The Flaming Dumpster Choir

Prologue

Princeton, New Jersey

April 18, 1955

2:55 a.m.

Albert Einstein was dying.

In the great man's bedroom on the second floor of his white clapboard house, a young doctor held a vigil by his side.

It was a quirk of fate that the young doctor was even there. Einstein's regular physician, a man who had been his friend and confident for years, was sick himself that night. The young doctor was filling in for him and had answered the emergency call, never expecting that he would end up witnessing history.

The doctor ws at once awestruck and saddened. He couldn't believe he was here, treating Albert Einstein himself--and yet he knew the old man's time was quickly running out. Einstein was in agony, fading in and out of consciousness. There was nothing the doctor could do for him except try to ease his pain.

To the doctor's surprise, the housekeeper--a stern woman named Helen--argued vehemently against giving Einstein painkillers, even trying to throw them out the window. Ultimately, the doctor had to drag the old woman from the room and lock her out. He felt guilty about this--especially when Helen had pounded on the door, desperately pleading for him to listen to her--but he administered the drugs anyhow. His responsibility was to the patient. It would have been a violation of his oath to let Einstein continue suffering.

Eventually, Helen stopped pleading and gone to make a frantic phone call.

Now Einstein seemed to be asleep, his head propped on the pillows, his breath coming in ragged heaves. However, his pulse was still racing, indicating that his body wasn't truly resting.

The doctor heard a car screech to a stop on the street outside and then Helen answering the front door downstairs. Whomever she had called had arrived. It hadn't taken long--perhaps five minutes. The doctor wondered if this new visitor would be more willing to listen to reason. . . .

Einstein's hand suddenly clasped the doctors wrist, startling him. The great scientist snapped upright in bed, his eyes wide but unfocused--the wild stare of a morphine haze. He pulled the doctor toward him with surprising strength and hissed, "Die Gleichung muss geschutzt werden!"

"I--I'm sorry," the doctor stammered. "I don't understand."

Einstein stared at him, seeming both confused and aggravated. The doctor suspected delirium had set in, a side effect of the painkillers. Einstein probably had no idea of where he was--or that he was even speaking German.

"Pandorabuchse!" Einstein exclaimed urgently. "Sie ist in Holmes. Die Gleichung muss geschutzt werden!"

The doctor could now hear footsteps racing up the stairs. He tried to lay Einstein back down in bed, to comfort him somehow, but Einstein remained upright, clutching him tightly.

"I don't speak German," the doctor explained. "Please. Try in English. . . ."

"Pandorabu. . . ," Einstein began again, but it was all he could manage. The light in his eyes faded. His pulse faltered. Then he collapsed back onto the bed, the final thought of his incredible life unfinished.

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Ernst Klein burst through the door a second later, splintering the frame. He was the same age as Einstein, and they had been friends since they had met during their freshman year at the Federal Polytechnic in Zurich nearly 6 decades ago. Ernst only wore pajamas with a raincoat hastily pulled over them, He hadn't even taken the time to put on slippers; his feet were still bare.