BY MICHAEL FOWLER
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“SO YOU are a wise guy, eh?”
Professor Phelps in Astronomy 101 handed back the class’s first quiz, and I smiled sheepishly. He was right: Unable to resist showing off my extracurricular expertise, I had solved the problem, a simple one, using Isaac Newton’s own notation for the calculus he had invented, out of fashion since Newton died in the 1700s. So yeah, maybe I was a bit of a smartass.
“Very clever, very clever,” the professor went on, with obvious sarcasm, giving me a stern look.
Or maybe what really irked Professor Phelps was knowing that I was an interloper in his field, if in fact he knew it. I wasn’t majoring in astronomy, but after two years in mathematics had switched over to philosophy, where I thought the truth must lie. And what bigger truth was there than the one contained in astronomy? My math tie-in could only help me grasp the immense picture here.
“Since you are such a smart boy,” Phelps went on, humiliating me in front of the class, “you can do all your quizzes and tests in the same notation. We will see if you really understand Newton’s thought.”
“No, no,” I protested, still grinning. “I didn’t mean I was fluent in Newton’s calculus. I’m not. I’m a rank beginner. It was immature of me, and I apologize.”
“We will see how you do, Isaac Newton.” Phelps was unrelenting, and by now the class, beginning to catch on, was laughing.
By the time the second quiz rolled around, and then the midterm, I was solving the problems the ordinary way like everyone else, unburdened by Newton’s retro style, and found them not too difficult at that. Professor Phelps had let the issue of Newtonian notation drop, or at least had not mentioned it to me again, and I felt relieved. Along with the rest of the class, I was invited to attend the post-midterm-exam barbecue at his house off campus, timed to coincide with a partial lunar eclipse. There, in a t-shirt emblazoned with the logo “How’s Them for Apples” and showing Newton holding the legendary apple picked by gravity from a nearby tree, Phelps grilled odd-shaped almost spherical burgers and offered a tub of iced beer in cans for the thirteen of us.
As the sun began to set, Phelps carried two telescopes out to his back lawn so we could better observe the eclipse. One telescope, roughly three feet long and supported on a tripod, he focused on the moon. A much smaller one, maybe half a foot in length and three inches in diameter, he laid out on a table beside the larger scope. This, he explained, picking it up and showing it to us, was an actual-size replica of Newton’s own reflector telescope, built by him in 1668. When my turn came to peer into it, I viewed the shrinking moon, marveling at the sharp outline rendered by the hand-sized brass tube. Finding Professor Phelps standing at my side, I said, “not bad for 1668.”
“Nothing Newton did was bad,” Phelps replied, beer can in hand. “Of course the larger modern scope compensates for certain unavoidable deficiencies in so small a reflector.”
“I was wondering, Professor,” I said, having Phelps to myself for the moment, “how I stood in class.” I placed Newton’s scope back on the table beside us. “I stopped using Newton’s calculus after the first quiz, since you disapproved of it, but I never got the results from the second quiz. I used standard calculus on that and the midterm, and I think I did well on both.”
“No, no,” said Phelps, to my surprise. “A clever boy like you must work harder than the others and solve the problems in Newton’s way. Have you forgotten that? As for your quiz and test results, I will decide what to do.”
What a hard-ass, I thought. But I was too proud to apologize a second time, and when Phelps bent over the larger telescope to adjust it, I went inside his house to find the bathroom, entering through the screen door he had left unlocked for his guests. We students could roam throughout his place if we desired, and after I stepped out of the bathroom I saw a classmate, Wagner, a studious type with a playful side, who I’d known since we were freshman. He was staring at the mantel over the brick fireplace.
“Come here!” Wagner called out, motioning to me, and I went over.
“Check this out,” he said. “Phelps thinks Newton is the greatest scientist ever, and he has a little Newtonian museum set up on his mantel. That replica telescope he took outside was sitting here when I arrived this afternoon, and Phelps told me he bought it on his tour of the University of Cambridge last year, where Newton used to study.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of surprised he treats a rarity like that telescope so casually. That is, if it is rare.”
