The God Machine (40 page)

“Are those original fixtures?” asked Sajan.

“Uh-huh,” Chavon answered. “Not the bulbs, of course. Most people think Edison invented the light-bulb. He didn't. The idea was at least fifty years old at the time. But Edison improved the technology, made it safe and affordable. And he invented and built the electrical grid—the circuits and dynamos, the power stations—all the machines required to keep the light flowing.

“The Edisons entertained many distinguished guests here at Glenmont,” the ranger continued. “President Herbert Hoover. The King of Siam. Helen Keller and Orville Wright. And then, of course, there were Edison's many business associates and friends, like Henry Ford and Harvey Firestone…” She droned on as they moved room to room. When they passed through the dining
hall to the “smoking room” just beyond, Koster was taken aback by the fresco above him. “What are those figures? Angels?” he asked.

Chavon glanced up at the ceiling. “Science and Music—Urania and Euterpe. The Muses. See the harp? Apparently Thomas Edison wanted Science painted with lightning bolts instead of a book, but Mina thought it was tacky. Too much bling,” she concluded.

Koster shot a glance at Sajan. “Lightning and music,” he repeated. “Harmonics.”

But Sajan didn't respond. She was studying the room: the light wooden paneling, crowned with forest green wallpaper; the crescent-shaped love seat at the foot of the glowing bay window; the malachite-green marble fireplace; the velvet sofa and easy chairs, embroidered with gold. The room also featured some of Edison's inventions, like a cylinder phonograph on a small wooden stand and a Kinetoscope movie projector.

They spent the remainder of the tour in the servants' quarters, then peeking at the bedrooms upstairs. They couldn't go very far; the rooms were blocked off with stanchions and green velvet ropes. There were no more surprises, although Koster noted that Edison had spent a great deal of time in the second-floor living room at the end of his life. As he grew older, it became more and more difficult for the aging inventor to make it down to his Main Street laboratories. The living room was paneled and studded with bookcases, and featured a pair of great wooden desks at the rear—one for Thomas, where he worked on his notebooks and read, and the other for Mina, with three separate telephones. A Parcheesi board was set up near the entrance where the Edison children would play games with their parents.

When the tour was complete, Chavon left them out on the front stoop once again. Since it was still early, Koster and Sajan opted to stroll through the gardens,
despite the sweltering heat. Sajan wore a short dark blue skirt and a blue cotton blouse, and carried a clutch purse. Koster had opted for khakis, with a charcoal black T-shirt and blazer.

They circled the mansion, staring up at the massive brick chimneys that seemed to jut out from all parts of the structure, some ridiculously high. As they neared a screen of latticework at the rear of the lawn, Sajan noticed two tombstones lying flat in the grass. Edison's last resting place, Koster thought. With Mina beside him. They stared down at the tombstones. Mina's featured a cross, reflecting her devout Methodist upbringing; her father had cofounded a religious educational retreat at Lake Chautauqua, New York, like the group which had launched Point O'Woods. But Edison's marker was carved with a scallop shell, ringed by a wreath, with what appeared to be a scallop within it. “What is that?” asked Koster.

“A shell,” Sajan said with a shrug.

Koster frowned. “I can see that. But why would he have a scallop shell on his tombstone?”

“I don't know.”

“Unless,” he continued, “it's the Monad.” Koster turned and stared at Sajan but she didn't say anything. “A sign of the Craft, of Freemasonry. It's rooted in the philosophy of Pythagoras. Monad was the term Pythagoreans used for God, the One without division.” Sajan continued to stare down at the tombstone. “In arithmetic, zero, the circle, is nothing, but, added to other numbers, becomes everything. Without it, multiplicity can't go beyond nine. This circle-potential,” he pointed down at the scallop shell, “is the first number of the cosmos, containing all numbers as possibilities, just as sunlight contains all the colors in whiteness. According to Diogenes, from the Monad evolved the dyad; from the dyad, all numbers; out of numbers, the points;
then lines, two-dimensional things, three-dimensional objects; all culminating in the four elements—earth, water, fire and air—out of which the rest of the world was created. Like those stained-glass windows we saw in the parlor. Edison was a Freemason, as you said, just like Franklin. The Monad is also the name used to describe God in many Gnostic traditions.” He paused for a moment, tapping his trouser legs, waiting for Sajan to respond, but she remained immobile and silent. “I'm sure you've heard of that.”

