Wednesday, April 06, 2011

VORTEX!



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RETURN TO NOVEL FICTIONS










VORTEX

By

Douglas L. Simmons


Copyright © 1999 by Douglas L. Simmons
All Rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions



Webpage: copyright © 2011 by Douglas L. Simmons

Notice to web page owners:
You may link your site to this page or to any of the articles listed below.

You may not Copy or "Mirror" these pages without the express permission of the Author.

It is presented here for you to read at your leisure, or copy and paste into your palm reader for your private use only.

It is my expressed hope that this tale, most of all, brings joy to the heart of the reader and, if possible, lends a different viewpoint from which to know the world about you.

    --the author (Douglas L. Simmons)





This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * *





Another dream...

...for the dreamer.



Vortex

By

Douglas L. Simmons


* * *




ONE -- Chicago: September, 1999


The Hawk was not yet out this year. Rather than the gale force winds, for which she was known, the Windy City was blowing gentle fall breezes. Pleasant wafts of cool autumn air. Quite unlike what the residents were accustomed to enduring just before the onset of winter: Winds that, in their haste to sweep away the last traces of summer, could pick unwary pedestrians off their feet and toss them tumbling wildly down the sidewalk. Send them bouncing along, as if they were just more pieces of newspaper, plucked from a trash can and sent sailing.

Somewhere on the cities south side, a lone wino hunkered down next to a dumpster in an alley, attempting to become completely inconspicuous.

Charlie--as efficiently camouflaged for his particular environment as would be any soldier hiding in some foreign combat zone--blended perfectly with the shadowy gloom of Chicago's back streets and alleys. The smudges of dirt on his face, and the permanent five o'clock shadow, combined with the unwashed knitted hat pulled down around his ears, and the long dirty gray trench coat he wore, were--in these shadowy places--as effective as any cloak of invisibility.

As long as he remained undiscovered until sunrise, Charlie would be content where he was. This was a warm enough place to spend the night and--unless some one of his fellow street dwellers came along to bum a drink from him--he had enough whiskey to last until hunger, the cold, and the necessity of accosting the parade of morning rush hour workers, on their way into the city, for pocket change (which he needed to acquire more whiskey) drove him from his hiding place.

It wasn't quite cold enough just yet to force him into the shelters, where he knew he could find a clean bed and some hot food to eat. But. Were he to go there, he would be required to bathe, attend religious services, and would not be allowed to drink.

With the millennium fast approaching, life on the mean streets of Chicago had steadily become more and more difficult for the street dwellers who, for many years, had found life in the concrete canyons to consist of not much more effort than standing on a corner for a few hours each day with a tin cup, or a hat in hand. Many of these late twentieth century hobos still maintained the pretense of hawking some form of wares, or selling their small talents by standing with guitar in hand and singing for change. The majority simply admitted to themselves, and the pedestrians passing by, who they were and stood shamelessly waiting for their daily payment. Life in the streets was like welfare. Without the paperwork.

The supporters of these vagrants: The ones who dropped change into the proffered receptacles, some with genuine heartfelt charity, others who--even though on their way to work and earn it--payed out of a twisted sense of guilt at having theirs while passing those in the street who did not, the ones who simply perceived it to be their duty, some kind of unwritten tax they had to pay for working and living in the city (like parking fees) had all recently lost their generosity.

It might have been because of the coming turn of the century. Everywhere were criers proclaiming: "The end is near. Doom is neigh. Prepare to meet your maker!"

Perhaps the jellied corpses that had been mysteriously turning up, strewn about the alleys, and parks in and around the city over the last few months, and which fell apart into quivering chunks of pickled meat and powdery bones when the city ambulance crews attempted to put them in body bags for removal to the morgue, had something to do with the failing cash flow. Maybe people were afraid these bodies were left by the victims of yet another horrible new affliction, for which there would be found no cure. Like aids, only with more immediate, more graphically visible consequences. Possibly they thought the bums were spreading the disease, and did not want to come in proximity with them out of fear of infection.

Maybe the end was coming.

Or: It simply might have been the results of inflation and lower incomes. With each passing year, people needed more money just to care for themselves and, with each new year, actual take home pay declined, as wages did not keep up with the rising prices. This left little room for charity. Whether it be motivated by love, or a guilty sense of duty.

Charlie did not contemplate these issues. If he thought about it at all, and could remember, he might have noted that he went hungry more often these days than he used to. That was a minor concern however. As long as there was money for whiskey other considerations could be forgotten, or put aside for later resolution.

Reaching into the inside pocket of the trench coat--which he had been given by the Salvation Army two years earlier after wandering into one of their shelters in midwinter with nothing on but his pants and a sweatshirt--he checked the bottle he had secured for tonight's vigil of drunken semi-sleep. Sleep spent with one eye dutifully open, operating without his conscious knowledge. Directed by some primordial part of his brain. An inner primitive which was still guided by an inherited instinct to survive. A piece of the man which somehow still managed to function despite decades of drowning in alcohol. A part of the man which still cared enough to rouse the rest of him, should danger approach.

Charlie liked the coat so much that he wore it year round. Not because it kept him warm: He valued the huge pockets where he could store the days plunder without anyone being the wiser.

The night was still young, but he decided he needed a drink right now. He knew he had enough change left to cop a bottle of cheap wine at the all night liquor store if the whiskey ran out. Charlie, a true connoisseur compared to most of his acquaintances (who would drink anything in a bottle) preferred rye whiskey, but would settle for wine in a pinch. He checked the darkness to insure that no one had crept up on him unawares, that he was truly alone. Once he had confirmed that no one was in sight who might want him to share his bottle or, even worse, take it from him, he lovingly pulled the only reason he still cared to live from his pocket. Removed the cap. Then slowly took a long pull from the neck of the bottle.

The whiskey seared a flaming path of pain down his throat, which passage was already afire from too many similar potions having blazed that same trail over the years. Charlie didn't mind; he knew that in a moment--as soon as he was able to breath again--the alcohol would numb his throat. Not long after that, his mind would follow, and all would once more be right with the world.

He capped the bottle, and was in the act of returning it to the safety of his coat pocket, when a blue/green glow began to glimmer in the air between Charlie and the wall of the building across the alley from his position next to the dumpster. At first, he thought it was reflected light from a patrol car passing in the street. Come to roust him from his resting place, or just driving by to discourage any gang bangers lying in wait for an opportunity to work their misery upon each other, and any innocent denizens of the night who happened past.

The glow brightened, penetrating the shadowed gloom of the alley, like a street light coming on at dusk. What little there was left of the mentality once owned by Charlie Dobbs the wino, roused enough to conclude that this strange light could not possibly be coming from the flashers on a squad car.

Completing the motion of returning his bottle to its resting place next to his heart, he forced the reluctant muscles of his arms and legs to raise his withered body to a standing position and began weaving his way toward the mouth of the alley, where the source of the tantalizing glow appeared to be located.

As he rounded the dumpster, Charlie saw the most beautiful object he had ever witnessed in his entire life. Like some gigantic glowing jewel, a shining cylinder, comprised purely of some form of ethereal blue radiance, glowed at the end of the alley.

Without even wanting to stop and take a drink first, weary of the miseries of this life, believing he had found the doorway to heaven, Charlie walked into the light.

* * *

William Powell was about as physically tired as any one human being could bear to be, and still keep his body moving in a particular direction without collapsing from the effort. The weariness within his soul, however, threatened with far greater force to drag him down, leaving his prone form lying in the street. Helpless to go on another step. The years had filled him with a terrible purpose and lent a substance to his character that, until now, had sustained him. He knew that strength was ebbing from his being, at a pace matching the ticks of the clocks counting the last days of this century into history.

Powell had little doubt his adversary would be coming tonight. He had waited twenty years, and exerted all his efforts, to reach this moment and meet the man about to arrive in the darkness of the alley. Many other men had died, just so he might live to make this rendezvous he had been fated for two decades to keep. Tonight another man would die. Powell was grateful that it would not have to be by his hand. He was intent on murder, but the man who would die here in this alley was not one of his intended victims. He had killed enough in his time, and although those deaths had been necessary acts (to protect the boy) had it been possible, Powell would have spared those peoples lives. Had he needed, he would have slaughtered twice the number.

To protect the boy.

The ones he fought were evil men, he felt no remorse for them, only for what they would force the boy to become.

He reached the entrance to the alley he had been looking for. Which opening led into a seeming deeper, more cloaking darkness than that which covered the shadowed streets where, at least, shown the dim glow coming from the lights shining pitifully at the corner of each intersection. He paused next to the opening leading between the buildings on Stony Island Avenue, and checked his watch.

Twelve-forty. Ten more minutes and, if the Fates were kind, it would all be over.

He had protected the boy for twenty years, and spent the rest of his energy attempting to discover a means to bring the entire crusade to an end. Powell sat the briefcase he was carrying down on the brick paving of the alley and carefully opened it. Reaching inside, he set the timing device for twenty minutes. Pressed the button, which armed the explosives connected to the timer, and gently closed the valise.

