Chapter 7 – The True Doctor
The phone rang in the living room, interrupting the murmur of the television. Leo picked it up calmly, though inside he already sensed what it was about.
"Leo, this is Marta from the publishing house," said the voice on the other end. "I wanted to inform you that today the first royalty transfer was made. You should already be able to see it reflected in your account."
Leo straightened on the sofa. "The royalties from the first months?"
"Exactly," Marta replied. "Your three novels have been in circulation for four months and the numbers are extraordinary. Let me share them:
The Hunger Games: 42,000 copies sold. The Fault in Our Stars: 36,000 copies sold. Gone Girl: 30,000 copies sold.
In total, 108,000 copies in just four months. It's an impressive debut."
Leo remained silent for a few seconds, processing the figure. "More than a hundred thousand copies…" he murmured.
Marta continued: "With the average price of $20 per copy, gross sales exceed $2.1 million. Your royalties, according to the contract, represent 20%. That means approximately $432,000 was transferred to your account today."
Leo took a deep breath. "Thank you for letting me know, Marta."
He hung up the phone and walked to his desk. He turned on his laptop, waited for the system to load, and opened the bank's website. He typed in his username and password, his heart beating faster than usual.
The screen displayed the updated balance. Leo stared at the numbers, incredulous. The amount was real, tangible, far larger than he had ever imagined having in his account.
"Four hundred thirty-two thousand dollars…" he murmured. "All from the words I wrote."
He leaned back in the chair, letting the emotion wash over him. He remembered the long nights writing, the doubts, the exhaustion. He remembered how he had thought maybe no one would read his stories. And now, four months later, more than a hundred thousand people had bought them.
The apartment was silent, but inside Leo everything was noise: pride, relief, disbelief. He looked at the new sofa, the television, and thought that every detail of that home was connected to his transformation.
"This is only the beginning," he told himself. "I'm not just a physicist. I'm not just a writer. I'm someone who can build something bigger."
The laboratory was silent, lit by the white glow of fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. The metal tables were covered with cables, detectors, and open manuals, and in the air lingered the persistent smell of old coffee mixed with the heat of the equipment. Leo settled into the chair in front of the infrared spectrometer, turned on the computer, and waited for the system to load. The hum of the fan filled the room, accompanied by the flicker of the CRT monitor.
He began with the calibration of the spectrometer, adjusting the sensitivity of the detectors and checking the alignment of the reference lamps. Each adjustment was recorded in his lab notebook, with precise notes on the time, ambient temperature, and equipment conditions. The procedure was routine but indispensable: without proper calibration, the data would be worthless. The hydrogen spectrum appeared on the screen as a clean curve, confirming that the system was ready to work.
With the equipment calibrated, he loaded the data files from Spitzer's central server. The spectra of young stars in Taurus unfolded on the screen as complex graphs, full of peaks and valleys. Each curve represented the spectral fingerprint of a chemical element, and Leo focused on the faintest lines, those barely distinguishable in the background noise. He applied mathematical filters to reduce interference, adjusted resolution parameters, and began identifying lithium signals. The presence of this element was crucial: its intensity served as an indicator of stellar age, since lithium is quickly destroyed in nuclear fusion processes.
The work was meticulous. Each line had to be measured precisely, each value noted in tables that included the central wavelength, relative intensity compared to the hydrogen line, and the signal-to-noise ratio. Printed graphs showed the spectral curves with highlighted lines, and Leo organized them into folders that would form part of the final report. As he analyzed the data, he compared the results with theoretical models of stellar evolution available in Caltech's databases. Correlation algorithms calculated the degree of match between observed spectra and simulated models, and the results confirmed that the stars analyzed were between five and ten million years old.
The day advanced without interruptions. The silence of the laboratory allowed absolute concentration, and Leo moved from task to task naturally: from calibration to analysis, from analysis to recording, from recording to comparison with models. Each step was part of a continuous process, without breaks or pauses, as if the work flowed organically. When he found a clear correlation, he adjusted the parameters and graphed again, seeking to confirm consistency. When he detected an anomaly, he reviewed the calibration procedures and repeated the measurements, ensuring there were no systematic errors.
The documentation was exhaustive. He wrote technical reports describing the equipment used, the calibration procedures, the analysis methods, and the results obtained. Each report included tables, graphs, and preliminary conclusions, and was archived in Caltech's internal system to guarantee reproducibility of the experiment. Rigor was an essential part of his work: every piece of data had to be backed by a clear procedure, every conclusion had to be verifiable by other researchers.
