Genius Club

This novel is translated and hosted on Bcatranslation

The next morning, Lin Xian and CC sat in the living room, enjoying breakfast. The black-and-white television in the corner played the morning news.

“Your voice seems much better,” CC remarked, holding a sandwich with her fork while studying Lin Xian.

“It feels like it’s back to normal,” Lin Xian replied, clearing his throat experimentally. It indeed sounded smoother. Perhaps the heat-induced inflammation had subsided, or maybe the traditional remedy of “boiled egg in hot water” had genuinely worked.

“Hard to say if that’s good news or bad,” he quipped with a wry smile.

His eyes wandered to the calendar, now flipped to November 1, 1952, thanks to CC’s morning habit. Only four days remained until the November 5 meeting with Einstein at a farm in the Brooklyn suburbs.

The time itself wasn’t the issue. Whether sooner or later didn’t matter much. The real question was how to conceal his identity. He couldn’t very well meet Einstein wearing a gorilla mask—it would be too absurd. This wasn’t Halloween every day, and while such a costume might fly at a party, visiting someone’s home like that was another story. Besides, how could he explain it to Einstein without appearing suspicious?

Taking a small note from his pocket, Lin Xian handed it to CC. “CC, could you check this address for me? Is it far from the orphanage you grew up in?”

CC, chewing thoughtfully, took the paper and glanced at it. “Not exactly close,” she replied. “On the map, it might seem nearby, but it’s at least five miles away.”

CC pondered this, her brow furrowed. “That’s strange,” she said, handing the note back. “If he planted or raised something there, visiting only three or four times a year seems far too infrequent. Even without direct involvement, farmers usually have plenty of tasks to oversee.”

“And if it’s just a vacation retreat, there are far more comfortable options. Besides, the regularity of his visits doesn’t align with leisure trips.”

Lin Xian nodded. “Exactly my thoughts. Einstein wasn’t farming, raising livestock, or vacationing there—he had another purpose.”

“But it’s pointless to speculate now. I’ll know the truth when I meet him on the 5th.”

Looking out the window, Lin Xian continued, “It’s a beautiful day. Want to go somewhere fun? Or shop for something? We could even check out another part of Manhattan.”

Suddenly, the news broadcast was interrupted. A cheerful news anchor appeared, her face brimming with pride and excitement.

“We have breaking, thrilling news to share!” she announced. “At 2 a.m. this morning, November 1, the U.S. military successfully tested a thermonuclear device named ‘Mike’ on Elugelab Island.”

“The test was a resounding success. This hydrogen bomb, with a yield of 10 megatons of TNT, completely leveled the island.”

“This marks the world’s very first hydrogen bomb—a weapon vastly more powerful than any atomic bomb. Its development signifies the unparalleled strength of our military, surpassing every other nation on Earth!”

The anchor’s jubilant report painted a scene of triumph, almost as if the Soviet Union would crumble tomorrow.

Lin Xian, observing from a broader historical perspective, knew the Soviets wouldn’t remain tense for long. By 1953, they too would test their first hydrogen bomb, becoming the second nation to achieve this feat. Around that time, the Eisenhower administration would unveil plans for nuclear retaliation, solidifying global nuclear deterrence.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

The technological race during the Cold War was akin to a mythological epic, with each side relentlessly outpacing the other, sparing no resources. The pace was extraordinary.

“What a miraculous era,” Lin Xian mused. “We’ll never see such rapid advancements again.”

“Hydrogen bomb?” CC tilted her head curiously. “10 megatons…what does that even mean?”

“You’ve heard of the atomic bomb used in World War II, right?” Lin Xian began.

CC nodded.

“That bomb had a yield of 20 kilotons of TNT. This hydrogen bomb’s power is roughly 500 times greater.”

“500 times?!” CC’s eyes widened. “One atomic bomb destroyed an entire city—this hydrogen bomb could obliterate 500 cities?!”

Lin Xian chuckled softly. “Not quite. The destruction doesn’t scale that way, but its power is indeed much greater.”