The now long familiar blue and green mix of light began to emanate from the space just inside the mouth of the alley. He pressed against the wall of the building, waiting for the glow to build, before going to confront the enemy. He knew his opponent would--coming from the light--be blinded as he stepped into the darkness. His curiosity overcame him however and he leaned around the corner, attempting to witness for himself the arrival.

Powell saw a glittering cylinder of bluish/green light, about ten feet in diameter, standing upright seemingly unsupported in the center of the alley, not touching the brick paving. Instead, hovering several inches above the road, and extending to about eight feet in height, before fading into nonexistence.

As he watched, a man dressed in black stepped from the circle, walked several paces in Powell's direction, and then stumbled. Falling face down, he rolled onto his back in an abortive attempt to sit up. Unconcerned with the mans apparent plight, Powell stepped around the corner and ran into the alley, passing the stricken form on his way toward the radiant cylinder standing just beyond the fallen intruder.

Moving deeper into the alley, Powell sensed motion farther back in the gloom. He stopped, pulling his pistol from the shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket. He stood with his hand on the butt of the gun, as whoever it was came close enough to be seen in the glow emitted by the cylinder. Relaxing when he saw that it was only some old wino, awakened by the light and noise, coming to see what the commotion was or, perhaps deciding it was time to move on to quieter quarters. Powell called out to the man, in an attempt to send him back the way he had come. He didn't need any distractions now.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Get out of here buddy, before you get in trouble!"

The man apparently did not hear Powell. He seemed to be entranced by the luminiferous object still standing in the air. He gave no indication of even being aware of having company with him in the alley as he stumbled toward the street until his body intercepted the light. Without hesitating, the intruder walked into the radiance and vanished.

Powell did not want to kill the man but realized he had little choice. He drew back his arm and tossed the bomb after the wino. But he had waited a moment too long. The wino had vanished. Before the briefcase could reach it, so too did the column of light. The valise landed on the brick paving and slid away into the night. Standing in the darkness of the alley, now lit only by the reflected glow of the street lights, Powell stared in shock at the empty space where this unexpected turn of events had transpired.

The man behind him coughed, reminding Powell that he had left his rear unguarded. Putting the wino from his mind, he turned, searching the darkness for the intruder who had so recently emerged from the light into which the wino had just vanished. Relieved, he saw that the other was still in the alley. The man looked to be very sick and was no longer even attempting to stand. The stranger was now sitting with his back against the wall of the building, where he had finally come to rest, leaning to one side and vomiting violently. Even in the semi-darkness of the reflected street lamps Powell could see that there was blood pouring from the mans mouth. Hurrying to kneel at his side, Powell did not try to comfort the stricken man. Instead he lifted the mans head to make sure the other was aware of his own presence and began to question him.

"Is it coming back?" he ask.

At first the man didn't respond and Powell shook him roughly as he repeated the question. "I said, 'Is it coming back?'" This time the man did answer. Powell knew he had to hurry, this guy was dying, and he wasn't taking his time about it.

"Huh?" the man said. "Who are you? Where's the vortex?"

Thinking quickly now, Powell replied, "That's what you need to tell me. I'm here to help, but you have to tell me if they're sending it back."

"Oh," the other said, comprehension dawning in his expression. His thought processes seemed to be muddled and anyone passing by without knowledge of the true situation would have taken him for just another disadvantaged citizen of the night.

"....morrow," he slurred. He coughed up another lung-full of blood which surprisingly seemed to clear his speech for a moment. "Tomorrow at midnight," he said. He squinted his eyes at Powell attempting to make out who he was talking to. "Who are you?" he questioned. "They send you to help me?" he ask hopefully and coughed again; more raggedly this time, but without any blood. Then added, "I don't feel so good," as his head lolled to one side.

"Yea," Powell lied, "they sent me, I just got here. Don't worry buddy. You're going home now." The man didn't hear him. He was already dead.

Tomorrow would be too late. He wouldn't have another chance. All he could do now was let the other take over. Powell just wanted a place to sit in peace and forget.

The boy was safe.










CHAPTER INDEX


TWO -- Illinois: June,1978








Marcus Reynolds smoothed his beard with his fingers and looked up through the densely leaded plate glass window separating this room from the one containing the thirty foot diameter gray metal torus laying on its side atop a stainless steel plate which, except for the array of coolant hoses and wiring conduits twining upward from it, passing through the concrete of the ceiling and on into the generator room above, looked like nothing more than a large metal doughnut positioned in the center of the other room.

Turning around, he gave the men and women stationed at the various computer terminals mounted about the floor of the basement control room a last critical look over; making sure in his mind that he had picked and chosen only those who would bear up under the split second demands of the task they were all about to shoulder in the next few minutes. Each individual was the best he could find and had outstanding records in their respective fields. He had paid dearly to convince most of them to leave the projects they were engaged in and come to work for him.

They were a good crew.

Satisfied, Marcus turned back to his own monitors and watched as the computer counted down the time remaining before the scheduled event. The team had cranked the generators up to full output and fed power to the torus on several occasions, but tonight was to be the true test of Marcus's theories. Having spent the last three days continuously accelerating a tiny fraction of an ounce of mercury suspended within the giga-watt magnetic field generated by the torus until it was now moving at speeds approaching so close to that of light itself that heretofore such velocity had only been achieved--using charged particles contained in a plasma--by the Fermi Accelerator located some seventeen miles south-east of this anonymous labs location; the team was ready to put the machine to its ultimate test of endurance.

If the torus could withstand the titanic forces exerted when the volume of fluid was accelerated past the critical velocity needed to generate the relativistic mass required to open the singularity, they would surely see results of one form or another.

Tonight Marcus would be vindicated. His claims to his colleges that one need not deal with subatomic particles or stellar masses to create a singularity; that by using magneto hydrodynamics to suspend a very dense liquid in a vacuum and accelerate it to subliminal speeds and then spinning it about its own axis of motion, the desired effect could be achieved.

The universe has rules.

Matter can be converted into energy. Energy can be transformed into matter. Neither can be created or destroyed. The universe, as it flows forward through time, will not allow such a violation of its laws. Except in the case of virtual particles which, although just as real as anything else in the cosmos, can appear out of nothing and return to nothing without the universe taking notice of them. Virtual particles do not have to follow the same rules as the rest of us do, the universe does not know they are there. They simply exist outside of time. They do not exist in one place long enough for the physical laws of this continuum to come into play and affect them in any way. They exist in this universe for less than the span of time it takes light to cross the nucleus of an atom, and do not travel through time like the rest of the matter in the universe but (much like a pebble dropped into a stream from above and then vanishing into the muddy bottom below) appear in time without becoming a part of the flow. They can be anywhere. Any when.

Tonight, as Marcus had mathematically predicted could be done, he would create a singularity in the space/time continuum through which virtual particles could pass in and out of this universe, have recorded data to substantiate his assertions, and his theories. Or: the torus would explode under the titanic stresses inflicted upon it. In either eventuality his problems would be over.

Then again; the machinery he had spent the better part of the last five years assembling--with begged, borrowed and stolen money--might just hum, and vibrate, and get hot. And do nothing. In which case Marcus would probably be better off leaving the country.

At the time, while struggling to secure funds to begin construction, it had seemed like good economics to build the entire complex on a single foundation. If he had it to do over, Marcus would put the power station, housing the gas turbines that were driving the DC generators, and supplying the torus with enough electricity to light a small town for weeks, further away from the operational facility itself. It was too late now. There was nothing to do but shout over the deafening whine which--despite the soundproofing in the floor--roared down from the gray building above and permeated the entire underground complex.

Marcus turned and called to the technicians stationed about the control room. "All right. We're go for transition in two minutes. Everybody just follow the procedures we have worked out, especially the shut down routine. Remember; after the event we have to bleed velocity into the magnetic field and dump the heat into the retention pond with the coolant pumps. However long it takes. If we loose power to the torus...well...kiss your ass goodbye now. Just in case."

Before he returned all of his attention to his duties, Marcus noticed one of the three women on his team--a tall good looking brunette, he thought her first name was Peggy--swat herself on the butt with the palm of her hand, kiss her fingertips and then blow the kiss across the room at him. So much for the stereotype of women Physicists being disarrayed, spectacle wearing, recluses.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, if tonight's venture is successful I'll have to ask her to help me celebrate. Then the woman once more became just another member of the team, as Marcus began going through the checklist, and the time keeper started calling out the countdown to critical mass.

"Mass at 99 percent and holding. T-minus one minute. Begin final power up."

From across the room: "Power up.... Go."

As the bass rumble emanating from the torus began to increase in volume until it rivaled the whine coming from the gas turbines above them, Marcus punched out the required authorization code on his key pad and turned the timing of the event over to the computer. They were dealing in incredibly minute fractions of a second and no human being could possibly make decisions fast enough, or react in time, to make the adjustments needed to keep the magnetic fields being generated stable as events progressed in real time. They had done all they could do, having set the process in motion, and would not be needed until after the event; to monitor the powering down of the accelerator.