The atmosphere of the laboratory reinforced the sense of isolation. The walls were covered with whiteboards filled with equations and diagrams, the shelves held instrumentation manuals and boxes of electronic components, and the screens displayed real-time data. The constant hum of the equipment was his only companion, and Leo worked for hours without interruption, advancing step by step in his research. Solitude was not an obstacle, but a necessary condition for concentration.
At the end of the day, the preliminary results confirmed his initial hypothesis: the intensity of lithium lines could be used as a precise indicator of the age of young stars. The data showed a consistent correlation, supported by theoretical models and previous observations. It was a significant, though not revolutionary, advance, and represented a real contribution to the field of experimental astrophysics.
Leo shut down the spectrometer, saved the files onto diskettes, and turned off the computer. The laboratory fell silent, with the equipment powered down and the screens dark. He walked toward the door with his notebook under his arm, aware that he had taken an important step in his research. Experimental work was slow and demanding, but each result obtained was another piece in the puzzle of the universe. For him, that was the true reward: building real knowledge, based on data and experiments, that others could verify and expand upon.
----
The laboratory was silent, but on Leo's worktable there was a new order: folders with printed graphs, tables of results, and his notebook had become the raw material for a scientific manuscript. The research on T Tauri stars in Taurus, based on infrared spectra from the Spitzer telescope, had to take shape as an article that could be evaluated by the academic community.
Leo began by structuring the document. The title had to be clear and technical: *Infrared Spectral Analysis of Young Stellar Objects in Taurus*. On the first page, he drafted the abstract with concise sentences: the study's objective, the experimental methodology, the preliminary results, and the main conclusion. The language was sober, without embellishment, designed to convey information with precision.
The body of the article was organized into sections. In the introduction, he cited recent works published in *ApJ* in 2005, such as studies on the age of the AB Doradus cluster and the colors of T Tauri stars. He explained how his research fit into that context, providing a more precise experimental method for estimating stellar age through the relative intensity of lithium lines.
The methodology section detailed the equipment used: the infrared spectrometer, calibrated detectors, reference lamps, and atmospheric correction procedures. Each step was described rigorously, from the initial calibration to the data processing with noise-reduction algorithms. The goal was to guarantee reproducibility: any researcher should be able to replicate the results by following the instructions.
The results filled several pages. Tables with wavelengths, relative intensities, and signal-to-noise ratios were accompanied by graphs showing spectral curves with lithium lines highlighted. Leo included comparisons with theoretical models of stellar evolution, showing how his data matched ages estimated between five and ten million years. The precision of the method was demonstrated by the consistency of the results.
The discussion analyzed the implications. He explained that the presence of lithium in young stars was a reliable indicator of their evolutionary stage, and that his method offered a practical tool for future studies. He acknowledged the limitations: the need for high-resolution data, the influence of background noise, the dependence on theoretical models. But he also emphasized the contribution: an experimental way to estimate stellar age with greater accuracy.
The conclusion closed the article with a clear statement: *The relative intensity of lithium lines in infrared spectra constitutes a robust indicator of the age of T Tauri stars, offering an experimental tool complementary to existing theoretical models.*
Leo reviewed the manuscript several times, correcting details, adjusting tables, verifying references. Every citation had to be in the correct format, every figure numbered, every section coherent. The process was slow but necessary: a scientific article had to be impeccable in both form and substance.
When he was satisfied, he prepared the final file and saved it on a diskette. From the laboratory computer, he accessed *The Astrophysical Journal* submission system. The form asked for basic data: title, authors, affiliation, abstract. Leo completed each field carefully, attached the file, and pressed the submit button.
The screen displayed a message: *Submission received. Manuscript ID: ApJ-2005-1127.*
Leo leaned back in his chair, letting out a sigh. The article was in the hands of the reviewers. Now the waiting began.
The following days passed between new tasks in the lab and the anxiety of waiting for a response. He knew the review process could take weeks, even months. The reviewers would analyze every detail, question the methodology, request clarifications. It was part of academic rigor.
Meanwhile, Leo continued working on other projects, but every time he turned on the computer, he checked his email for news. The tension was constant: the possibility of rejection was always present, but so was the hope of acceptance.
Finally, one afternoon, he received an email from the editor. The subject line read: *Review Results – Manuscript ApJ-2005-1127.*
He opened the message with his heart racing. The reviewers had sent their comments: the article was solid, the methodology clear, the results consistent. They requested some minor corrections: expand the discussion of limitations, include additional references to previous studies, adjust the presentation of one table.
