenced with an audible sigh, recounting, “It is the law that says that the weight of an object is proportional to its volume, which is expressed in length multiplied three times, whereas the
surface area of an object is proportional to the length multiplied only twice.”

  Galileo pondered intently and then interjected with apparent disappointment, “Well, I suppose that will have to do, Vincenzo, but you must do better. You must be more precise!”

  “Si, professore,” Vincenzo remarked, already dreading the remainder of the lesson. The old man was evidently in one of his intransigent moods, and they seemed to erupt more often of late.

  “Can you give me an example of the square-cube law, my pupil?” Galileo queried acutely.

  “Si. Consider a cube of dimension one braccia on each side. The volume of the cube will be 1 times 1 times 1 or one cubic braccia, whereas the surface area will be 6 times 1 times 1 or six square braccie. If one then doubles the lengths of the sides of the cube to two braccie in length, then the volume will grow to 2 times 2 times 2, or eight times the original volume. On the other hand, the surface area will grow to only 6 times 2 times 2, a total of 24 square braccie, which is only six times the original surface area. Thus, the volume and therefore also the weight grows faster than the surface area.”

  “Congratulations, Vincenzo,” Galileo replied with deprecation, “You are able to repeat the example from my book almost perfectly from memory. Vincenzo, my dear boy, the world does not need people who are able to memorize. No sir, the world needs people who can think. The world needs ideas!”

  “Ideas? Like what ideas, Professore?”

  “You do not see, you do not truly see the world. I sit in my garden day after day, sightless, and yet I see far more than you do!” Galileo gestured sweepingly as if taking in the world, continuing with, “I will tell you what I see, Vincenzo. I see stars – I see universes beyond universes. I never saw them in all their glory until I lost my sight. Now I see more clearly.