By now, the anchor had finished her announcement and smiled at the audience. “Next, we’ll watch footage provided by the military. Prepare to witness this breathtaking spectacle!”

…

Meanwhile, in Princeton, New Jersey, at 112 Mercer Street, Einstein sat on his sofa, watching the broadcast. The hydrogen bomb’s development had been a closely guarded secret, so he, like the rest of the public, was learning about it only that morning.

Unlike the atomic bomb, which relied on nuclear fission, the hydrogen bomb harnessed nuclear fusion—the same process that powers the stars. It represented the raw, primal energy of the cosmos.

The television screen shifted from the anchor’s spirited announcement to a distant view captured by a camera, positioned far across the sea. At first, the scene seemed nondescript, with nothing visible on the horizon.

Then it happened.

A blinding white flash tore through the screen.

A deafening explosion erupted.

The ground trembled violently.

A massive fireball surged into the sky, clawing its way upward. The sound of the detonation followed seconds later, accompanied by a roaring shockwave that rattled the camera, shaking the image with a furious intensity. Simultaneously, the blast’s radiation struck the film, distorting the footage into a blizzard of stark, flickering white snow.

Gradually, the fireball dimmed, giving way to dense, rolling clouds of red smoke that spiraled high into the heavens.

And there it stood.

A colossal mushroom cloud rose, a dreadful monument bridging the earth and sky. It churned and twisted, expanding ever upwards, a grayish-red behemoth of destruction. Even as the footage concluded, the cloud continued to grow, resembling an ominous, swelling tumor against the horizon.

Einstein watched in a daze, struck by the sheer magnitude of the explosion. Yet his reaction wasn’t one of fear or despair. Years ago, such a display, vastly exceeding the destructive power of the atomic bomb, might have driven him into an abyss of hopelessness.

But not now.

His recent conversation with the young man named Douglas lingered in his mind. It had sparked new thoughts, giving him hours of contemplation upon returning home. The ideas of nuclear deterrence, retaliation, and global stability suddenly felt pragmatic. Perhaps, Einstein mused, the emergence of such weapons could lead to a fragile but enduring peace. After all, as Douglas had argued, greater destructive power fostered greater caution.

Still, Einstein wasn’t merely reflecting on geopolitics. No, his trance-like state stemmed from something else—the inspiration ignited by the explosion itself. The chaotic flashes of radiation and the shimmering snow of static on the film had awakened something long buried in his mind.

The cosmological constant.

In 1917, Einstein had introduced this term into his gravitational field equations while studying the universe’s structure. It was meant to account for a static universe with a nonzero matter density, and he described it as a proportional term with a minuscule value, represented by the symbol ?. The constant was so small it could be ignored even on a galactic scale.

But later, experiments and further research revealed it was fundamentally flawed. No matter the scenario, the constant failed to produce accurate results. Einstein ultimately denounced it as his greatest blunder.

For years, he had abandoned any attempt to revisit the concept. To him, it was a mistake, an idea utterly devoid of validity.

But now…

The flickering radiation on the screen, those endless, layered white specks, jolted his imagination. His thoughts began to spiral, connecting seemingly disparate ideas.

The universe… the constant…

Perhaps the error wasn’t with the constant itself but in how he had understood it.

Just like the fusion energy released by the hydrogen bomb—energy that originated from the tiniest collisions in the universe’s most elementary building blocks—it was the minute that gave rise to the monumental. Two atomic nuclei colliding, a negligible loss in the mass of a few quarks, yet from this minuscule change erupted energy capable of fueling stars and obliterating worlds.

The small and the vast.

Could it be that the cosmological constant, too, embodied this paradox?

“What is the true nature of the cosmological constant?” Einstein murmured, his brow deeply furrowed. “Have I been wrong all these years?”

For the first time in decades, he felt a spark of clarity, a sense of direction. The hydrogen bomb’s explosion and its aftermath had stirred new possibilities in his mind.

“I need paper… and a pen… I need to calculate immediately!”

His breathing quickened. Turning abruptly, he dashed toward his study, the sound of his hurried steps echoing through the house as he collided with furniture and scattered objects in his wake. He didn’t care. There was no time for distractions.