Marcus listened to the team calling out their duties while, as a back up to the automatic systems, simultaneously performing them, probably long after the computer had itself initiated the action.

"T-minus thirty seconds."

"Critical mass.... Now!"

"Mark."

"Mass revolution stable and balanced."

"T-minus twenty seconds."

"Spin beginning now."

"Mark."

Marcus looked once again at the torus. Outwardly there was no sign of anything at all happening in the adjacent room, but he could picture in his imagination what was going on within the confines of the incredibly powerful magnetic fields generated by his creation. Less than a gram of mercury was circling around in there; like a snake with its tail in its mouth. Only doing so at an incredibly, faster pace than any such reptile could attain. Now it was beginning to twist over and over on its back as it revolved inside the ring. What happened next remained to be seen.

"T-minus nine seconds...eight...seven...."

"Spin at optimum."

"Mark."

"....five...four...."

"Velocity over critical.... Now!"

"Mark."

"....two...one...."

The rumble coming from the torus was by now so loud that it was being felt in the bones of the observers as much as heard by their ears. They could no longer hear the turbines at all, only the instrument readouts and the fact that they were still alive told them their power plant was functioning properly.

There was a flash of blue/green light at the center of the torus, followed by a clap of thunder. The plate glass window before them bowed outward as from some unseen blast, distending into the room in which the operators stood. Then it rebounded, curving back into the room containing the torus. Continuing for a few moments, bowing in and then out, again and again, as if some gigantic invisible gorilla were bashing his shoulder against the other side in an abortive attempt to escape. The floor beneath their feet heaved upward violently before subsiding to motionlessness.

As swiftly as the events had taken place, they ended. The only sound remaining was the now suddenly comforting whine of the generators. Although the singularity had been predicted in theory, still, all in the control room were equally amazed at the actual existence of the pale blue cylinder of light standing before them in the other room at the center of the torus.

Perhaps affecting the trait as an presumed aspect of his job or; maybe embodying some inner calm of his own which he brought to the task, the time keeper, sounding calm as ever, announced, "T-plus twelve seconds."

"What's happening?" Marcus demanded.

The technician assigned to monitor power levels answered, "The singularity is open, and...," a note of disbelief sounding in his voice, "it's sustaining itself."

Marcus shot back, "What do you mean; 'It's sustaining itself?'"

"Just that. The only power we're using is what's needed for the containment field. I had to override the computer to keep it from initiating shutdown. The computer thought the event was over."

Marcus punched up the recorded readouts from the seconds preceding, and shortly following, the creation of the singularity, studied them for a moment and then ordered, "The event is over. Begin power down of the torus."

"T-plus thirty eight seconds."

Expressing his burgeoning panic, the man monitoring the power readings yelled, "We can't power down! The singularity is still open!"

Marcus came away from his station and crossed to where the operator controlling the containment field was standing, stopped only inches from his face, yelling louder still, "Look through that window you fool! Do you see what's going on in there? Every second that passes, more and more virtual particles are deciding that's a good place to be."

The technician looked away from his monitors and into the room on the other side of the plate glass. Already there was a searing blue glow of light scintillating from the air above the torus. It seemed to increase in brightness as he watched.

Marcus roughly shoved the man away from the controls and began the power down sequence himself. "Most of them are harmless, but some of those particles are just coming from the heart of a sun or the inside of a black hole; they are extremely hot! So hot they are radiating that energy in the form of ultraviolet light. Perhaps as X-rays, or even Gamma rays. If that goes on long enough this place is going to melt down like a runaway nuclear power plant," he declared. "We have to close the singularity!"

"T-plus fifty three seconds."

Stabbing at the buttons on the control panel, Marcus ordered, "Begin power down sequence.... Now!"

"Mark."

* * *

Calm returned once again as the mass generating the singularity at the center of the torus slowed below the velocity necessary to maintain the opening into someplace outside of time. The threatening blue radiance subsided and the room--which had begun to feel like the inside of a furnace from the heat generated by that outpouring of energy above the torus--began to cool as the air conditioner blew frigid blasts of air from the duct work above their heads.

Now that the crises was past Marcus was about to appoint two of the members to complete the power down sequence and call for the rest of the team to collect all the data and bring it to the conference room for debriefing when one of the men at the console nearest the observation window called out in fright. "Marcus! What the hell is that doing in there?"

Everyone turned at the outcry to stare in speechless surprise at the German Shepherd puppy sitting in the middle of the torus with his tongue hanging out, happily wagging his tail.















CHAPTER INDEX


THREE -- Illinois: September, 1979








For the third time in less than a week, fourteen year old Tommy Wilson was awakened by the dull thumping and whining noises emanating from somewhere on the other side of the exterior wall of his bedroom. As he opened his eyes the sounds were once more repeated, this time accompanied by flashes of light which, shining in through his window, looked much like the strobe effect of a lightening bolt illuminating the darkness. He had heard these same sounds from time to time over the course of the last few months but of late they were coming more frequently.

The whining sounded much like the noise made when a jet engine is heard off in the distance, perceived only faintly at first, then rising in pitch and growing in volume as it approached. As he listened the whine suddenly terminated, only to be abruptly followed by a powerful but muffled thump. Then the night returned to silence.

Tommy knew he had not imagined the sounds, for the crickets and frogs, who normally kept up a nightly rhythm of discordant voices as they paged each other across the darkness, ceased on the instant, as if they too were listening for a return of the mysterious noises. As the sonic peace continued and the clamor of unknown danger no longer threatened the night, those creatures gradually resumed their symphony of animal song.

Tommy was unable to define the source of these sounds, they were not being made by anything approaching and impacting the side of the house, but whatever the cause it was close, seeming to emanate from right outside the window. Tommy knew there should be nothing near his house to cause such noises. The closest neighboring dwelling was fifty yards away. The people who lived there were older people who seldom came outside other than to go grocery shopping, or to church on Sunday morning.

Year before last, a lot of construction equipment had arrived only to begin digging and leveling in the field just the other side of the woods that filled the intervening distance between the last row of houses in the subdivision where he lived and the farm fields a mile or so to the west. Over the winter, through spring and part of that summer, these machines had generated all the sounds of industry as they went about their business of modifying the landscape to the west of the woods, but always during daylight. After sundown all was silent across the way. In addition, those machines had been gone since the beginning of July last year and this was the middle of September; more than a full year later. Now all that remained to show evidence of their activities was the unobtrusive one story gray building, and several large steel tanks next to it, which had been erected on the parcel of ground directly abutting the woods on the opposite side from his house. Although Tommy thought there had been a lot more equipment brought in than was needed to construct such a building, when ask about it, his father had stated that he believed the power company was running an underground pipeline into Chicago to bring in natural gas and said perhaps the place was a pump station or treatment facility of some sort, and there was likely a basement under the structure, which explained why all the earth moving equipment had been brought in.

Over the months which followed, that building was visited at various times by a few workers but there seemed to be no set schedule for activities at the facility, and for the most part a random observer would never have known whether the place was occupied or not. Then, a few weeks ago, dozens of men at a time had begun to show up at the facility and now it was manned around the clock, with more people coming and going all the time.

Whatever purpose the place served, the sounds, whether they were those of pumps and turbines, valves opening and closing, or something else--more sinister and foreboding--had to be coming from that building. Tommy had never heard them before, when there had been only woods and farm land behind his house, and beyond that innocent looking framework was nothing but corn fields. Until you reached Iowa. With the addition of the flashing lights, the challenge of mysterious activities across the way was more than the young boy could resist.

As silently as he could, Tommy slid from beneath the comfort and seeming safety of the warm thick covers his mother always ensured were tucked snugly around his lean form each night before turning off his light and gently closing his bedroom door. Before putting on his tennis shoes, Tommy retrieved the jeans, which had been neatly folded and laid on the dresser next to his bed, and pulled them on over his pajamas. He crawled across the carpeted floor until he was in a position to rise up and peek carefully over the window sill to see what exactly was transpiring out there in the dark, being careful the whole time to not raise his body above the level of the window. At first, all he could see was darkness. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the level of light coming from the stars, and what street lighting was being reflected off the few clouds overhead, he thought he caught a glimpse of shadowy figures darting furtively from tree to tree along the edge of the woods.

Wanting a closer view, after first peering over his shoulder to make sure his bedroom door was still closed and no one would see him from the hallway, Tommy quietly stood and released the latch on his window then, raising it halfway open, lifted the screen and dropped through the opening to the ground a few feet below. Not bothering to close the screen he turned and loped off across the yard, catching the fence in his hands, he vaulted across to the other side and then, with a few more effortless strides, disappeared into the woods without a trace.

Once he was in among the trees, Tommy knew no one would be able to find or catch him if he wished to remain undetected. He was, however, concerned about what would happen once he was inside the fence that surrounded the building across the way.

Tommy didn't know what made him think of it just then, but as he crossed through the trees he laughed to himself, remembering how he used to think that if he closed his eyes he became invisible. He had first convinced himself of this power at the age of nine years old while playing hide and seek in the woods.

