by P. W. Child
The door clicked loudly, but there was no echo. A blunt sound died less than three centimeters away from the lock, yet Lydia could hear it with the aid of her ear pieces. Her heart jumped from excitement. She wondered if they procured the capacitor without incident from the CERN laboratory and made work of wheeling herself arduously toward the lobby.
Lydia stopped in her path when the door opened.
There was Purdue and Healy, but they were accompanied by a very attractive man about he own age, nursing a bruise on his cheek.
“And? Did you get it?”
“Yes, madam,” Healy replied, looking rather laid back as opposed to his usual stiffness. “This is Sam Cleave, by the way. He is a friend.”
“Says who?” she scowled. “I don’t know him!”
“He is a close friend and partner in crime, Lydia, of mine,” Purdue explained.
The dark eyed man with the wild black hair nodded courteously. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Professor Jenner.”
Lydia decided to like him.
“Sam, is it?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Scottish?” she asked again.
“Aye,” he smiled. Lydia really liked him now.
“My husband was Scottish,” she winked.
“I’m Scottish too!” Purdue reasoned amusedly.
“Yes, yes. But he is…new,” she grinned.
Sam smiled and nudged Purdue mockingly. Lydia laughed, “Come on, Sam. We have a proper sick bay here in the manor. Let Healy treat that bruise for you.”
“Madam,” Healy began his protest, but to no avail.
“Healy. Take Sam to the infirmary and put something on that bruise that you no doubt caused!” she ordered. She knew her butler far too well. He obliged.
“Come with me, Sam,” he told the journalist, leaving Lydia with Purdue.
“How are you feeling, beautiful?” he smiled.
Lydia wanted to be cynical about it, but she had had enough of her own antagonism for the evening.
“I’m doing well, thanks Dave,” she winked amicably. “How did it go?”
“Easier than I thought. I retrieved a proper plate for you. Not the one you wanted…”
“Dave, I needed that specific storage plate!” she panicked.
“Hey, no worries, my dear Lydia. What I am trying to tell you is that I stole a higher aptitude device than the meager one you thought you needed!” Purdue explained boastfully. “Look.”
He showed her the capacitor he had obtained from the Alice detector when nobody was watching him raid their storage units. “See? High intensity, extra storage of higher energy than the one you directed us to at Alice. The good thing is, when we ransacked the Alice reserves we found Sam. And all that without Healy having to distract the gentlemen and ladies of the workforce based adjacent to us.”
Lydia felt better. Suddenly she felt as if she was surrounded by a whole army of allies. The men involved were all caring, intelligent and willing to help her. The only thing she lamented was the possibility of sacrificing them in the name of science. Not one, but all.
The latter would only be thwarted should she elect to end her own life instead, but Lydia was still reluctant to abandon her mortal vessel before she knew if the price was worthy of the reward. In her anticipation she could not imagine having to wait until morning, but she had to surrender to propriety and let the men settle in, get some rest and prepare for the tests of the new day to follow.
It pained her that she could not order them to march on down to the Voyager III at that very moment and prove to her, once and for all, that her capitulation to a greater force was not in vain after all. But as a good hostess she joined them in light banter in the drawing room after Sam’s cheek was given some ointment and Purdue’s curiosity was reined in in lieu of social interaction. He had to yield to the night and its relaxing activities and it was easier once he had made peace with the fact that he would have the run of the chamber and its curious components when he rose from bed the next morning.
Sam was just grateful that for once he was in a place of lodging with at least one familiar face and voice to put him at ease. Still he knew he had a good, diluted report to concoct to appease Richards and her foundation in the morning, but there were a dozen hours and an equal amount of whiskey glasses between now and then.
Chapter 10
In the morning after breakfast Sam spent about an hour to prepare a proper report for the Cornwall Institute, although he made a solid effort to stretch the truth and embellish the unassuming into something ordinary and accidental. He told Richards and her people that the fire was caused by electrical short and that there was no reason to assume that any deliberate act or sabotage was involved.
“Are you ready, Sam?” he heard Purdue sing from the other side of the guest room’s door.
“Shortly. I just need to send through this e-mail to get the Cornwall Institute off my back. I’ll meet you down in the lab in a few minutes,” he called back.
“Alright. Make it quick. You would not want to miss this, mate!” Purdue shouted as his footsteps hastened away from the door.
Sam uploaded the video footage from his encounter with the Alice engineer and the bit of video he obtained of the burnt metal before Healy’s fist found him.
“Thank God he didn’t break my camera,” he sighed under his breath as he save the last clip to the laptop. He got up and rummaged through his messy bag of clothes. “Jesus, I need a laundry service,” he mentioned quietly as he tried to find a shirt that was not hideously crumbled and creased.
A knock at the door solved his problem. Shirtless, wearing last night’s less than clean jeans, he perked up.
“Mr. Cleave, it’s Healy. Are you alright?” the butler asked.