Leo read each comment carefully, took notes, and began working on the corrections. The process was meticulous: respond to each observation, justify every decision, improve every detail. In a few days, he sent the revised version.
Weeks later, he received confirmation: *Your manuscript has been accepted for publication in The Astrophysical Journal.*
Leo stared at the screen, incredulous. His name would appear in a prestigious scientific journal, alongside researchers from around the world. It was his first formal publication, the result of months of solitary experimental work.
He shut down the computer and left the laboratory. The campus was bathed in the afternoon sun, and Leo walked with firm steps, aware that he had taken a decisive step in his scientific career.
----
The email arrived in the morning, with Caltech's institutional header. Leo opened it on the lab computer, and the screen displayed a message signed by the Dean of the Faculty of Physics and the Director of the Department.
"Dear Dr. Hofstadter," the letter began. "We wish to express our sincerest congratulations on the recent acceptance of your article in *The Astrophysical Journal*. Your work on the infrared spectral analysis of young stars in Taurus represents a significant contribution to the field of experimental astrophysics and reflects the rigor and excellence that characterize our institution."
Leo read each line carefully. The text continued:
"The publication of this study not only validates the quality of your research, but also strengthens Caltech's position as a leader in the exploration of the universe. We are proud to count you among our researchers, and we trust that this achievement will be the first of many that will mark your academic career."
The message closed with a digital signature:
Dr. Richard C. Atkinson, Dean of the Faculty of Physics
Dr. Michael Turner, Director of the Department of Experimental Physics
Leo leaned back in his chair, letting the words resonate in his mind. The title "Dr. Hofstadter" appeared repeatedly in the letter, and though he knew it was a formal recognition, he also felt it as a symbol of belonging. He was not just a student or a researcher in training: he was an experimental physicist with his name in scientific journals and the backing of his university.
Institutional recognition carried a weight different from the sales of his novels. Royalties were a personal success, a creative triumph; but the congratulations from the directors were an academic seal, a validation of his place in the scientific community.
Leo printed the letter and placed it in a folder alongside his graphs and tables. It was a tangible reminder that his effort in the laboratory—the long nights of calibration and analysis—had borne fruit.
----
Sheldon sat at his desk, the scientific journal open before him. The title of the article appeared in sober lettering: *Infrared Spectral Analysis of Young Stellar Objects in Taurus.* His eyes scanned the first lines quickly, absorbing every detail.
The technical language was familiar, but what caught his attention was the name in the list of authors: *Dr. Leonard Hofstadter.* Sheldon raised an eyebrow. "Interesting," he murmured to himself, his tone carrying that blend of skepticism and surprise that defined him.
He began to read more carefully. The introduction cited recent works on T Tauri stars and stellar clusters—references Sheldon knew well. The methodology described the use of the infrared spectrometer and calibration procedures, detailed with experimental precision. Sheldon flipped through the pages quickly, searching for inconsistencies, errors, any weak point he could highlight.
He found the tables with wavelengths and the graphs of lithium's relative intensity. He paused, adjusted his glasses, and studied them closely. The results were clear, consistent, and the correlation with theoretical models was well supported.
Sheldon leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Acceptable. Very acceptable." In his mind, the word resonated as recognition. For him, theory had always been the pinnacle of science, and experiments were merely tools of validation. But in this case, he had to admit that Leo's experimental work contributed something real: a precise methodology, a verifiable result, a tangible addition to the field.
He continued reading the discussion. Leo had pointed out the method's limitations, acknowledged the dependence on theoretical models, and the need for high-resolution data. Sheldon nodded in approval. "Good. He doesn't exaggerate. He doesn't pretend his discovery is revolutionary. He is honest in his conclusions. That makes it stronger."
At the conclusion, Sheldon closed the journal and sat in silence for a few seconds. He looked at Leo's name again. "Dr. Hofstadter," he thought. "I never imagined that title would suit him so well. He is not a theorist, not a visionary, but a competent experimentalist. And now, published in *ApJ.* That places him officially in the scientific community."
Sheldon stood, walked to the whiteboard, and wrote the article's title in the corner, as if it were a reminder. He looked at it for a few seconds and then added a note: *Valid experimental methodology. Consistent results. Acceptable contribution.*
To anyone else, those words would sound cold. But in Sheldon's language, they were praise.