* * *

After an incident with some older boys in the woods that day, he had enjoyed the false security of believing himself capable of disappearing in a crises concluding that, by whatever mysterious means, he had found a method of eluding the bullies who, up until that moment, had discovered no greater joy and success in life than the daily pummeling of Tommy Wilson.

The younger children always got out of classes an hour ahead of the more senior upperclassmen. Whether this was mere coincidence or prudent planning on the part of the school administrators was unknown. The timing did however give the smaller boys and girls a chance to make it home safely without being molested by the older children who, given the opportunity, could be as cruel as any evil villain ever spawned from the depths of some gothic horror writers imagination.

Tommy and several of his friends had decided to take the short cut through the woods from the bus stop instead of walking all the way around on the sidewalks where they were supposed to be. As the boys walked the familiar trails through the woods, they took up a game of hide and seek. Tommy ran off through the trees leaving the well worn path they were all familiar with and going deeper into the undergrowth than he had at first intended to go. By the time he realized his mistake it was too late and he had already become thoroughly lost. As evening approached and the sky began to become darker Tommy grew frightened and began to call for help. He was relieved when he heard the sounds of approaching footsteps crunching over the fallen leaves laying on the ground beneath the trees. Tommy ran toward the sound, calling out in gratitude to what he thought were would be rescuers out searching for him:

"Here I am! Over here!"

He came to an abrupt halt as he saw that the interlopers were not the adults he had expected to be out looking for him at all. Instead, he faced a roving band of teenagers armed with bows and arrows who, not being allowed by society to use lethal force against their younger counterparts, released their killer aggressiveness against the helpless denizens of the forest.

Tommy had already begun fighting his way through the denser growth of underbrush to reach the newly arrived party. It was too late to turn back as one of the older boys, obviously the ringleader, had already spied him.

He turned to the others and gloated, "Well fellas look what we have here! Mamas little baby wants to play in the woods with the big boys!"

Tommy, his hopes of rescue fading, realized that he had ran from the simple embarrassment of being lost into the much worse position of now becoming the helpless victim of these want to be Robin Hoods, who, while probably not being overtly homicidal would at the least torment him for a while before once again abandoning the younger boy to the mercies of the woods.

Backing up a pace, he said, "Hi guys. What are you doing out here; hunting?"

"Yea punk!" the older boy replied sarcastically. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," Tommy said. "I was just wondering. I saw your bows and arrows. What are you hunting; rabbits?"

The older boys looked at each other mischievously and one of them, one who had not yet spoken, stepped forward, notched an arrow into firing position as he did, and pointed the bow downward, aiming the arrow at Tommy. Leering as he loomed over the smaller boy, he said, "Yea, we're hunting rabbits! You're not a rabbit are you?"

Tommy, his voice shaking, held his hands up protectively before his face and attested, "No sir. I'm not a rabbit. I'm just a little boy."

"Well you look like a rabbit to me, Buddy!"

"I'm just a little boy," Tommy reaffirmed, adding: "and I'm lost!"

Another of the teenagers slung a string of dead rabbits from off his shoulder and held them, suspended by their feet, hanging head down with their long ears flopping before Tommy's face and taunted, "We've already got enough for today. Besides who's gonna carry him if we shoot him? He looks pretty heavy to me."

"Aaa," the first one gibed, waving his arm in dismissal, "just shoot him in the leg and leave him here! By the time anybody finds him we'll be long gone."

The boy holding the rabbits, becoming concerned with the severe turn the game was taking, ask, "Yea but what if he talks? He might tell them we did it."

"So what," the first boy scoffed. "It'll be his word against ours. Hunting accidents happen all the time. Nobody will believe we did it on purpose."

By this time Tommy was as scared as it was possible for a nine year old boy to be. Turning back down the trail the older boys had been following he began to run as if the hounds of hell themselves were at his heels.

Tommy's tormentors chased him down the trail for a while and then, as they all began tiring of the game, one of them called after him as he cut behind the trees and got out of sight; still running.

"Hey! Come on back kid! We were just kidding; we're not gonna hurt you!"

"Aaa shit!" another said. "Come on, we've got to find him." Tommy kept running until he heard the sound of his pursuers begin to diminish behind him. Still fearing capture, he continued to flee until his legs ached from exhaustion and his lungs were about to burst from striving to intake enough air to meet the demands of his pumping muscles. When, at last, he could run no further, the boy collapsed. Spent and now more lost than ever, he waited hopelessly beside one of the woods many seemingly identical trees.

He sat facing back along the way he had come and waited for the doom he could hear approaching down the trail. There was nothing he could do; he had no strength remaining to as much as move to hide, let alone run another step.

The boy who had threatened him with his bow and arrow came around the curve in the trail and spotting Tommy turned to call back to his comrades, "I've found him; he's over here!" Tommy's terror was now complete and he closed his eyes tight shut; unable to face his imminent demise.

As the rest of his tormentors came up next to the one who had spotted him sitting by the tree Tommy heard one of them ask, "Well; where is he Dave? I thought you said you'd found him." Tommy could hear them shuffling in the leaves as--with his eyes still closed--he found the energy to crawl around behind the tree in a last feeble attempt to escape.

"He was just right here," the first voice--the one belonging to Dave--said. "I swear he was, not five seconds ago!"

"Well he's gone now, and I'm not staying out here all night looking for him. Let the little bastard find his own way home," the second, still nameless, voice said. "If the punk's got any sense at all he'll stay on this trail until it comes to the road and then he'll know where he's at. Unless he's just completely stupid!"

Tommy chanced opening his eyes and peeking around the tree as he heard the sounds of the other boys moving off through the woods, headed back the way they had come. He watched awhile, until he was certain they were not trying to trick him by hiding along the trail and waiting for him to show himself, then jumping out to continue their cruel crusade, before he stood and slowly followed in their wake, hoping that the one who had spoken last was telling the truth about the trail leading to the road. Puzzled about what had occurred in the woods, he went over the events in his mind, again and again, as he walked home. Seeking a reason why they could not have seen him sitting there right in the open next to the tree. The only conclusion he could draw from his recollected observations was that when he had closed his eyes in fear the others could no longer see him, any more than he could see them. The more he thought about it, the more this conclusion made sense to him.

Tommy had lived with this fallacy until some time later when, while out for recess on the school yard, he had been bragging of his ability to one of his friends.

The other boy said, "You're making it up Tommy. No one can turn invisible!"

"I can too!" Tommy replied smugly. "I did it before in the woods, these kids were right in front of me and they couldn't even see me at all!"

"They probably just lost sight of you in the weeds. You said you were crouching down to hide."

"I'm telling you I was right out in the open and I just closed my eyes and they couldn't see me anymore," Tommy declared.

"Okay," the other boy dared him. "Prove it!"

Firmly convinced of his power, in addition to now living under the terrible onus of a dare, Tommy deliberately ran across the school yard and confronted one of the bigger boys, one who regularly boxed his ears for sport. Once he had roused the bully's ire, he ran around the corner of the building, then stopped and stood against the wall with his eyes closed to test his theory.

The bully promptly followed him around the building, caught him by the front of his shirt, and blacked Tommy's eye, and summarily left him there; confused and in pain. Wondering what had gone wrong.

Matters were only made worse by one of his friends walking up and pointing out, "Boy that was really stupid Tommy!"

Several days later, the same bully chased him down an alley and Tommy, with his short lived arrogance now completely expunged from his character, cowered in frightened submission beside the chain-link fence which bordered some anonymous homeowners back yard. Once again he was about to close his eyes in fear, but as he stood there listening to the other kids laughing and disparaging him a feeling different than the terror he was accustomed to in these situations came over him.

"Why don't you close your eyes and turn invisible Tommy?"

"Look at the invisible man!"

"What invisible man?"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Tommy jumped to his feet and charged the larger boy who, completely caught off guard by this totally unexpected turn of events, stopped his advance toward his intended victim and, slipping on the loose gravel beneath his feet, attempted to backpedal and regroup. Tommy came in at chest height. The impact of his body, aided by the others lack of traction and combined with the momentum of his retreat, sufficed to send both Tommy and his opponent sprawling heavily in the gravel of the alley. The older lad smacked his head as he fell and was already knocked nearly senseless when Tommy landed on his chest and began to pelt him with blows to the face. He wasn't really doing much damage to the other boy but no one was to ever know this as just then one of the teachers from the school, who had been passing the alley on his way home and spotted the melee, jumped out and running from his car caught Tommy by the back of his coat. Pulling him off the other boy and bringing the fight to an abrupt end.

The teacher recognizing the boy on the ground as one of the school bullies, who would invariably spend much of his school carrier in the Principals Office, decided from the look of things he might have got some just deserts for a change.

"All right now boys; the fight is over," the man declared. He shook Tommy several times and then releasing him, scooted him toward the street saying, "I would suggest that you take yourself home young Mr. Wilson, I know your father personally and I don't think he would approve of this kind of behavior. Now would he?"

"No sir," Tommy replied.