“It isn’t,” said Wagner. “It goes for thirty-seven dollars on Amazon, though you can pay more at Cambridge in the U.K., I’m sure.” He waggled his smartphone at me. “After seeing Phelps’s, I ordered the Amazon one shipped same-day delivery to my room. I deserve a reward for changing my major to astronomy, and this is the ticket. Like Phelps, I think Newton is the man.”
“I guess that explains his t-shirt,” I said, thinking of the famous apple Phelps was wearing. I glanced at Wagner’s tee. It showed Carl Sagan’s portrait rather than Newton’s, so it seemed that the astronomer Sagan was also the man, at least for Wagner.
“But Phelps doesn’t seem to think much of Newton’s calculus,” I went on. “I used some on a quiz, and now he may flunk me.”
“I heard about that,” Wagner smirked. “Don’t worry, he’s just ragging you, trying to take you down a peg. Try apologizing like you really mean it. But look what else is here.”
I did, but the mantel’s contents weren’t too impressive…a well-thumbed paperback copy of Newton’s Principia Mathematica (the book I’d glanced at online to get a smattering of his calculus), the hanging steel balls known as Newton’s cradle, a glass prism, a tiny white statue that I had to suppose was of the great man, and a tarnished coin sealed in a square protector of cardboard and plastic.
“See this?” said Wagner, picking up the coin. “This is something I definitely wouldn’t mind having. It’s a counterfeit guinea made in the 1600s by Newton’s nemesis William Chaloner. Chaloner was England’s most successful counterfeiter until Newton took over as Warden of the Mint and got him hanged. Newton was a real son-of-a-bitch and always meant business. You can’t get this coin on Amazon, or even at the Royal Mint of England’s gift shop. Phelps told me he found it at a coin seller’s in London. He also says he has a genuine coin struck at Newton’s mint around his place. But since he leaves Chaloner’s out to show people, it’s probably a facsimile of a counterfeit . . . a counterfeit of a counterfeit, I guess. But who knows, it might be a Chaloner original.”
“Phelps didn’t say what it was?” I asked. “But you and the professor clearly had a long conversation about his coinage.”
“Not really, we chatted a bit. I didn’t let on I cared much about his stuff or Isaac Newton either. I like to lay low, not play my cards until I get a feel for the table. As far as Phelps knows, I’m just a good little student, politely nodding my head, and not the least bit covetous of any of his things. But that fake guinea is pretty cool, even if it’s a fake fake guinea.”
The next day Phelps, who seemed stuffier than usual, called me into his office after class. “I find that after our social gathering last evening, one of my possessions is missing. Do you have any explanation for that?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” I said, standing hot-faced before his desk. He sat and gaped at me from the other side of the desk, clearly not believing what he heard.
“It was to exact vengeance!” he pronounced. “You are angry that I chastised you for using Newton’s calculus, and now you’re trying to get even by stealing from me. You must confess I’m right.”
“Professor Phelps, I’m not angry with you,” I sputtered, not quite telling the truth. “I’m…I don’t know…perplexed, but not angry. And I would never take…what is it that’s missing, Newton’s telescope?” In my excitement, I couldn’t think of anything of his worth taking but the thirty-seven-dollar telescope.
“It isn’t that!” Phelps insisted. “It’s Chaloner’s coin, as you well know! I demand that you return it to me immediately!”
“Professor, no. I saw an old coin on your mantel, but I didn’t take it. I didn’t even know what it was, someone had to tell me. Maybe someone just borrowed it, or it fell on the floor.”
“It’s gone, and you know it’s gone!” insisted Phelps. “I looked everywhere. If you don’t return it to me at once, I will notify the university authorities. It’s irreplaceable and quite valuable!”
“I didn’t steal it, professor. But listen, I have an idea who may have it. I’m on your side here, and let me see if I can get them to give it back.”
“Who?” said Phelps. “Who may have it? Who are you talking about?”
“I can’t give a name without proof,” I said. “Give me some time to prove this person did it and get the coin back, please.”
“Forty-eight hours!” cried Phelps. “You have forty-eight hours, or make it by the end of class two periods from now, no longer! If you don’t return my coin by then, I will notify the university and also call the police . . . on you, smart boy!”
