Fission by Tom Weston
About Tom Weston
Originally from England, Tom now resides in Boston, Massachusetts.
Before turning his hand to fiction, Tom had a successful career as the CEO of a consulting company, conference speaker and writer of industry articles and business books. But determining that the business world lacked a sense of humor, Tom decided to hand in his jacket and tie and instead turned to the world of literature.
His novel, First Night, set in Boston during the New Year’s Eve festival, introduced the unlikely heroines, Alex and Jackie, and the ghost of a 17th century Puritan named Sarah Pemberton. First Night won an Honorable Mention in the Middle-Grade/Young Adult category, in the Writers Digest 17th Annual International Self-Published Book Awards. The sequel to First Night, called The Elf of Luxembourg is also a supernatural mystery, with a blend of humor and history that has become Tom’s trademark.
Tom is currently working the novelization of his the screenplay, Fission, based on the true story of scientist, Lisa Meitner, and the race for the atomic bomb, and which was named a finalist at the 2008 London Independent Film Festival.
In a world that tries to deny her because she is a woman, tries to kill her because she is a Jew, Lise Meitner rises above it all to discover nuclear fission and spark the race for the atomic bomb.
But, with the world now at her feet and a Nobel Prize almost in her grasp, her betrayal by the man she trusts the most may prove the hardest test of all.
Read an Excerpt!
a physicist who
Two more snowflakes appeared and pirouetted around each other, in the manner of coy lovers. Then four more, then double again, and again in a choreographed Strauss-like waltz.
“Only just November,” reflected a disappointed Robert.
Within minutes, the snow dance had turned into an all out assault. It fell hard and fast. It massed on the ground and on their clothes. The mourners pulled their coats around them, the vicar’s delivery of the funeral rites quickened, but Robert Frische smiled and his dour mood dissolved into the background of the increasing whiteness.
“Is this your doing, Lise?” he thought. “One last joke on me?”
Robert pondered his sudden change of mood. Was it disrespectful? He didn’t care. She had always worn a prim and proper persona in public; she had observed propriety always. But not with him – with him, she had laughed, teased and joked – she called him the exception to the rule – he didn’t know why.
The funeral proceedings wound down, but the wind had picked up. Underneath the whispered moans of the trees, the conclusion of the vicar, and the footsteps of the small gathering returned to the gravel path, Robert imagined that he could hear the noise of a large and boisterous crowd. It was there – He felt it – a sudden hush which greets a celebrity who walks into a packed room, then the bustle of people as they rise to their feet, and the applause and warmth of friends as they raise their glasses. Her exile was over. She was home.