Document 32 from the Russel Collection, on loan from the Franklin Institute

Dear Kip,

If everything’s gone according to my plan, and I may as well assume it has for the sake of this letter, at least, I am quite safe now, far away. If you don’t get this, it hardly matters, so I am writing in the expectation that you are reading it. I wonder what you thought when you saw Mme Pompadour, though? Poor thing, I brought her back from across the galaxy only to abandon her in Boston. The boys in the lab thought it was rather pathetic how I carried her around still, now that I’m practically grown-up, but aside from you and me, she’s the only other thing on earth that has seen what we’ve seen. And Oscar, of course.

I never told you about Owlman. (He had those heavy glasses that made him look like a horned owl, did he come to see you too?) I think he thought M.T.’s postcard was your work, and I’d somehow got you to put my name on it as well, using my feminine wiles. He couldn’t let go of his theory, even once he’d got a good look at me, and asked me the most incredibly stupid questions (“Did Clifford Russell like me? Would Clifford do anything for me?”) until daddy threw him out.

Daddy says a scientist shouldn’t favour any hypothesis, because no man is immune to the temptation to put his thumb on the scales, and a scientist is surrounded by scales. I never saw why anyone would want to lie to themselves, but here I am having set out to tip the scales. Everything is done and now it’s all a matter of waiting for the data. I must be honest, henceforth, so I am attempting it with you.

After Owlman they sent David, although I was very stupid about it for the longest time, and didn’t realize. When people disapproved, I was sure it was because of my age: I told them that girls mature faster than boys, and sixteen is old enough to– Well, old enough for lots of things! I hope you’ll forgive me for the things I said; you were quite right. I’m making a clean breast of it, so I might as well admit I was angry with you about Sonja and wouldn’t admit it: you were supposed to be chastely fascinated by me forever, or at least until I had become woman enough to fascinate you in new and unchaste ways. It’s not true, anyway. Sonja’s wiser than I am, at least, because I know she never really felt comfortable with David or trusted his motives with a girl ten years his junior; please give her my apologies.

Stupid of me, but do you know what hurts the most? David never understood above half of what I published, and none of what the men in suits forbade me to publish; he was coached by the CIA men, and given lists of questions to ask me. Every time he trailed off, I thought he was racing me to the next conclusion– the stupid man was just stalling until he could step out and get an answer from his team. The beautiful, brilliant mind that I was racing to a new map of the universe– a whole new universe– didn’t even exist. I must be very clever to be so stupid, I think.

I don’t know all of it. I wonder: did they arrange for Heinrickson to drop by to talk with daddy and tutor me? I’m certain I would never have written ‘The teleology of quanta’ if it weren’t for a riddle he once asked me; if I hadn’t published it, would they have bothered sending David? I feel like the puppet who has just seen her strings. (Which is nonsense: Q can’t be a negative integer. I’ve attached my proof.)

I can think of perhaps two dozen people capable of using the Outsider Equation (as I’m calling it. They’ve named it ‘The Chicago Effect’ which sounds like a weather system). Some of them I’m quite sure of– your father wouldn’t give the government a left-handed spanner –but Daddy would do anything to keep me safe. So I’m becoming the furthest Outside of them all. I’m almost certain, Kip, that it’s impossible to manipulate as an Outsider if you’re inside someone else’s Outside, if you see what I mean. I wish there were someone I trusted checking my math, but M.T. says she’s not certain she understands our notation well enough, and I’m not willing to give the equation to anyone else. Do what you please with your copy: anyone you trust is good enough for me.

Kip, they wanted me to give America sixty-one gold medals this year in Munich. Just a little ’test’ to put the Russians in their place and demonstrate the equation to their superiors. The power to change the course of history: I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t ask me to have Brezhnev’s breakfast spell out rude messages to him. I don’t think a single one of them even thought they were asking me to cheat; not even David. I guess I couldn’t fool myself about him after that. I’m glad you never said a word against him. I don’t know if I could bear to have defended him to you, now.

I told them a heap of ridiculous lies once I realized and I don’t know if they have anyone who can spot them; eventually they’ll come to you.

Sorry I’ve left you such a mess, Kip, but you’re the only one who’s saved the Earth before, so I guess you can do it again. Give my love to everyone. M.T. says she’s proud of you, and I am too. You needn’t worry about my sleep; I taught myself hypnosis ages ago, only it seemed disloyal to Madame Pompadour to set her aside like that. Of course, she’s only a ratty bit of cotton and wool, but I know you’ll treat her as she deserves without being asked.

Yours in derring-do,

Patricia Wynant Reisfeild.