“Aye! I’m fine, Healy,” Sam replied, hatching a plan to sort out his wardrobe glitch. Gathering his only three shirts he went to answer the door. When he opened the door Sam was instantly humbled by the strict man’s impeccable dress sense. Sam cleared his throat, “Excuse me for being forward, Healy, but can you get this ironed for me? I have nothing else with me and this looks awfully untidy.”
Healy looked down at the shirts. “Very well, sir.” He took the shirts from Sam and started down the corridor, but he suddenly stopped and turned. “Um, Mr. Cleave.”
“Aye.”
“Not to be brash, but those pants you are wearing should really join this bundle, don’t you think?” Healy said plainly, pointing at Sam’s jeans.
Slightly embarrassed, Sam leaned in to the butler and said softly, “I’m terribly ashamed to admit this, Healy. But I did not know that I would be away from home this long…or that I would end up on the ground at some point…”
Healy looked contrite for decking Sam to the floor at CERN.
“…so I have to admit that these are the only pants I have here.”
Downstairs Purdue and Lydia were exchanging ideas on how the Voyager III should be set up for optimal performance.
“For the most efficient energy propulsion, I would replace the RI derivative completely, cut it out,” he suggested.
“But then we have one less component to generate the necessary temperatures. We’ll never be able to accelerate enough in the given time, Dave. We need all the energy sources we can use,” she argued.
Looking at the schematic, they were lurching over the desk on the other side of the Voyager III. Only a double assembly stainless steel sound barrier wall with a small bullet proof triple plated observation window separated them from the subject inside the chamber – which Purdue had agreed to be for experimentation purposes.
From deep in the corridor they heard Sam and Healy approach.
“It’s about time!” Lydia cried without looking up. “We are running out of time. There is a powerful storm coming and I don’t want to run the risk of a lightning strike to fry the circuits. I am not trying to bring a stitched up dead monster come to life. I just want to test a theory.”
Purdue chuckl
ed, “You are far more alluring than Dr. Frankenstein, my dearest!”
Lydia smiled and winked at him. Purdue had always been a flamboyant flirt and she loved it. Doubt filled her about sending him into the chamber, but he was the perfect subject. With his knowledge of this field of study he was the best scientist to send in. After all, with his own theses on Einstein’s arguments to relativity theory and the further perpetuation of quantum gravity this experiment would profit his own studies greatly. Who better than someone like Purdue to observe first-hand the workings of scientific principals he had only found tangible on paper. The paradox had to be shattered.
“Oh my God, Sam,” she head Purdue exclaim. Lydia was curious as to his uttering and peeked around the tall, lean inventor to see Sam wearing Healy’s chino’s and polished shoes. The shirt he wore was extremely unlike what she guessed was normally Sam’s style, but it worked with the ensemble. A tight fitting black t-shirt, slimming style in acrylic and nylon, strained across the journalist’s chiseled chest and gave the impression that his biceps were twice the size they really were.
Lydia gave him a wolf whistle while Purdue applauded.
“Thank you, Healy,” Sam called out as he forced a modeling gait. Healy could not help but sport a proud little smirk at his achievement of bailing out Lydia’s guest with some of his own garb. Once they have settled down and Purdue had switched on the machine to power up over the next twenty minutes, Lydia pointed out the details to them.
“Sam, are you getting this?” Purdue asked, and Sam nodded, pointing his camera to the inventor and his lady friend.
“Please do not film the schematic, Sam,” Lydia implored. “Only the effect of the experiment, yes?”
“Don’t worry, Professor. I am not filming any intellectual property,” he reassured her.
“Good. Now, Dave, these are the theoretical co-ordinates of what the machine is going to concentrate the power beam on. When we add the last component you will hear a loud crack, like a gunshot. That is when you should start paying attention,” she instructed. Her excitement was obscured by her urge to get everything just right.
Lydia’s voice was shivering slightly, exhibiting her apprehension. Her time was running out and there were only so many chances at getting all the right ingredients in the quantities for her recipe. Her oven could only rise to the occasion with the most rigorous scientific power sources or else this cake would be a flop.
To the left of the schematic there was a dental cast freshly made, but Sam chose not to ask. He kept his movement undetected as much as he could as not to interfere or distract as he filmed the entire preparation process. Purdue did not seem at all nervous through Sam’s view finder.
‘You daft son of a bitch,’ Sam thought. ‘Anything for a thrill. Anything to be the first and the best, hey?’
Purdue’s awkward posture gave him a more twisted appearance over the fragile frame of the small woman next to him. They looked like two characters from an old black and white film about ghouls, Sam thought. And to make it more authentic through his eyes they were in actual fact discussing the impossible in a science lab. How apt it was!
“Right!” Lydia said finally, shifting the large worn paper aside. “That is all you have to know before you go in. Healy! One last drink before we embark on the most brilliant…”
“Dangerous,” Sam muttered in between.
“…experiment ever attempted. The new and improved formula!”
“Hear, hear!” Purdue grinned. Lydia wheeled her chair to the sound proof cover on the other side of the altered spare room. Sam halted his recording and nudged Purdue, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Why, naturally, Sam,” Purdue answered. “This is unprecedented!”