"Then let's have no more of it and I won't have to mention it to him the next time I see him. Fair enough?"

"Yes sir," Tommy said again, now himself eager to be away. The teacher must have been true to his word as Tommy's father had never questioned him about the incident.

At school it was a different matter. Tommy became somewhat of a hero with the other boys his age and that particular bully never bothered any of them again.

He never did learn to become invisible but he learned enough self-confidence from the experience to defend himself and not be pushed around any more. Win or loose.

* * *

As he slipped through the woods behind his house, Tommy knew he didn't need a cloak of invisibility to protect him; he was plenty scared enough that caution would suffice in its place. No matter what his dad said, there was more going on in the building on the other side of the woods than the pumping of natural gas. The woods were crawling with intruders. Men dressed all in black, to the extent that even their faces were covered or darkened with camouflage. Several times Tommy had to go to ground to avoid being spotted. He wondered, as he watched these dark men (he could only think that they looked like some sort of Ninja fighters who had become lost and were wandering about in search of their mythical homeland; a place which, in Tommy's estimation, existed only in the mind of whoever it was that wrote all of those corny Kung Fu movies which aired on late night television.) if the country were being invaded by some secrete army who had set up camp amid the trees behind his house.

He didn't get lost in the woods this time. Over the years Tommy had become as familiar with the terrain there as he was with his own back yard. He swiftly made his way through the trees and out the other side, then continued until he came to the ten-foot high, barbed-wire topped fence which surrounded the nondescript gray building. He knew from having scouted the property during daylight that every ten feet or so were posted signs which read:

"NO TRESPASSING!"

PRIVATE PROPERTY!

VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW!

He walked along the fence to the other side of the property until he came to a gully running out of the woods and on into the farm land to the west. Hearing a noise he ducked down, momentarily panicked, sure he had been caught. Trapped against the fence with nowhere to run. Then he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw it was only someone's dog, chasing a rabbit through the woods, more likely. Checking again, just in case--although these men scattered about the woods were a new addition--over the last several weeks there had been guards patrolling the inside of the fence, Tommy got down on his belly and went under. Sliding carefully through the gap left between the fence and the ground, at the point where the fence crossed the gully, he entered enemy territory.

Now walking around the grounds on the inside of the fence, Tommy observed the gray building, scouting the perimeter of the structure looking for a window or a door perhaps through which he could get a peek inside and see exactly what his mysterious new neighbors were up to. As he swung around the far side of the building Tommy heard the now familiar whining sound begin to build in the air around him.

The sound was much louder now that he was so close and, although it seemed to be coming from the very ground beneath him and was felt in his body as much as heard, there was no longer any doubt that it originated within the confines of the building before him. The noise continued to build and he was at last forced to drop to his knees, simultaneously putting his fingers in his ears to protect them from the now painful emanations assaulting him from all directions. Just as he was certain his eardrums were about to burst if the volume of noise increased one more decibel the horrible jet engine roar cut off and the tremendous SLAM! which followed, traveling through the soil as well as seeming to concuss the air around him, lifted him from the ground and tossed him backwards into the field next to the fence; where he lay in stunned disbelief and waited for the ringing in his ears to stop and his hearing to return.

Shaking off the effects of the unseen blast, Tommy was about to get up and move closer to the building, still intent on finding the answer to his question about what was going on inside, when a door flew open on the side of the building facing him and a man ran out. The newcomer continued his flight, rapidly speeding away into the cover of the night. No sooner had the man faded into the darkness cloaking the grounds around the place and once again the door burst open. Several more men piled out one after the other. They paused, silhouetted in the light coming through the still open door, to turn on the flashlights each carried in the hand which was not holding a gun. Spreading out, they ran into the darkness, apparently in search of the man who had exited just ahead of them. Fortunately these men were moving away from Tommy. As they ran he heard one of them--talking into a radio he guessed--call for the outside lights to be turned on.

Without knowing why, Tommy felt he would be in some serious trouble if he were caught here inside the fence and for a moment he panicked. Then having no other choice, as he heard the buzzing sound the floodlights made as they came on around the building and began to brighten into the glare of near daylight intensity they would attain when fully powered, he closed his eyes. Not because he thought it would render him invisible, he was simply attempting to save his night vision, which he would need if he was able to get back outside the fence and into the shelter of the woods. He hurriedly began to crawl away from the building, aiming himself by memory toward the place where he had passed under the fence.

Tommy could still hear the men running and calling to each other but it seemed his luck was holding, as none of the voices were moving in his direction. Just as he was beginning to think he was going to make a clean getaway, a hand came out of the dark and grabbed him by the arm.

"Come on, kid. We've got to get out of here right now!" Tommy heard a gruff voice say, as he was lifted to his feet and forced to begin running back the way he had come. He opened his eyes only to be blinded by the brilliant glare beaming into his face from spotlights, mounted on poles set next to the fence every twenty feet and shining their light back toward the building behind him.

Whoever it was escorting him away from the building obviously knew where the gap under the fence was located, as he led his captor, pulling--and dragging him when necessary--unerringly through the darkness straight to that spot without hesitation. Never once stumbling or deviating from his intended course.

When they reached the opening in the fence the man, whom he had yet to get a good look at, released his hold on Tommy's arm and, moving to stand behind him, gently pushed him down. Then said, "Quickly! Crawl through, I'm right behind you."

Tommy, having been pushed--and dragged--around about as much as he was going to stand for in one night, dug his hands into the dirt beneath the fence, got his feet firmly planted on the ground and stood to face his opponent. Then questioned:

"Who are you? I'm not going any further until you tell me what's going on here!"

The man who, now that he had as good a look at him as was possible in this light, sort of reminded Tommy of his own father, except his father had never worn a beard in his life, and this fellow had a gravely voice quite unlike the tenor of his fathers speech.

He hurriedly replied, "There's no time Tommy! We have to get to your house right now or I won't be able to save your parents!"

"What?" Tommy ask, becoming more and more confused at the situation. "What do you mean?"

"That place is going to explode!" the man asserted, pointing back over his shoulder. "We have to get your parents into the basement of your house before it does, or they'll be killed." The man paused long enough to once more try shoving Tommy under the fence. This time the boy gave in, knelt down and went through to the other side. No sooner than he was on his feet again the man had him once more by the arm and led him dashing off through the trees toward the other side of the woods. Finally realizing that Tommy was no longer resisting and was running willingly, without having to be pulled along, the man released his hold on the boys arm and still running began to encourage him verbally to quicken his pace.

Running confidently through the darkness beneath the canopy of the trees, as if he knew these woods as well as Tommy himself did, the man said, "We don't have much longer Tommy. That place is going to go up anytime now."

When the pair burst forth from the woods and ran across the open field behind Tommy's house, the intruders patrolling the woods shouted an alarm as they spotted the fleeing duo. The man raced ahead and vaulted the fence behind the back yard and then, as he waited for Tommy to climb over, pulled a pistol from his jacket and filled the night with the sound of echoing gunshots as he rapidly fired several times back toward the direction from which they had come. Tommy had lost sight of the man after he jumped the fence. As he fired into the trees, apparently covering their retreat, Tommy easily spotted him crouched down next to the window he had so recently exited, in search of adventure.

"Quick!" the man urged between gasps for air, winded by the long run from the other side of the woods. Holding his hands down in a cradle the man motioned for Tommy to use them for a step so he could boost the confused and round eyed boy up and in through the window.

Tommy who earlier had been forcibly directed, was now following the mans instructions willingly, but only because of his insistence and the urgent tone of his voice. He had not been allowed time to think about what was going on, things were happening much too fast. Now he balked and once more demanded, "What is going on mister? I'm not going to let you hurt my family!"

The man, still pulling in deep lungs-full of the cool night air replied, "I'm not here to hurt anyone Tommy! There's no time to explain! No time. Wake your parents and get them into the basement--don't let them argue about it--tell them a tornado is coming. Tell them anything, just get them downstairs!" Then returning to his original methods, the man lifted Tommy by the seat of his pants and tossed him in through the window.

Tommy's parents had already been awakened by the commotion and as the hall light came on his father ran down the hallway and in through his bed room door yelling: "What the hell is going on in here. What's all that noise, it sounded like gunshots!" The boy could now hear the familiar whine building in the distance. Maybe it was his imagination but this time it seemed to contain a much more ominous tone, as if there were a power behind the sound that had not been there before. He turned to look back through the window, but the strange bearded man who had led him here was gone.

Then, as the terrible whine continued to build in volume and a rumble grew in the ground beneath their feet, Tommy, no longer willing to risk questioning the veracity of his mysterious savior, took his father by the arm and pulling him back down the hallway toward the basement stairs demanding, "Come on Dad, we've got to get Mom into the basement! There's a tornado coming!"

None of them had ever actually heard a tornado, and the incredible noise emanating from the far side of the woods might well have been that of a twister. Whatever the reason, whether it was the noise or Tommy's desperate pleading, his mother and father followed him down the stairs to the safety of the basement.