“Why would I know that?” she replied.

“You seemed to know a lot about the Gnostics before.”

“No more than anyone with an interest in Christianity.”

Koster sighed. She just wouldn't budge, no matter what he tried. He glanced down at his watch. “It's almost noon,” he said. “We'd better head down if we're going to make our meeting with Bettendorf.”

T
HE
E
DISON PLANT ALONG
M
AIN
S
TREET WAS BEING RENOVATED
, and off-limits to visitors, but Sajan had called ahead and arranged for this meeting with Mrs. Elizabeth Bettendorf, senior curator of the Edison archives. Bettendorf's office was on the second floor of what had once been the Edison physics lab. It now featured display rooms and the National Park Service offices. Bettendorf was a large woman with a matronly chin and close-cropped gray hair, wearing a pair of black pants and an iron blue blouse. As soon as her assistant, Maggie, showed them into the office, she climbed to her feet.

“Sorry about earlier,” she began, sweeping gingerly around the end of her desk. They shook hands.

“We got lost,” Sajan said with a smile. “You know men. They simply can't ask for directions.”

Bettendorf motioned toward a pair of chairs by the desk. “Please, sit down,” she said warmly. “What can I do for you?” She issued a little cough. Then another. “It's
not every day we get so distinguished a visitor,” she added, coughing.

Maggie, her assistant, a willowy brunette with glasses, sat on a settee in the corner and sighed.

The cough was a tic of some sort, Koster realized. Like Tourette's syndrome. As the curator coughed, her eyes rolled and her head twisted a bit to the side.

“We were wondering,” Sajan said, leaning forward, “if we might ask you some questions about the Edison notebooks. We've been making inquiries and everyone says if you want to know anything about what Edison said, especially in his notebooks, talk to Bettendorf Most consider you the ultimate authority.”

Cough
. “Well, I don't know about that,” Bettendorf countered. Then she actually blushed self-effacingly, but she was obviously pleased. “If I can help you…” she added, her voice trailing off.

“Do any of Edison's notebooks mention something called the
phi
harmonic?”

“The
phi?
Not that I recall. Oh, wait. Yes,” she said.
Cough
. “Now that I think about it.” She lunged toward her desk and started to peck at her keyboard. “Many of the journals are on-line now, thanks to our partners at Rutgers. You can scan them yourself.”
Cough, cough
.

“We did,” Koster said. “But we didn't find any reference.”

“Here it is. He refers to some machine he was trying to build, based on… no, wait. He calls it a frequency—the
phi
frequency.” Cough.

“I wonder why we couldn't find it.”

“He uses the symbol. The search engine won't accept it. But I remembered the reference. Yes, here. ‘Must continue to work on BF's G machine, or I'll never create the
phi
frequency. If not for me, then for my littlest lab assistant.’ That's it, I'm afraid.”

“‘BF's G machine,’”
Sajan said, looking over at Koster.

Bettendorf coughed.

“What about the Gospel of Judas?” Sajan asked.

“The what?”

“Or Benjamin Franklin?” said Koster.

“The man or the institute? Edison won the Franklin Institute Award for Engineering in 1915. But some reference to Ben Franklin himself, the man… I don't think so. Of course, I could be mistaken. Edison kept various softcover notebooks at the beginning of his career, then standard-size hardbound notebooks. They were placed around his labs and often recorded the work of more than one experimenter, serving as permanent records. Plus scrapbooks of articles, and huge correspondence files, letterpress papers and patent applications… the list goes on and on. More than five million pages in total. Only a fraction of this inventory is available on-line.”