----
The letter arrived with the official letterhead of the United States Department of Defense. The envelope was thick, sealed, and marked "Confidential." Leo found it on his desk in the laboratory, delivered by a messenger who gave no explanation.
Upon opening it, he read the first lines:
*Dear Dr. Leonard Hofstadter,
The Government of the United States, through the Office of Advanced Propulsion Research, acknowledges your recent publication in The Astrophysical Journal and your distinguished trajectory in experimental physics. We are reaching out to request your collaboration in a project of the highest national priority: the development of a new rocket fuel, aimed at improving the efficiency and safety of space launch systems.*
The document detailed the objectives: create a fuel with higher energy density, capable of reducing rocket weight and increasing range; minimize explosion risks during storage and transport; and ensure it could be produced with resources accessible within national territory.
Leo read each paragraph carefully. The text was clear: this was not an academic experiment, but a strategic project, with military and space implications. The government was inviting him to join a select circle of scientists tasked with designing the next generation of propulsion.
The assignment included access to specialized facilities, unlimited funding for materials and equipment, and the opportunity to work with engineers from NASA and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL). But it also imposed strict conditions: absolute confidentiality, periodic reports, and the obligation to deliver verifiable results within defined deadlines.
Leo set the letter down on the table and looked at the spectrometer, now powered off. His mind began projecting scenarios: mixtures of liquid and solid compounds, controlled combustion experiments, thermal stability analyses. He knew the challenge was not only scientific, but practical: a fuel had to function under extreme conditions, from the cold of space to the pressure of launch.
The document closed with a decisive statement:
*Your experience in rigorous experimentation and your capacity for innovation make you the ideal candidate. We expect your immediate response.
Sincerely,
Dr. William Carter, Director of the Office of Advanced Propulsion Research.*
Leo placed the letter in his personal folder. The title *Dr. Hofstadter* appeared once again, but now it was not just academic recognition: it was a call to serve in a project that could change the course of space exploration.
----
Two weeks later
The laboratory had changed. It was no longer just a space for stellar spectroscopy; now it was equipped with new instruments sent under government orders: sealed combustion chambers, high‑precision pressure sensors, reinforced ventilation systems, and a security module with alarms connected directly to the control center. Every piece bore official labels, and access was restricted with electronic locks.
Leo began with the essentials: characterizing the compounds that could serve as the basis for an experimental fuel. On the workbench were samples of stabilized hydrazine, concentrated peroxides, and next‑generation energetic polymers. Each vial was marked with security codes and accompanied by technical sheets describing its energy density, ignition temperature, and associated risks.
The first step was to measure thermal stability. He placed small amounts of the compounds into metallic capsules and inserted them into a differential scanning calorimeter. The screen displayed decomposition curves as the temperature rose. Some mixtures released energy too quickly, making them dangerous for long‑term storage. Others showed a more controlled release, with energy peaks that could be harnessed under combustion conditions.
He recorded each datum in his notebook: reaction onset temperature, heat released per gram, stability time. The numbers were cold, but behind them lay the possibility of a strategic breakthrough.
The next procedure was to test combustion under controlled conditions. Using a sealed chamber, he introduced small amounts of the selected compounds and applied an electric spark. Sensors recorded the pressure generated, the combustion rate, and the temperature reached. The first test produced a brief explosion, too violent to be useful. The second showed more stable combustion, with a pressure curve that held steady for several seconds.
Leo adjusted the proportions, mixing energetic polymers with liquid oxidizers. The goal was to find balance: enough energy to propel a rocket, but stable enough to avoid accidents on the ground. Each test was a calculated risk, which was why he worked with minimal quantities—barely grams of material.
The documentation was exhaustive. Each experiment was recorded in technical reports, with tables of results and graphs of pressure and temperature. The documents were encrypted and sent to the government research center under strict confidentiality protocols.
The atmosphere of the laboratory was different from his astronomical investigations. Here there was no contemplative silence, but constant tension. Every spark could be dangerous, every mistake could have serious consequences. The safety systems were always active, and Leo worked with gloves, goggles, and a chemical‑resistant suit.
At the end of the day, he had identified two promising mixtures: one based on concentrated peroxide combined with energetic polymers, and another on a stabilized variant of hydrazine with additives that reduced its volatility. Both showed stable combustion curves and energy density superior to conventional fuels.
He stored the samples in sealed containers, shut down the equipment, and locked the laboratory with the electronic locks. He walked toward the exit with his notebook under his arm, aware that he had taken the first step in a project that was not only scientific, but strategic. The government expected results, and he was determined to deliver them.
---