Chương 44: Book 2 - Chapter 11 B

On lab days I was working privately on a small problem. Two pieces of graphene held against each other, but twisted by only the tiniest of margins, 1. 1-degrees, can become a low temperature superconductor. The problem was that no existing theory of superconductivity could explain it. It was a beautiful puzzle.

The known theory—the BCS theory—explained superconductivity as a phenomenon involving lattice vibrations, and it placed an absolute ceiling on the temperature at which it could occur, a ceiling that had held for decades. The twisted graphene didn't break the temperature rule, it broke vibrational rule in a fundamental way. To solve it, I needed a way to model the physics at a scale that exceeded the capabilities of any available desktop computer.

In the first week of March, I spent an entire day in the University computer lab, not writing a paper, but loading a new operating environment. My program, coded in FORTRAN and running on the University mainframe, was designed to handle the massive arrays and scientific notation required for advanced quantum simulation. I used the program to write out the three theories of superconductivity.

The first was the well-established Conventional Superconductivity theory, a phenomenon known for nearly a hundred years and mathematically explained for the past thirty years how electrons paired up at ultra-low temperatures. The second was the Graphene Superconductivity theory, which I developed to describe the peculiar behavior of the twisted graphene layers.

This model relied on a purely electronic mechanism, where the lattice structure was almost irrelevant, hinting at a new type of electron-electron interaction. The third was the Unconventional Superconductivity theory, which developed as a purely mathematical possibility based on what the graphene was doing. This third theory suggested that if the coupling mechanism was strong enough, superconductivity could occur at much higher temperatures.

My FORTRAN simulation calculated that the critical temperature (Tc) could potentially exceed the boiling point of liquid nitrogen (77 Kelvin). This was a prediction that would shock the Physics world. I gathered together all the results produced. It was a clear validation of the theory. I wrote a paper about it, but couldn't send it anywhere yet. Graphene and graphene felt were still under a publishing blackout as the University worked to secure the intellectual rights and patents.

I spent the next three days in the Chemistry lab, setting aside the graphene work to focus entirely on proving the Unconventional Superconductivity theory. If the predicted Math was right, the highest-temperature superconductors would be ceramic perovskites incorporating four key elements: Bismuth, Strontium, Calcium and Copper Oxide, or Thallium, Barium, Calcium and Copper Oxide. My calculation provided the precise stoichiometric ratio required for the ceramic to crystallize into the correct layered structure.

My omniscience told me that I was on the right path, even if the math wasn't exactly right. Using the furnaces and equipment in the Chemistry lab—a privilege usually reserved for Graduate Students and Professors—I mixed, sintered, and slowly cooled the two ceramic compounds. The process required meticulous control, but I had an understanding of every variable, from the particle size of the starting powders to the exact oxygen pressure during the anneal.

Modeling it with the computer had been easy with that foreknowledge. On Thursday morning, after checking the final compound against the X-ray diffractometer to confirm the correct crystal structure, I had two small, black, fragile wafers. I walked into Dr Maytubby's office, carrying the wafers in a small, padded container.

"Dr Maytubby," I said, setting the container gently on his desk.

"I need you to measure the electrical resistance of these samples." Dr Maytubby, who was struggling with a stack of Sophomore papers, looked up wearily.

"John, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but that testing equipment is for Graduate research. What are you wanting to test?"

"They are superconductors," I stated simply.

"And their critical temperature is... unprecedented. I need a full external validation immediately." The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He sighed.

"John, the world record right now is what, 30 Kelvin? We need liquid hydrogen for that. It's dangerous and expensive to run a test like that without a full Graduate committee signing off. Also, if you've mixed a high-temperature superconductor, we need to know what elements are in it."

"The elements are safe. I made two. Bismuth Strontium Calcium Copper Oxide and Thallium Barium Calcium Copper Oxide," I replied.

"And you won't need liquid hydrogen. The second one only needs liquid nitrogen. The critical temperature of the thallium compound should be 127 Kelvin." The Professor's pipe nearly dropped from his mouth. 127 Kelvin was nearly 50-degrees higher than the boiling point of liquid nitrogen, a theoretical achievement that would make every newspaper in the world. It meant cooling could be done with readily available, cheap coolant, rather than expensive liquid helium or dangerous liquid hydrogen.

"John," he said, his voice a tight whisper.

"If that number is true, you have just changed the world understanding of physics, and made the BCS theory obsolete. We are taking this to the Dean right now. Hold onto that container. Don't talk to anyone. We will do the testing with the most secure equipment on campus." Five minutes later, we were in Dean Albright's outer office, waiting with the padded container. Dr Maytubby explained the situation in tense, clipped sentences.

Dean Albright, a man who saw Science not just as research but as a source of huge University endowments, cleared his schedule instantly.

"John," the Dean said, ushering us into an available lab, "You will repeat the synthesis and the measurement with Dr Maytubby and Dr Peterson watching every step. We need undeniable proof of the 127 Kelvin critical temperature. I want to see the resistance curve drop to zero with my own eyes." The next three hours were the most exhilarating of my life so far. I successfully synthesized a fresh batch of the thallium-based ceramic under the watchful eyes of the Dean and two Professors.

We then lowered the sample into a dewar containing liquid nitrogen. The resistance dropped as expected, plateauing near 77 Kelvin. Then, using a heater coil wrapped around the sample stage, we slowly raised the temperature. All three men crowded the Ohmmeters and temperature sensors, their breathing shallow. The resistance remained zero. At 100 Kelvin, zero. At 110 Kelvin, zero.

"Impossible," murmured Dr Peterson, shaking his head. When the temperature hit 127 Kelvin, the meter still read exactly zero ohms of electrical resistance. As the temperature ticked up to 127. 1 Kelvin, a fractional resistance appeared. The transition was sharp and perfect. Dean Albright gasped, a raw, unbelievable sound.

"John," the Dean said, tears forming in his eyes.

"This is a new age. We need to lock down this lab and your theory, immediately. I'm calling the President and our patent Attorney." The three of us stood there, they were stunned by the confirmation. Then Dr Maytubby snapped into action, pulling me aside. He had a copy of my paper detailing the three theories.

"John, this is world-changing work," he whispered.

"But for publication, we have a critical decision to make. You mention the 'graphene twist-angle experiment' here.

"Remove any reference to graphene, and put the two theories together for publication," he demanded.

"I can do that," I told him.

"I've got to go call Dean Rice, he needs to see this too." It took about twenty minutes for Dr James Rice, the Dean of Physics, to show up. He quickly read through my revised paper.

"Michael, this is a Nobel prize worthy theory, get it published immediately!"

"We aren't releasing any information on graphene yet. Not until the patents are complete," Dr Maytubby told him.

"Fine, drop everything about graphene, and send it to me. I'll send it out to PRL myself."

"What's PRL?" I asked.

"You're on your way to a PhD in Physics, and you don't know PRL?" Dr Rice asked.

"Don't tease him, James," Dr Maytubby said, then he answered my question." Physical Review Letters. It's a weekly magazine for Physics."

"Oh, I didn't know," I said.

"I'll give you my copy, and you really should get your own subscription. Either way, John, keep up the good work!"