As the trio huddled in fear along the west side of the house's foundation the terrible sounds continued to build around them until, true to the previous pattern, the cacophony abruptly ended to be followed by a powerful thump which shook the ground outside their protective walls. Just as Tommy let out a sigh of relief thinking that perhaps the stranger had been mistaken and the crises was over, the sky outside the small louvered window above their heads lit up as if a midnight sun had blossomed in the sky. Then the concrete floor beneath the terrified family slammed them into unconsciousness as the blast from the explosion leveled their house around them.

* * *

Tommy awoke to the sound of fire engines and police cars arriving at the scene of the explosion. The sun was just below the horizon. In the pre-dawn light he could see that his parent's house was totally destroyed. The three of them had only survived the fatal effects of the blast because of the strangers efforts to get them safely below ground level. Now they lay huddled under the west wall of the house, which had fallen intact across the basement and miraculously lay above them at an angle, the base of the wall still clinging to the top of the concrete foundation to which it had been attached.

Thomas Wilson Senior, who was already conscious and bent over checking his wife, noticing that his son was awake, ask, "Are you all right son?"

"Yes Dad," Tommy replied, standing up. "I think so." He flexed his arms and walked a couple of paces to make sure everything was working.

"Yea, I'm okay Dad. Just a little sore, that's all."

"Good. I'm going to need you to help me with your mother. She has a nasty gash on her head and I want to get her to a hospital right away!"

Between the two of them they managed to clear away enough rubble to begin carrying Tommy's semiconscious mother across the basement floor and up the stairs into the growing daylight above them.

As Tommy and his father brought Amanda into the light of the morning sun she roused enough to demand they let her stand on her own feet and attempted to walk unassisted but, still dazed and weakened by her injury, found that she was not up to the task and acceded to letting them help her across the debris littered front lawn. An attendant from one of the ambulance crews ran up to them and took charge of their kinswoman. The man quickly examined Mrs. Wilson, then took his coat off and spread it on the ground.

He said, "This lady has a head injury and she's in shock. We need to get her off her feet immediately." Then moving behind them, he supported her head as he had them lay the now passive woman down on top of his coat.

Tommy said, "That's my mother. Is she going to be all right mister?"

Looking up to smile at the boy the attendant replied, "I'm sure of it son. She may need some stitches in her scalp but she's going to be just fine; don't you worry."

Tommy's father took his housecoat off, rolled it up and was about to put it under his wife's head but the attendant waved his hand and, pointing, said, "No not there, put it under her feet Sir, we need to elevate her legs."

The attendant was in the process of taking Amanda's pulse when the driver of the ambulance he was working out of pulled up at the curb. Leaving the engine running the driver got out, went around to the back of the vehicle, took a wheeled stretcher from the rear compartment, pushed it over to where the first attendant was administering to the stricken woman, then collapsed the legs and lowered the stretcher to the ground next to the prone form of their patient. The two men consulted for a moment and then lifted Amanda onto the stretcher, raised it until it was elevated above the ground at waist height and quickly wheeled her to the back of the ambulance, where they once more collapsed the legs and slid their patient into the back of the rescue vehicle.

While the first man on the scene climbed in to continue treatment, the driver turned back to the anxious pair standing at the edge of the curb and began to collect the information he would need for the emergency room staff at the hospital.

He quickly shook hands with Tommy's father, who introduced himself, and then said, "My name is Charlie Dobbs. I don't want you to worry too much Mr. Wilson, your wife, is in good hands, Pete there is the best in the business. Looks like she's going to be fine. A few stitches and a couple of days rest will have her good as new."

"Well that's a relief," Thomas replied, and ask, "Is there anything we can do?"

"No, no. We're taking care of everything," Charlie answered. "I just need to get her name and the address here, and any allergies she may have. Her blood type would help if you know it."

"O-Positive, and I don't think she's allergic to anything. Not that I know of."

Charlie wrote that information down on his pad then said, "Good; that'll do it. Just sign here and we can be on our way to the hospital." Thomas signed the form on the clipboard the driver handed him, then handed it back.

"Is anyone going to be riding along with us?" the driver ask.

The older Thomas Wilson thought for a second and then said, "No, I think I better stay here with my son right now and see what we can do about the house. We'll bring her clothes with us and come to the hospital in a short while." He looked down at himself, chuckled and continued, "Speaking of clothes, I suppose I should see if I can find some to put on myself instead of standing here in broad daylight in my pajamas."

Turning away Charlie hurried around to the drivers side of the ambulance, tucking the clipboard under his arm as he went, then before getting in called back across the hood of the vehicle, "She'll be at St. Joseph Hospital in Elgin Mr. Wilson!"

As they stood and watched the ambulance drive away with its lights flashing and siren blaring out a warning to anyone in its path, Tommy turned to his father and ask, "What are we going to do now Dad?"

"First we're going to find my clothes, and locate my car keys, then I'll see if I can get the car out of what's left of the garage. In the meantime...," Thomas broke off to give his son an appraising look before he continued. "....we are going to explain to me why it is that we were out running around in the middle of the night with our clothes on over the top of our pajamas, and tell me exactly how you knew there was going to be an explosion in the middle of the woods behind our house!" Thomas paused to look about at the carnage which had only yesterday been the peaceful neighborhood where he was raising his family.

"I was in the army young man and I can tell the difference between a tornado and gunshots and explosions, even if I haven't seen the one. I've heard the others on several occasions."

* * *

After Tommy had told his father of his adventure in the woods--not at all sure he was believed--and tried to explain the reasoning behind his behavior, Thomas Senior had stood silently for several minutes and then said, "Very well son, we'll sort it all out with the authorities when they come to question us; which I'm sure they will shortly!"

Father and son searched through the remains of their home, tossing the pieces of wood and masonry, those pieces small enough to be lifted by hand, to the side, until they located the clothes they wanted, along with several other items they thought might be needed during the course of the day. Going out to the back yard where the utility shed, somehow managing to avoid destruction, still stood as sturdy as the day the two of them had erected it, Tommy and his father took turns going inside to change clothes.

Tommy's father peered in beneath the roof of the garage, which had collapsed downward from the effects of the blast but was still resting, supported by the remains of the crumbled walls, just above the roof of the car still parked within the structure. He decided he would be able to back the Oldsmobile Delta 88 out if they could free the rear portion from the remains of the garage door laying across the trunk.

Tommy stood to wipe his hands on his pants after helping to carry a rather long board off to the side to pile with the others already placed there. As he turned to walk back for another piece to carry he saw the bearded man from the night before walking up the street, coming in their direction. Catching his father by the arm he pointed and whispered urgently:

"Dad! That's the guy who was in the woods last night."

Looking to where his son was pointing Thomas Senior dropped the board he had been holding in his hand as he saw the man Tommy had described to him coming up the sidewalk. The man was tall and muscular. He had brown hair and was wearing a beard, which was showing gray on the sides and no longer matched the color of his hair. He was dressed in one of those dark blue suits businessmen used to wear, but which are only sported now by FBI agents in television crime dramas. He looked as if he had slept in his cloths; the knees of the pants, and the elbows on the jacket, were stained with grass and dirt.

"Well I'll be.... I guess you were telling the tru...." Realizing what he had been about to say Tommy's father chopped off his words, not wanting his son to think he was calling him a liar. Trying to cover his slip, embarrassed at himself, he smiled down at the boy and amended what he had been about to say.

"Let's just have a talk with this mysterious stranger and see if he has any answers about what the hell has happened to our fair town."

As Tommy and his father turned from their task, walked down the drive to the sidewalk, then turned in the bearded strangers direction, Thomas Senior was half expecting the man to bolt and run at their approach. Instead he looked back over his shoulder, as if afraid someone might be pursuing him from that direction. He quickened his pace so as to meet up with the waiting pair all the sooner.

As the visitor came to a halt before them, Tommy's father challenged, "I want to ask you a few questions Mr...?"

"Wil...," the man started to answer, then paused. As if he were having a sudden migraine attack, he raised his right hand to his head, squeezing his temples between his middle finger and his thumb, then with his eyes closed slowly running his first two fingers across his forehead, applying pressure against his skull as he did. He glanced toward the wreckage of the Wilson's garage for a moment as if trying to focus his eyes. Then, his distress seeming to depart as rapidly as it had occurred, the stranger smiled mysteriously.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm still a little dazed from the explosion. I almost didn't make it to cover." He extended his hand to Thomas Senior in a traditional offer of introduction and went on, "The name is William. William Powell."

Apprehensively he cast one more glance back the way he had come and then continued speaking, again using the same brusque manner he had when dealing with Tommy the night before. "There's no time for questions right now Mr. Wilson. We--"

"See Dad, it's just like I said. He knows our names and everything!" Tommy interrupted.

"Don't be rude Tommy," Thomas Senior chided his son.

The man smiled down at the younger member of the Wilson clan, and said, "I'm afraid you're mistaken son; I am a long way from knowing everything. I only wish I did."

He returned his gaze to Thomas and continued, "I'm really sorry for behaving so secretively Mr. Wilson, but there just is no time to explain. We have to get off the street before we are spotted. There are dangerous people behind all of this, and they absolutely must not see me talking to you!"