I could hardly believe that Wagner thought he was going to get away with this, but then here was a guy who, as a freshman, lifted his dorm advisor’s master key and kept it hidden from him for a week, without getting caught. Still, how was I to prove that he took Phelps’s coin, and more importantly, how was I to get it back?
After my last class that afternoon I went over to Wagner’s dorm and, finding him gone, hung around his room until he came in. As a subterfuge I carried along my cheap guitar that he liked to strum. It was this old guitar that had brought us together two years ago as freshmen. One fall afternoon after lunch in the cafeteria, I sat outside on a bench between our two dorms playing the only song I knew, “The House of the Rising Sun.” Wagner passed by, a guy I recognized but had never spoken to, and asked to see the guitar. He proceeded to play the same song, also the only one he knew. We agreed we both did it horribly.
After that we became sort of friends, two nonmusical math students, sharing a number of classes and getting together every once in a while to drink beer or see a movie. We weren’t that close, but we sustained each other. When Wagner told me at the start of our third year, on the first day of Astronomy 101 in fact, that he had switched from math to astronomy, I told him I had jettisoned math for philosophy. Wagner laughed out loud. He had no respect for the liberal arts, and acted like I was quitting school to become a street mime. Still, it was Astronomy 101 that kept us in the same orbit, and now I was out to prove him a thief.
He wasn’t surprised to find me waiting for him with the guitar — it was just like old times — and invited me into his room, the same one he’d occupied for going on three years now. This was the first time I’d been inside it this term, and as he handled the guitar, taking his usual time trying to tune it by ear, I looked around. Phelps’s coin could have been anywhere in the familiar, tidy cubicle, or in some other place entirely.
But I had a hunch where it was as soon as I saw Wagner’s model of Newton’s telescope on the bookshelf over his desk, my first glimpse of his new prize. It looked identical to Phelps’s, from what I remembered, and the coin minus its protector could easily fit inside the three-inch-diameter barrel. Also, when I asked to use the scope to focus on the darkening sky outside his window, Wagner told me the instrument had arrived broken, and he didn’t want me to make it worse by touching it. But it didn’t look broken, from what I could see, and my suspicions grew.
I gave Wagner a chance to come clean by bringing up Phelps’s case against me, and told him that unless I proved my innocence in the next day or two, our professor was going to come at me with fangs out. My pal giggled, saying it was an unfortunate situation and that, if it was any consolation, he was positive the culprit wasn’t me. His giggling continued, his sympathies aside. But I found no opportunity to examine the scope without him being there, and when after a short time I left him, taking my guitar with me, I made no accusation except that he still stank as a guitarist.
The next day I was distressed to see that Professor Phelps was already taking things into his own hands. He announced to the whole astronomy class that, much to his dismay, a rare coin had gone missing from his living room on the evening of the midterm party. Rather than contact the police, he would accept the return of the coin with no questions asked, or receive with leniency any information leading to its discovery. He proclaimed all this while glaring at me like a laser, but since that was all he did to me, IguessedI still had until the end of our next class to come up with something.
But what was I going to come up with? After class that day Wagner poked fun at Phelps, finding his predicament amusing, but didn’t touch on my own plight. He also mentioned that he had sent his telescope back to Amazon for a replacement, since it had arrived damaged. On hearing this I studied him closely for signs of dishonesty or smug satisfaction at having moved the evidence to an even cleverer place, but he seemed sincere. I realized then that I would never confirm conclusively that he had placed the coin in the barrel of the telescope, much less figure out where it was now. It could be anywhere on Earth.
I went back to my dorm room and out of some mix of desperation and curiosity fired up my laptop. I Googled “William Chaloner’s counterfeit coins” and “Newton versus Chaloner” to see who owned such coins and how they acquired them, but my search was time wasted, not that the answers would have helped me any. No owners were listed, not even museums, and there were no pictures showing what the coins looked like, not even on eBay. It was as if the last such coin in existence belonged to Phelps. But when I sought out the professor in his office the next day, a day between astronomy classes, to beg for more time, he had an update for me.