“That is precisely what is worrying me,” Sam whispered with intense urgency. “If this goes wrong, if anything is one iota too little or too much, you will be electrocuted, Purdue! Dead fucking meat! Is that getting into your thick skull at all?”
“Yes, it is,” Purdue said. The tranquil nature of his response disturbed Sam even more. He sounded almost indifferent.
“This is an uncontrolled experiment in someone’s basement! The chance of success is meager and more than that, it is suicide,” Sam pressed.
“Sam, this basement was constructed by one of the most exceptional minds in modern times. Besides, all virgin experiments are somewhat uncontrolled, aren’t they? Nobody knew what fire could be used for at first,” he whispered to Sam as he watched Lydia adjust the plating. “The Wright Brothers did not know if their craft was actually going to fly…until they risked it. Nothing would ever be discovered if people were too wary of the risk factor, Sam. Nothing.”
“God forbid anything goes awry, what do I tell people?” Sam persisted, appealing to Purdue’s personal issues in desperation. “What do I tell Nina?”
Purdue’s light blue eyes stared at Sam from behind the enforced glass of his spectacles. He was quiet, in contemplation of Sam’s words.
“That is a low blow, old boy,” he replied at last. “Don’t use Nina as some bargaining chip between my quest for discovery and my quest for love.”
“Come, boys! It’s time!” the raspy order came from Lydia. Between the two men the momentary stand-off spell snapped like a rubber band and they both returned to the task at hand. Sam had his camera rolling again and Purdue went into the changing booth to dress himself for the occasion. He removed his shoes and shirt. In his socks and vest he stood for a minute, listening to the humming current that flowed though the copper veins of the machine. Sam’s warning suddenly became very real, uncomfortably sensible.
But if he backed out now and Lydia nailed the experiment with someone else he would regret it forever. He slipped on the brown overalls and stepped into the combat boots that were reinforced with rubber and asbestos. Over his white hair he slipped the tan leather aviator cap, feeling like an idiot as he fastened the straps with plastic press studs under his chin.
“Oh, don’t forget to remove your glasses, Purdue. I have some tinted goggles here for your eyes to protect them against the light flashes of the surges,” Lydia called out to him.
“Alright,” Purdue replied.
‘As if I did not look stupid enough already,’ he thought, shoving his business writing pad into his boxers. On it he had noted the important information such as names and dates he was to keep track of to find what Lydia sent him for – hypothetically.
“You have to hurry,” she pushed, beginning to sound rather whiny. “There is a storm due later this afternoon and I want this machine switched off by then. Let’s do this already!”
Sam did not like the sound of the machine that was already removed from his favor by its makeshift construction, especially in consideration of the feat expected of it. To him the Voyager III was like a rusted old Volkswagen employed to race in Monaco’s Grand Prix. He hatched an idea.
“Lydia, tell us laymen, where would the tentative co-ordinates send someone, should the Voyager III be capable of time travel?” he asked.
He feigned interest in her theory, but Lydia did not notice. An interview from a renowned journalist such as Sam Cleave was an ego booster, blinding her with vanity so that she did not realize that he was simply trying to probe at the depth of her delusion.
“In theory,” she attempted to sound modest, just in case the model folded, “Purdue would have ended up where I last…” she suddenly stopped and deliberately coughed profusely so that she could formulate an answer that would not betray her secret before continuing.
“Do you need some water?” Sam asked. Lydia nodded. He put the camera down and ran to the bathroom next to the chamber room. By the time he returned she had sorted out her words. Drinking the entire contents of the glass, she inhaled deeply.
“Thank you, Sam.”
He picked up the camera again and she explained, “As I was saying, he would probably arrive in 1944 here in France. I picked the date and location from an old document I once read that intr
igued me about…”she seemed indifferent to the details, “…about, uh, I think Nikola Tesla’s involvement in Nazi propaganda or something. Anyway, I used those settings, but as you realize it is only a point of reference.”
“Of course. Of course that makes sense,” Sam agreed. But his interview was cut short by Purdue’s appearance, spoiling Sam’s idea to stall long enough for the predicted storm to come before they could have the chance to do the experiment. But it looked like his well intended procrastination was run down by Purdue’s zeal to make history.
Chapter 11
At CERN the day was drawing into an atmosphere as volatile as the weather.
Albert Tägtgren rushed through the large crowd of white coats and hard hats to get to the main office to take a call. He had just arrived for his shift, but his superior told him that there was an urgent message for him to call the Cornwall Institute in connection with a bursary for his son.
“Go on, Al. Just make sure you get back here before Greenley knocks off. I need at least one structural engineer at Alice at all times,” his superior told him before he headed for the office. He could not use his cell phone, for security reasons.
Fortunately the staff and workers at the laboratory were of such a vast number that nobody really kept up with anyone else unless they were close friends. Albert’s colleagues did not know that he had no son and that the Cornwall Institute did not give bursaries. In fact, they did not know what the Cornwall Institute was. But Albert did. He also knew that the message was code for an urgent request to fix a problem.