"You're damned right there are some dangerous people around!" Tommy's father replied vehemently. "Anybody that would build a place right next to peoples homes, that was so unstable it could blow up a city block, without so much as even letting them know about it is dangerous as hell in my opinion!"

Exasperated, the man who had introduced himself as William Powell took Thomas Senior by the arm and led him back up the drive. Intent on getting all of them out of sight, he made for the shed where father and son had earlier sought shelter to change their clothes. Before the other man could protest this action, intent on getting everyone out of sight, Powell pulled a wallet out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open so the identification and the silver badge inside were visible to Thomas.

"I am an investigator Mr. Wilson. For some time now I have been watching the people who were operating that facility. As I said they are very dangerous people. They are capable of doing you and your family great harm."

When they came to the shed, Powell insisted Thomas Senior unlock the door so they could all step inside where they would not be observed. Leaving it cracked just enough to allow a little daylight inside Powell pulled the door closed behind them.

Tommy had inherited his stubborn streak from his father and the older man now demonstrated the strength of that heritage. Usually a quiet and peaceful man, he directed that willfulness against the challenges of molding a life from the harshness of the physical world, rather than toward his fellows. Only when forced into a position which left no other options did the brown haired blue eyed, six foot tall, ex high school quarterback use his strength to enforce this will upon another. Now feeling himself in just such a position Thomas Wilson Senior grabbed the intruder who--for all he knew--might well be the nemesis behind the sudden tragedy befalling his family. He slung Powell around and slammed his back up against the interior wall of the shed, knocking free the yard tools, hanging on pegs attached to the wall, which fell clattering against the concrete of the floor.

He held the man pinned against the wall, shaking him in rhythm to his words as he spoke:

"Listen you. I don't care who you are. Spy, or cop, or private detective. Or whatever! I've had just about all the bullshit I'm going to stand for in one day! Do you understand?"

Thomas shoved the man again, this time lifting his feet off the ground, before letting him go and stepping back a pace, but still keeping the other within arms reach. He stood for a moment with his arms at his sides, regaining control of his emotions before speaking.

"My house is gone--hell my whole neighborhood is gone! My wife is in the hospital and for all I know you might well be the cause of it all. The only reason I'm still standing here talking to you instead of turning you over to the authorities, or better yet just beating you to a pulp myself, is that my son said you got him out of the woods last night and might well have saved his life."

Thinking of Tommy, he looked down at the boy and said, "Son I want you to go outside and finish getting those boards off the back of the car so we can get it out of the garage and go to the hospital. Okay?"

The boy obviously didn't want to leave his father alone with the stranger but he reluctantly nodded his head affirmatively and went to do as his elder had ask him to.



CHAPTER INDEX


FOUR -- Washington D.C.: July, 1978


















The flight into Washington had been forced to circle because of the rain and, already running late, Ted Preston was further delayed while waiting for the rental company to find him a car, as they had misplaced his reservation. After fighting his way through the abominable Washington D.C. traffic, he finally arrived at the Institute three minutes shy of being two hours late. Not bothering to open his umbrella, he ran through the rain from his car to the east door of the building where he was supposed to have already been seated around the table in the conference room on the third floor.

His short pudgy figure belied the quickness of his movements. Although somewhat overweight for his height, Ted was not out of shape. He religiously followed the required regimen of rigorous daily exercise mandated by the Institute, and could endure hours of stringent physical exertion if the necessity arose. He wasn't as observant of the recommended dietary schedule and overindulged in the chocolates and candies he enjoyed so much. No one chastised him, as his appearance had never affected the performance of his job and, in fact, was often an asset. Why would anybody ever think this short overweight fellow, who looked no more imposing than a bookkeeper, or a bank teller (always seen with his ever-present briefcase and umbrella in hand) was one the most dangerous men in the world?

The phone call Ted received in the middle of the night had left no doubt of the urgency of the unscheduled meeting the Chairman of the Committee had called for seven o'clock on a Tuesday morning.

Officially, Ted was a Colonel in the United States Army, and there was no documentation available to anyone outside the Institute which did not reflect this erroneous information. Fifteen years ago, while a Major on active duty, he had been approached for recruitment by a civilian agency which operated covertly under Charter of the White House, called the Department of Planning. After the purpose of the agencies existence was explained to him, Ted had agreed to leave active duty and go to work for that agency. Once he was evaluated by the Department, and subsequently trained, Ted had been assigned to the Oversight Committee. An elite group of men and women who operated under the auspices of the Institute for Change; a subsidiary branch of the Department of Planning. He began work in the field as an agent of the Oversight Committee.

During the intervening years Ted had become the Institutes best operative. The Army still carried him on their books, but the only information they kept on file about his activities was the record of his promotions and a copy of the orders temporarily assigning him to work for White House as part of a public relations program instituted by the military during the Viet Nam War years.

Fifteen years was a long time to be on a temporary duty assignment with an agency outside the military establishment. The information concerning Ted's military career was open to public inquiry. However; should anyone have actually delved into his whereabouts, or what activities he had been involved in, during the course of those years they would have been politely--or otherwise--instructed to mind their own business.

Since becoming a part of the Institute, this was the first time Ted had ever allowed outside influences to hinder his ability to travel wherever or whenever he wanted to. The last time the two of them had spoken Stan (the Chairman of the Oversight Committee and Ted's direct supervisor) stating that he was much too valuable to risk in the field any longer, had suggested that it was time for Ted to come inside. Ted concluded this meant he knew too much and the Committee was concerned about having his knowledge exposed to the dangers inherent in field work.

No member of the Committee was ever allowed to know more than was needed to do his or her job. Ted himself was a Field Manager, meaning that he was responsible for a team of agents operating at large about the country and in various locations throughout the world. Each of these groups operated independently of any other group. The Field Manager was an autonomous commander who, with access to virtually unlimited resources, could move his team about the country at will, held in check only by the orders of his own immediate supervisor. Working under much the same conditions as the nations top undercover espionage agents, often needing to move rapidly and make critical decisions with no time for, or means of, contacting the home office these had proven to be the optimal operating guidelines.

It was a dangerous game. There was always the possibility of a renegade agent.

Ted's individual agents, were given only as much information as they needed to complete whatever assignment they were on. Beyond the scope of that, their total awareness of that particular arm of the organization was Ted himself. All that Ted knew of operations above his own level was the Chairman's name, and how to contact him. The existence of the Committee itself was the most closely guarded secret in the world. No one ever completely retired from contact with the Committee. You could be offered a seat at the Institute, or you could die. Those were your options.

It was a dangerous game.

* * *

By the end of World War II the leaders of the United States came to a full realization of the jeopardy in which the spread of new technology throughout the world without censorship had placed the country.

Hitler would have been nothing more than a petty tyrant were it not for the scientists who supplied him with a continuous flow of new and better war machines. When the Fuhrer took power the outmoded armies of Germany could not have begun to threaten the worlds safety, but the new age dreadnought of the Nazis mechanized war machine had devastated half the civilized countries in the western world and came close to total world domination. Had Germany been allowed to perfect her ballistic missiles and develop the power of the atomic bomb, Hitler would haven driven the nations of the world to their knees in submission, and mankind might well have indeed spent the next thousand years living under a reign of terror.

Japan, which only half a century before the onset of World War II had been a backwater empire made up of independent Feudal Lords serving a distant Emperor and ruling their lands from horseback, had with the use of imported technology placed in the hands of fearless warriors trained from birth to believe themselves divine conquerors spread death and destruction halfway around the world.

The manufacture of atomic bombs by the Soviet Union, followed by that countries military mounting them on missiles capable of reaching well outside their own borders, had only sufficed to emphasize the peril of allowing militant nations access to technology capable of disrupting world peace.

The function of the Department of Planning was: To plan the future.

The Institute for Change implemented the plan.

The Oversight Committee corrected any potential deviations from that plan.

* * *

Perhaps I have been at this long enough. Maybe I am getting too old for field work, Ted thought to himself as he ran up the stairs, not wanting to suffer the additional delay of waiting on an elevator.

Ted didn't feel old at forty-three but life in the field took its toll on a man. Maybe it was time to evaluate his own performance and decide if he should get a desk to sit behind and let some youngster take over the job of chasing all about the country. He had been keeping an eye on Malovich for the last few years, with the intention of grooming her as his own replacement. Ted knew there wasn't a better agent in the field, (other than himself) by now she should be ready to take on the operation of his team. He decided he would talk to the Chairman about it today if the opportunity arose.

Were she approved for the position of Field Manager, Malovich would be the first woman to move that far up through the secrete ranks of the Committee since its inception. Ted thought it was about time. There had been many changes since nineteen-sixty-three when he became a member of the Committee. It was not strictly a mans world any longer and the Institute needed the unique perspective of a female supervisor operating in the field if it were to keep up with the times.