“I received an eyewitness account of someone taking the coin,” he said. “It’s from a student who saw the entire thing, a person I trust.” Having clarified that he put no trust in me, he continued. “She described the class member who handled the coin and put it in their pocket, and it wasn’t you.” He sounded disappointed.
“So you know it was Wagner?” I blurted out, eager to nail him at last.
“Wagner?” said Phelps. He regarded me with severe eyes. “No, no, it wasn’t Wagner. Wagner would never commit such a heinous act. But never mind, I will handle things from here on. By the way, you are passing my class, barely.”
I was pleased to know I was afloat in astronomy, of course, but I couldn’t allow the rest to stand. Call me the Lone Ranger or call me Immanuel Kant (reading the latter in philosophy class had amped up my moral pulse) it was impossible for me to sit by and let an innocent be accused of a crime that someone else committed. Still convinced of Wagner’s guilt despite the testimony of Phelps’s so-called eye-witness, I confronted Wagner in the cafeteria lounge that night after dinner. He sat at the piano, tinkling “The House of the Rising Sun” with his customary lack of talent.
Scooting onto the bench beside him as if I were about to begin a duet, I told Wagner that Professor Phelps remained convinced that I was the one who had stolen his coin — it seemed an eye-witness had come forward and identified me — and he was more determined than ever to fail me in his course and have me expelled from college. He might even call in the cops, he was that mad.
I finished the tale by telling Wagner that I knew he had swiped Chaloner’s coin off Phelps’s mantel, and I asked him to save my paltry hide by giving it to me to hand back to Phelps. In return I would not mention his or anyone else’s name, and even assume responsibility for the theft myself, if there was no alternative. Finally, I would give him my guitar and several picks. Red-faced, Wagner called me delusional and walked away.
The next morning at breakfast in the cafeteria, Wagner passed me the coin, still in its cardboard-and-plastic protector, under the table, telling me I could keep my crap guitar. My first thought was to ask where he had been keeping the coin, if not inside his telescope, but I let it pass.
“You have to admit,” Wagner said, smiling after he gulped down some orange juice, “it was a cool joke on Phelps.”
“Hilarious,” I agreed grimly. “But you don’t know the half of it.”
I informed Wagner that last night I’d had his dream, a dream he should have had instead of me, but that in his case would have been a nightmare: the great Isaac Newton himself appeared at my bedside, bearing handcuffs, to haul me off to prison for possessing a counterfeit coin. I had actually woken up laughing, the dream was so funny, though later on it disturbed me a lot.
Wagner, who had gotten such a kick from having his villainy pinned on me, stared silently at his eggs. Maybe he tasted remorse. I left him by himself to enjoy the flavor and went to see Professor Phelps. His class started in about half an hour, so I knew where to find him.
Arriving a few minutes early, I handed Phelps the deteriorated-looking disc of metal that belonged to him, still not knowing if it was a real Chaloner coin or one made recently. All I knew was, I had made my mind up not to expose Wager after he turned it over to me, bless his thieving heart. As for Phelps’s questions — the startled man clearly had one or two — I told him that as a condition of obtaining the coin, I had sworn to keep the thief’s identity a secret, and insisted he honor my vow.
“But I already know who it is!” Phelps shouted, alarming a few students who stood nearby. “It’s the person my witness identified, and I have already reported that individual to the university authorities and to the police. If it isn’t that person, then no doubt it’s you!”
“I’ll tell you the plain truth, professor. It isn’t that person and it isn’t me. I can’t say anything more. Please just accept the coin and let the matter drop, and above all call off the authorities. They’re looking at the wrong person. I assure you this won’t happen again, but just to be safe, why not keep the coin locked up? It seems to bring out the evil in certain people.”
Phelps fumed, but didn’t threaten me with legalities or boot me out of his class. Instead he stood before me, turning his coin this way and that in his hands. He had to be wondering if it was the same one he used to own, or if I was somehow making a fool of him.
“Thank you, professor,” I said, and took my seat before he stopped me. I was still betting on astronomy to show me the Big Picture.
***
Michael Fowler writes humour and horror in Ohio. Listen to his ghost story “The Magician’s Assistant” at the Kaidankai podcast, and don’t miss reading his stage play “The Shelter” at Cosmorama.
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