“Did Edison invent anything that you might characterize as having a more metaphysical intent?”

“I'm not really following you, Mr. Koster,” answered Bettendorf. “Metaphysical—in what way?”

“Perhaps a communications device,” Koster said. “I don't know. Anything.”

“In an interview he gave to
Scientific American
in 1920, he told the reporter, B.F. Forbes, that he was working on a machine that could make contact with the spirits of the dead. Newspapers all over the world picked up the story. But after a few years, Edison admitted that he'd made up the whole thing. And there's no reference to such a device in the archives. I know. I've looked for it. Is that what you mean?”

Koster shrugged. “Possibly,” he replied.

“What about codes, Mrs. Bettendorf?” said Sajan.

Cough
. “Codes.”
Cough, cough
. Her eyes danced in her head.

“Yes. Do any of his notebooks contain any references
written in code? Something that you haven't been able to translate yet.”

“I'm afraid not. He did use a lot of abbreviations but they were standard scientific notations. Nothing in code. At least, not that I know of.”

“‘My littlest lab assistant,’”
said Maggie quite suddenly. Everyone turned and looked over at the curator's assistant. She was staring at Bettendorf “Theodore?”

“Who's Theodore?” Koster wanted to know.

“One of Edison's children,” said the curator. “He had three of them.”

“As a child,” Maggie said, “Theodore was called Edison's ‘little laboratory assistant,’ because of his great love for science. Theodore performed many experiments at Glenmont. His father once wrote,
‘Theodore is a good boy, but his
forte
is mathematics. I am a little afraid he may go flying off into the clouds with that fellow Einstein. And if he does, he won't work with me.’
But, of course, he did.”

Theodore Edison was born at Glenmont on July 10, 1898, she explained to them, when Edison was more than fifty years old. Interestingly, Theodore was the only member of the Edison family to graduate from college. Then, he went to work for his father, starting out as an ordinary lab assistant, and eventually rising to become Technical Director of Research and Engineering for Thomas A. Edison, Inc. Earned more than eighty patents in all. Died in November '92.

“Wasn't that stuff we found in his cubbyhole written in some sort of code?” Maggie asked the curator. “Re member?”

“From the fireplace?”

“What cubbyhole?” Koster asked, perking up.

“We were doing some renovation work on one of the bedrooms on the third floor of the house,” replied Maggie. “Theodore's room. I think he may have mentioned
it in one of the reminiscences, too. Some recordings we have. Anyway,” she continued, “we found a kind of secret compartment behind one of the bricks in the side of the fireplace. I guess Theodore used it to stash his most precious belongings. It was full of all kinds of stuff: baseball cards, a watch, some music he'd written. And strangest of all, a notepad filled with Parcheesi scores. A softcover pad, just like the ones his father used. At the rear of the pad are several pages that we've never deciphered. They were written in some sort of code. And judging from the handwriting, they were penned by his father, by Thomas. I'd recognize that chicken scratch anywhere.”

“May we see it?” Koster's heart skipped a beat.

“Of course,” said the curator, standing up at her desk. “But you're going to have to walk over to the main storage vault. And I'm afraid I can't join you.”
Cough, cough
. “Nothing but meetings today. Maggie will see to your needs. It was a genuine pleasure, Ms. Sajan, Mr. Koster.”

They said good-bye to the curator and Maggie led them out of the physics lab toward the quad. The main laboratory, a giant brick structure with large chimneys, loomed to their right. Before them, in three separate rows, were the chemistry lab, the chemical storage and pattern shop and, lastly, the metallurgical lab. Maggie pointed them out as they walked. To their left stood the storage vault, beside a strange-looking black building called the Black Maria, the world's first motion picture studio, near the water tower. It was named, Maggie said, after the nickname for paddy wagons, also called Black Marias, because they were cramped and uncomfortable, and the same tar-paper black. “But Edison called it ‘the doghouse,’” she said.