Work Text:
The idea comes to him one night, in the middle of a shower.
"Oh boy!" Doofus Rick says, and he throws on a towel. He runs into the bedroom, practically skidding on the carpet in his excitement, and grabs a pen and starts scribbling on a pad of paper.
His hand is wet, and he's leaving water marks on the pad, making the numbers bleed and run together. He's so focused that he didn't even bother drying himself - he's dripping all over the floor and all over the nightstand, and after he's finished writing half of what he's written is practically illegible.
"I-I-I need, I need to do this on a white board," he says to no one, and he runs to the kitchen where his white board is propped up in front of the cabinets, rolling it across the linoleum while his feet make wet puddles on the tiled floor.
The clock ticks. His writing grows more fevered. His genius mind makes impossible connections, threading the different theories together like a tapestry of silk. It's brilliant, elegant. The marker starts to run out of ink by the time he's through.
*****
"'Membranes Within Spacetime - a Unified Theory of Gravity and Quantum Mechanics'?" His colleague sets down the paper. "I don't think I understand," his colleague says.
"I-it's really quite easy," Doofus Rick says. His colleague watches he produces an empty shoebox from his backpack, setting it on the table. "Let's say, this shoebox represents all of spacetime. All the possible universes rendered on the Central Finite Curve. A-a-and let's say, they're all separated by a boundary."
He takes a Kleenex and drops it in the center, holding it like a curtain. "I-if we transect this shoebox with this Kleenex, the inhabitants of section A can't interact with the inhabitants of section B. But w-w-w-what if one of those inhabitants has a squirt gun?"
He splashes a glass of water onto the tissue, making his colleague wince. "I-it weakens the membrane. So all you have to do is punch through," and he pushes his finger through the wet spot, for emphasis.
"I mean, Rick," his colleague says. "You're claiming to have an actual unified theory of everything. It's the scientific holy grail! And you say you fleshed the math out over a couple hours? And that you can invent a quantum squirt gun--"
"--portal gun," Doofus Rick says.
"--a quantum portal gun that shoots hyperbaric quantum fluid to pierce the membranes between universes? I mean, you're talking about generating worm holes, Rick, this is crazy."
"The math is sound," Doofus Rick says. "I-i-it's not some toy model, you know. I-it's vigorous and complete, I can prove it."
"It's a complete departure of everything we understand about quantum mechanics," his colleague says. "It doesn't even make sense."
"But i-it's not based on any unproven conjectures. I-i-it's based on proven theoretical models." Doofus Rick clasps his hands. "I-I'm confident I'm correct," Doofus Rick says. "I-I can build that portal gun if I have the funding."
"It's speculative," his colleague says. "It's flimsy and untestable and it doesn't follow anything in the current literature. I mean," his colleague scoffs, "Rick, you're not even a theoretical physicist. Your research focuses mainly on cancer."
"Couldn't I try?" Doofus Rick says. "I-I could still submit it to the journal--"
"You're a molecular biologist who fancies himself a physicist. No one is going to publish you."
He hands Doofus Rick the paper.
*****
He goes over the math. On the white board, the black marker squeaks as he writes down the numbers. His math is right. His theory about the multiverse is both testable and predictable. He just needs to get enough funding to set up his lab.
"You can't be serious," the head of the physics department says. "You can't raise funds for something this broad or theoretical. Find a problem to solve," the department chair says, and he tosses back Doofus Rick's proposal.
"Sorry, Rick, but this sort of mental masturbation is just too low-yield."
*****
He submits the paper to several journals, all of which decline to publish him. He doesn't have established credentials. He doesn't even have a doctorate in that field.
"He has a PhD in molecular biology?" the editorial board frowns and looks at each other. "What the hell is he doing trying to publish here?"
The funding process is labyrinthine and demoralizing. The usual avenues of research funding aren't geared toward theoretical research, and the funding that is available is scarce. Some researchers reach out to private donors and high net-worth individuals, billionaires with eccentric tastes and cash to spare, but Doofus Rick isn't charming enough. He can't even get an audience with the governing bodies, there's no way he can woo a billionaire.
"I don't understand," Doofus Rick says. He's interrupted the lunch of his colleague and another physicist, pulling a chair and sitting next to them without even registering their visible irritation. "I-i-it takes the current mathematical models and yields entirely new areas of application! A-a-and not only that, i-it answers many previously unexplainable observations! Why won't they consider it?" he asks, and the two physicists exhale loudly, sitting back in their chairs.
"No offense," his colleague says. "But you're starting to sound like a broken record. We've already gone through this before."
"But, y-y-you're a physicist! Y-you even said my math is sound--"
"I said your math theoretically could yield a potential explanation. I didn't say you'd get the funding to make this so-called 'quantum gun.'"
"Portal gun," Doofus Rick says. The two physicists at the table frown at each other.
"I mean," the other physicist starts, slowly. "No offense, Rick. Your work is in the biological sciences. You just don't have enough name recognition to break into this field."
*****
He shuffles down the hallway, utterly dejected. Behind him, a few people stare and whisper to themselves. He can hear their muffled laughter.
"I mean, the nerve of that guy," someone is saying. Doofus Rick stops, listening. "He's not even trained in theoretical physics! I don't know what the hell they were thinking talking to him."
"As if quantum squirt guns are a viable subject for a research study."
They snicker to themselves. Doofus Rick lowers his head, quickly leaving the hallway.
*****
The people in the physics department are all abuzz. "Did you read Vance's new paper?!"
Doofus Rick looks over.
Published in the Global Journal of Theoretical Physics is a framework of Doofus Rick's paper, a different name claiming to have done the research.
*****
"I-I-I trusted you!" Doofus Rick says. His colleague holds up his hands. "How, how could you do that?! That was my work!"
"Okay, Rick. Admittedly there was some overlap--"
"Overlap?!" Doofus Rick stares. "That was, that was my whole theory! There wasn't any overlap, that was just copying!"
"Rick, I know you're angry, but--Rick, listen to me. Listen," his colleague says, and Rick drops his hands. "I got funding," his colleague says. "You want to create a portal to another dimension? Well guess what. Work with my team and you can have it."
Doofus Rick looks at the papers.
"I-I'd have to relinquish rights to the IP," Doofus Rick says.
"It'd be in the name of progress," his colleague says.
Doofus Rick picks up the papers, then paces, agitated. He walks back and forth before sitting down again.
"This, this, this won't work," Doofus Rick says. He holds up the papers. "Y-your math is wrong. This won't be enough to permeate the membrane, the force you'd generate just won't work--"
His colleague holds up his hand.
"We can iron out the kinks during the later stages of our research," his colleague says. "Rick. What you need is name recognition. I've got that. I have dozens of papers published about this. I have the credentials that lend credibility to this research."
Doofus Rick's eyes water.
"Good luck with your research," Doofus Rick says.
"Rick, wait a second, Rick--"
Doofus Rick turns and quickly shuts the door.
*****
He's a doofus Rick, but he's still a Rick, and Ricks as a rule don't need funding.
He shoots the portal gun. The fluid sticks, then swirls, congealing and coating the atoms making up the air.
In the dark, the membrane to the wormhole glows a sickly green, casting eerie shadows against the grayscale of the garage. Tentatively, Doofus Rick picks up a book, and tosses it: the book penetrates, then disappears, the fluid-filled portal snapping shut suddenly, a few drops of the luminescent fluid pinched off.
In a research lab across town, scientists light a portal on fire, then flinch when each tossed object fizzles and burns.
In an empty garage in an empty house, the silhouette of a man stands against a haze of throbbing green. One step forward, and the membrane bows inward, until the man disappears, and the portal snaps closed.