Inventions

"No, George, I'm not calling you to grovel." Inventions' voice filled my ears even from half a lab away. I swear, the man has no indoor voice when he's on the phone; he must not care who overhears him. "I'm calling you to challenge you. . . . Yeah, that's right. I want a rematch." There was a quiet pause, as though he were listening. "Are you done laughing? I'm making some improvements to my pedal powered car design, and I'd hate for 'em to go to waste." Another pause. "What's the matter, you chicken? Buck buck buck bagawk!"

The next pause lasted longer. It was hard to see details from that distance, but I'm pretty sure I saw Inventions' face soften. "Okay, George. Skeleton Monster. You beat me. You beat me fair and square. At your own game. Occasionally, I overstep, and I have to learn the true parameters of a new game first-hand. Now that I do know them, however, I intend to knock you off that damn smug pedestal you're on." Another pause. "This Friday, noon."

And with that, he tapped his phone and put it away.

Sounded like we were going to have another midday race. Only . . . wait, this Friday? The same day as my hottest dinner date in recent memory? But, but what if I needed more time to prepare for Leslie? What if there's not enough time to change into my best first-date outfit? What if my shirt's missing a button, and it's a really tricky button and I need more time to sew it back on properly?! What if—

"Sam," Inventions startled me. How the heck did he walk all the way over to me without my noticing? "How's the homemade Flychamp oil coming?"

"Uh," I shook myself back to my senses, "I found the patent, but of the seven main steps in its manufacture, one of them absolutely requires a fatty acid found only in whale oil. It's called 3-isooleic acid. I scoured the literature for altertatives, but every published attempt to substitute some other fatty acid just resulted in a viscous sludge."

"Well, maybe there's a substitute they haven't tried yet. Better hurry up and find out, I need enough to lube my pedal racer by Friday morning." He patted my shoulder, and vanished back into the lab.

He's got to be kidding me, I thought. Surely, every promising avenue had already been tried by now! It was all but completely settled science that you had to start with the 3-isooleic acid found in whale o. . .

Start with . . .

Maybe . . .

It was only that one fatty acid from the whale oil that the process needed. Maybe . . . if it needs 3-isooleic acid, maybe there might be a way to make 3-isooleic acid artificially. . . .

It took the rest of the day, and all of the next morning, but I finally figured it out.

"Eu . . . freakin' . . . reka!"

My exultation must've gotten Inventions' attention, even over the din of his clatter-banging; he stopped what he was doing and waltzed over toward me. "Now that's a promising sound!"

I was too excited to calm down. "I can do it! I can turn ordinary vegetable oil into 3-isooleic acid!"

"Huh!" Inventions exclaimed in understanding. "Why make a substitute when you can make the real thing?"

"Yep," I said. "I took an enzymatic approach. Figured there was some biological process out there that might already do something similar. Turned out there was. That's probably why there weren't any chemical engineering patents for it — it would have taken a biochemist to figure it out, and those guys are too busy mucking around with, um, patenting hybrid plants or whatever it is they do."

Inventions raised his eyebrows. "No prior art, either! Sounds like you'd better write up a patent application for your process."

A . . . a patent? That was every freshly-graduated chemical engineer's dream! "For real? You're actually going to apply for a patent for this? I mean, damn! I'm actually gonna have one of my inventions alongside all of yours, maybe even making money for you!"

"Ohhh no," Inventions shook a finger at me. My heart fell. Then, he said something that made my heart stop altogether: "I'm not putting my name on any patent for something I didn't invent! This one's gonna be in your name, and your name only. None of this 'company ownership' nonsense. Sandy owes me about a bazillion favors, and I'm gonna have him do the same for you, for your invention, that he does for the rest of mine."

My eyes must have been as big around as saucers. "You mean . . . it's just gonna be my name on the patent? Not ours, just mine? And I'm gonna be the owner?"

"Yep!" Inventions said. "And if the thing sells, welcome to the big time, kid! Now write down your process in enough detail that Sandy can turn it into a patent."

He turned to go, then called out over his shoulder, "But don't let that interfere with your making Flychamp oil for me! Write it in your copious free time."

I don't think I've ever written up a complete chem-eng procedure as fast as I did that day. It was like those assignments in college that I'd put off 'til the night before they were due. I'd e-mailed off the whole kit and boodle to Inventions' lawyer Sandy before the sun had set. My own patent! I could imagine the royalties rushing in already, whole treasure chests full of gold dubloons to run my fingers through.

Of course, that meant I was behind in making enough Flychamp oil for the big race this Friday. I'd had to hunker down and spend every moment transforming the 3-isooleic acid I was making via my synth process. (My process. That thought put a big goofy grin on my face over and over again.) But by Thursday afternoon, I'd nearly hit my quota.

Then, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the caller's number. I picked up and said "Hello?".

An unfamiliar voice on the other end asked, "Is this Sam?"

I narrowed my eyes. Not that the caller could see this little gesture. "You're a telemarketer, aren't you?"

"No no. This is Sandy, I'm the patent attorney for Mr. Inventions."

I gasped. "Oh! Um, hi! Is this about my patent?"

"Well, it's not a patent yet, Sam. But I'm working on turning it into an application for one. Inventions asked me to prioritize this assignment. The good news is, it looks like your enzyme approach is novel enough that it probably won't fall under the old patent."

The old patent? Wait, what? "Um," I said, "You're not talking about the patent for Flychamp oil itself, are you? Because —"

"No no," he interrupted, "I'm talking about the patent from 1953."

From . . . from '53? What? "B-but, but . . . but I did a thorough patent search on 3-isooleic acid before I even started working out my new process. I couldn't find any patents for synthesizing it from other fatty acids."

"You . . ." he seemed to drawl out the word. ". . . must not have used all the search terms. I'm talking about Higgins and Clarke's 1953 patent for the synthesis of thydriatic acid."

Thydri— oh no. The old name. "Oh gosh. That's what they used to call 3-isooleic acid back in the ninteenth century, isn't it."

"I'm afraid so," Sandy replied. "I'm guessing the only reason the makers of Flychamp oil aren't using the 1953 patent already is they don't know about it. And that might make it hard for Chan to sell your patent to 'em. You see, a patent application is required to list all known similar patents, to prove that the new invention isn't prior art. If we don't mention the '53 Higgins & Clarke patent on our application, the patent examiner's bound to find it anyway, and then we'd just have to re-submit the application with the '53 patent added to it. Which means, the moment we show our patent to the Flychamp oil people, they're gonna see the 1953 patent and can easily look it up themselves. They could choose to use the '53 process to make whale-oil-free Flychamp oil, without ever infringing on your own patent, and you'd never see a penny in patent royalties."

Gods. I'd felt high as a kite the last couple of days, and now it was like the rug had been pulled out from under me.

"It's not all doom and gloom," Sandy went on. "Your patent might be cheaper to use on a large scale than the '53 patent. It might be worth their while to use yours anyway. But, well — I'd have to ask Chan about the actual business potential, but I don't think you'll be able to charge a lot of money for the use of your process."

I grunted into the phone. "Hm. Well. At least I'll have a patent with my name on it, even if it's worthless."

"True," Sandy said. "But don't hold your breath waiting to do a vanity search on your own patent. It can take over a year for the patent office to get around to granting your application a patent number. I'll keep in touch." <click>

I shook my head, and sighed. Easy come, easy go. Well . . . back to work. I had to finish making the last of the Flychamp oil before I could head home for the night. Tomorrow was still going to be a damned important day.

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