Bursting into his study, Einstein dropped into his chair, hastily spreading out sheets of paper before him. Grabbing a fountain pen, he began to write feverishly, the nib scratching across the page as formulas and symbols poured out in a torrent of inspiration.

The winter morning was icy, yet beads of sweat trickled down his weathered face. His heart raced, a sensation he hadn’t felt in years. The formulas began to take shape under his gaze, his thoughts laser-focused on the problem that had once eluded him.

If the cosmological constant truly held a definitive value, what would that value be?

He would find out.

Soon.

Very soon.

…

At the same time, in New York, Manhattan, inside a suite at the Empire State Building Hotel, a metallic clatter broke the morning’s stillness.

A silver fork slipped from CC’s trembling hand, bounced twice on the New York Daily News spread on the coffee table, and finally rolled onto the plush wool carpet. Her breathing was labored, her face as pale as a ghost.

Her wide eyes were fixed on the television screen, which displayed the horrific aftermath of the hydrogen bomb: the blinding white flash, the fiery explosion, the towering mushroom cloud climbing to the heavens. Her pupils quivered, her entire body trembling as if caught in an earthquake.

“CC!” Lin Xian immediately noticed her distress and rushed over to steady her. “CC, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

CC took a deep breath, lowered her head, and whispered softly, “Lin… Lin Xian, let’s go back to Brooklyn. I don’t want to stay in Manhattan anymore.”

“What?” Lin Xian asked, startled. “Why? Haven’t we been having a great time here?”

Her gaze returned to the screen, now showing grainy static overlaid with flickers of light from the hydrogen bomb’s detonation. The images depicted utter devastation: an island vaporized, leaving behind a vast, hollow void as seawater poured in to fill the space.

Destruction.

Oblivion.

Nothingness.

It was as if these scenes mirrored the gnawing fear she’d been suppressing—the fear that everything she now held dear was a fleeting dream. That, upon waking, all these things that didn’t truly belong to her would vanish, just like the island annihilated by the bomb.

She shook her head slightly. It wasn’t the thought of losing material possessions that frightened her. What terrified her most was the possibility of losing the one thing she treasured above all else.

“CC?” Lin Xian pressed gently when she remained silent. “Wasn’t coming to Manhattan your dream? You’ve only just begun living your Manhattan life—why leave now?”

“We still have so much money,” he added, attempting to reassure her. “You can do anything you want here—open a café, a boutique, anything. Isn’t that the kind of life girls dream of?”

CC turned to him, her voice calm but resolute. “You’re right, Lin Xian. These past few days in Manhattan have been the happiest, most wonderful days of my life.”

“But…” Her lips quivered as she bit down softly. “Just now, I realized something. None of this truly belongs to me. And I’m afraid that having these things might mean losing something far more precious…”

She shook her head again, as if trying to dispel the thought. Her voice trembled as she continued, “Lin Xian, what makes me truly happy isn’t Manhattan. It’s you—being with you.”

Lin Xian said nothing, understanding dawning in his eyes. He knew this feeling of hers, this restless unease. She had felt it before, that day in the movie theater. The image of the hydrogen bomb’s cataclysmic explosion seemed to have awakened something in her—a reminder of her humble beginnings as a girl from Brooklyn’s poorest streets.

“I won’t leave,” Lin Xian said softly. “I know what you’re afraid of. You’re still worried this is all just a dream, that when you wake up, I’ll be gone. But it isn’t, CC. This isn’t a dream. This is real.”

Still, CC didn’t reply or react. It was as if she had suddenly become overwhelmed by Manhattan itself—this bustling, glamorous metropolis that seemed poised to swallow her small, fragile world whole.

“Lin Xian… let’s go back,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I want to go back to Brooklyn with you. Even if it’s poorer, even if it’s rundown, even if it has nothing—no good food, no beautiful clothes. It doesn’t matter…”

She grasped the sleeve of his shirt tightly, as if clinging to the last piece of hope she had left. Her eyes met his, glistening with desperation.

“Brooklyn… is enough, as long as I have you.”