Albert Einstein was of the view, famously, that “matter can neither be created nor destroyed.” The Professor surely was a first-rate physicist, and made many real contributions. He was unaware, however, of my historic work with broken appliances and children’s toys. The fact is, I can create two tricycles out of one tricycle. And I can work similar magic with a toaster, or a clock.
Like all great discoveries, this one started small. Indeed, the insight that will eventually win me the Nobel Prize was originally no larger than a wing-nut.
I first realized that I was destined to change mankind’s understanding of the physical world when I purchased a tricycle for my son, Nathan, on the occasion of his third birthday. Assembly was required, and I duly assembled it, following the enclosed instructions with my accustomed punctiliousness. After Nathan had been riding the trike for a few days, however, it became obvious that there was a problem. Even when it appeared that Nathan was steering a straight course, the trike veered rather markedly to the right. Thus, he would peddle in the direction of the park’s water fountain, but end up at the swings. The swings have their merits as instruments of entertainment; but they are no substitute for the water fountain to a thirsty child.
I began to receive strange looks from other fathers in the playground. One went so far as to approach me. “Get a good price on that tricycle, Bub?”
I had figured that riding the trike, notwithstanding its steering problems, might be an educational experience for Nathan. He was apparently too young to figure out even the elementary principles of compensation, however, with consequences that might have appeared pathetic to one viewing the situation without a scientist’s detachment.
One afternoon, after the little fellow had spent a full half-hour unsuccessfully attempting to peddle himself to the sandbox, I concluded that it was time to roll up my sleeves and bring out the toolbox.
I took the trike apart, and put it back together again, paying even closer attention to the instructions. Even as I tightened the last screw, however, I noticed that there was an extra piece sitting on the table. A wing-nut, it was, if I am to believe the schematic drawing that accompanied the assembly instructions. I initially thought little of that extra wing-nut in my anxiousness to assess the effectiveness of my work.
We brought the tricycle to the playground. I watched Nathan peddling about, and it seemed to me that the trike’s performance was somewhat improved. While it still traced a clockwise arc, it was now a larger arc. I reasoned that if I could teach Nathan to aim for a point slightly to the left of the water fountain, I could expect him to light at a point no more than few feet from its right side. He was young, after all, and a little walk in the fresh air would do him no harm.
A few of the little boys were having a race, and Nathan competed. The objective was a statue of the Three Bears. At the signal to start, the four little trikes were pedaled furiously, Nathan giving nothing away from the standpoint of effort expended. Unfortunately, while three trikes headed toward the Bears in a tight little cluster, Nathan’s was not among them. His trike had peeled off in its clockwise arc; and by the time young Jeremy touched Baby Bear’s bronze foot (closely followed by Jonathan and Alexander), Nathan was disappearing into the trees beyond the climbing frame.
I took the trike apart yet again, and applied a little oil here, a little grease there. That effort was not a success. The trike’s tendency to veer to the right became even more pronounced; and pedaling now produced a disconcerting grinding sound. I attributed those problems to the shoddy quality of the trike’s parts, and determined that in future I would not seek bargains in the toys department. But more to the point: when I had reassembled the trike this time, there were two parts left over—the wing-nut, and what the schematic described as a “cotter pin.”
At first I thought nothing of that development, but simply retrieved from the hall closet the shoe box into which I had placed, over the years, the extra parts accumulated from my disassembly and reassembly of various toasters, clocks, and radios. But even as I was placing the wing-nut and the cotter pin amongst the various screws, springs, gears and washers produced by my past repair efforts, it suddenly struck me that a principle was revealing itself before my very eyes. I recalled from 9th grade physics that smashing an enriched uranium atom releases energy—the phenomenon of “fission.” Clearly, my deconstruction of tricycles, clocks, and radios released matter. The enormity of the moment struck me even then. I cannot express my elation at that instant better than was done, in similar circumstances, by an earlier physicist and inventor (with whom I will inevitably be compared): eureka!
As for Einstein’s dictum that matter cannot be created or destroyed? Well—it is simply wrong. The Professor must be forgiven for missing the mark in that particular, however. He was working with the best information available to him, and had not been fortunate enough to see me at work on a clock.
While I am proud of my contribution to knowledge in the realm of pure science, I immediately became interested in practical applications for what academics will soon, no doubt, be calling Dvorkin’s First Principle. It occurred to me that if I fixed Nathan’s tricycle often enough, eventually I would accumulate a sufficient cache of extra parts to build a second tricycle. Those two tricycles would in time yield enough parts to make four; and if employees were trained to disassemble and reassemble those four tricycles . . .
My drift, suffice it to say, may surely be divined.
But just as the Wright Brothers did not tether themselves to that bicycle shop in Dayton, neither do I intend to confine myself to tricycles, radios and clocks. Indeed, I have already moved past children’s toys and small appliances in my thinking. The business of America is business, after all; and I have never been one to think small.
My screwdriver even now is at the ready. I am looking to borrow just one Rolls Royce.