As he came to the door leading into the third floor conference room Ted shelved his private plans and began to focus his thoughts on the subject of the meeting he had been called to attend. Stan hadn't said much over the phone the night before, only that he needed Ted in Washington immediately.

Ted had ask, "Can you tell me anything about what's up Mr. Chairman?"

"We have an energy crisis," Stan replied. "That's all I can say over the phone. I will see you at seven tomorrow morning." An energy crisis implied the discovery of some new method of producing power which might upset the agenda the Department of Planning had for the spread of technology throughout the world.

Ted opened the door and, noticing the lights were dimmed, quietly slipped into an empty seat at one end of the large board room style table, about which were already seated the other members of the Oversight Committee who had been called in for briefing on this new issue which had suddenly arisen in the night.

"Glad you could make it Ted," the Chairman commented. "I heard the airport was closed and wasn't sure what had happened to your flight."

"Yes sir," Ted replied. "We had to circle for some time."

"It's all right. Everyone's here now. We just got started, so you haven't missed anything. That's what counts."

Addressing the entire assembly, the Chairman then went on to say, "We're about to view a movie, which should shed some light for everyone present about exactly why we are met here today. After that I'll answer any questions I can and we'll decide how best to handle things." With that he waved for the unseen projectionist behind the wall separating them from the projection room to roll the film.

As the screen lowered itself from it's hidden slot in the ceiling the Chairman explained: "This is a film of a lecture given at the Chicago University of Science, in September nineteen-seventy-one, by a Professor Marcus Reynolds who, at the time, was the head of their Physics Department. He has since moved on to other ventures, as you shall see. Until now we simply secured a copy of the film to keep on file. The time has come for further action."

The unseen projectionist turned off the remaining lights in the room as the film began.

* * *

The film was a shot of a brown haired, bearded man standing before a black board with a pointer in his left hand and a piece of chalk in the other. The cameraman had been shooting from a somewhat elevated position, and the view on screen looked down at the stage from a slight angle. In the bottom of the shot could be seen the backs of the heads of people who, apparently, were the audience being addressed by the lecturer. From this one could assume the film had been shot in a theater or an auditorium.

Someone called out from off screen. "Okay Professor, the camera's rolling now. Could we start over again, if you don't mind?"

The man addressed turned to face the speaker looking rather flustered, as people often do who are used to addressing large crowds and responding to a live audience, but are not familiar with the necessity of getting it right for posterity.

"Very well," the man standing on the stage replied. "Let us see if we can keep this flowing without any more distractions gentlemen; if you please. I understand that you wish to capture this lecture on film but I am attempting to present these equations in such a format that the people attending who are in a position to understand the math can take notes and make sense of them at another time. They are likely to have more need of their own documentation than they are of your film."

Without turning, he tapped the black board behind him with the pointer he held in his right hand. Once again utilizing his pointer to direct attention, this time tapping it on the podium before him as he addressed his listeners, he began:

"Ladies and gentlemen--and reporters, I'm sure--I am Marcus Reynolds; Head of the Physics Department at this fine University. Although I'm not at all certain just how much longer that statement will remain valid."

This elicited a laugh from the lecturers audience and The Chairman commented over the soundtrack of the film, "As it turned out Reynolds was rather prophetic on that one. He was fired the next week."

Reynolds paused, and "Ha-rumphed", to clear his throat then continued, "Last year I published a paper titled: 'The Drowning Mans View Of Our Current Energy Crisis.' That paper wasn't quite as well accepted by my colleagues as I had anticipated, in fact it was ridiculed in some circles, and some went so far as to label me a quack; calling for me to turn in my resignation and depart from this University."

Looking about the room as if sizing up his listeners Professor Reynolds proclaimed, "Today I intend to not only restate my theories, I will, in addition, present the mathematical formula which can irrefutably substantiate the claims I made in last years publication.

"My dear colleagues. There is no such thing as an energy crisis. We are surrounded by energy."

Watching the film, Ted chuckled as Reynolds dramatically aimed his pointer at the ceiling and the heads visible to the cameras view all dutifully looked upward before realizing what they were doing and quickly directed their respective gazes back toward the stage.

"We are drowning in energy! The sun bathes this planet with more energy in one day than mankind has used in all of his recorded history!" Reynolds shouted at them, before continuing in a calmer tone.

"From beyond our solar system limitless quantities of energy assault us constantly. It pours down upon us from the heavens twenty-four hours a day. Three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. Year after year, and has done so since the beginning of time! Energy radiates upward beneath our feet from the heart of the earth, trapped there since the formation of this globe.

"The dilemma is that we do not know how to harness this energy.

"The crisis is that we have built a world girdling civilization which is still using as it's primary source of power the very same fuel the first cave dweller used to light and warm his abode.

"That primitive discovered that he could use the heat from burning wood--which in all likelihood he didn't even set afire but found already burning, lit by natural causes--to warm himself and cook his food or simply to light the darkness which filled his world." He lifted the glass of water sitting on the edge of the podium and took a careful sip before going on.

"Today we use that same method of generating energy to light and power the civilizations sprawling across the face of our planet. The only difference now is that we are burning trees much older than even that caveman himself. We are burning trees which died millions of years ago, were covered over by rock and soil and lay hidden there until they became the coal and oil we take from the ground today. It is my lot to be the bearer of the sad news this morning that the source of the majority of all the power we use today is exactly the same one tapped by any and all civilizations which came before us.

"Our methods of harnessing, directing and utilizing that energy are slightly more efficient. The source is the same."

Some one called out from the back of the room, "What about atomic energy Professor?"

Reynolds smiled and, leaning over to rest his elbows on the top of the podium, addressed the unseen heckler: "I take it then that you wouldn't mind if we should come over and build an atomic power plant in your back yard, or perhaps we could use that acreage as a land fill to dispose of the deadly radioactive waste products resulting from the use of uranium as the fuel of choice to light our world?"

The camera panned around and someone shown a spotlight on the victim standing in an aisle near the back wall. The young man, who had eagerly spoken up while clothed in the shield of darkness, thus bathed in the light, his anonymity gone, now spluttered a hesitant reply:

"No, that's not what I meant. I was just pointing out that there are other sources of power than fossil fuels." Going entirely on the defensive now, the lad added, "What about solar power, or hydroelectric generators?"

The Professor was obviously sailing in familiar waters, very used to dealing with the assumed wisdom of his students who, spending their evenings cloistered with their peers routinely decided they knew better what was wrong with the world than the old fuddy duddies in charge and would, as soon as they had their chance, show them how to make a better mess of things than had their predecessors. Reynolds remained completely in command of the conversation, not seeming to mind the interruption at all, in fact, behaving as if he were glad the questions had been ask.

"Aaa, young man.... What is your name, by the way?" With the spotlight shining in his eyes, knowing he was the subject of not only the other people in the room but of the camera as well, the young student looked as if he were about to bolt from the room in fright. He somehow restrained himself and managed to answer the Professors question.

"Phill Lambert sir," he said. Then added, as if that would explain everything, "I'm a Physics Major here at the university."

Smiling at the young mans discomfort, Reynolds waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal and said, "Thank you Mr. Lambert. You may sit down now. I do appreciate your input to this discussion. I wasn't trying to run you off; in fact, I was about to bring up those very issues myself. You've just helped to make things a little more interesting."

Then, as if to salve the boys wounded pride, he added, "Come to my office after the lecture and we'll discuss this further."

The projected image being watched by Ted and the rest of the committee swept across the screen as the view rotated to once again point at the stage and Professor Reynolds continued talking.

"Whose desert shall we cover with solar panels to reap the harvest of sunlight falling upon the land? How many rivers are left which haven't already been dammed up to create lakes and generate electricity? Whose cities shall we irradiate with uranium wastes to tap the boon of the atom? What pristine skies shall we continue to pollute with clouds of sulfurous smoke, so the rest of us may enjoy the benefits of cheap transportation to summer vacations in the Bahamas, or just the simple pleasure of watching television on Sunday night with the family?"

Even if they didn't believe, Reynolds knew that for now his audience was listening to what he had to say as he launched into the presentation of his formulas and theories. Now that he had their complete attention he ask:

"How do we generate power? Whether we use the steam engine of a century ago; the gasoline engine supplying locomotion to your automobile, the turbine engines propelling a jumbo jet across the skies, or the nuclear reactor silently driving a Triton Class submarine beneath the ocean? What is the source of all this power?" Having ask, the Professor waited expectantly through several seconds of silence, but no one answered him.

"Heat!" he proclaimed. "Heat is the fount from which springs all the power we use in every aspect of our civilization. With the technology that has been in our possession for more than a century all that is needed to provide cheap, nonpolluting, and limitless power for every member of the human race is a cheap, clean and unlimited source of heat."

Turning now, he began to write mathematical formulas on the large blackboard which had been erected on the stage before the start of the lecture. Producing a rhythm of pecking, tapping and noisome screeches, he continued to lecture.

Ted sat back in his chair and unconsciously let the monologue absorb into his memory as he had no idea of what the math on the blackboard meant and not much more comprehension of the verbal description as, for a while, Reynolds wrote on the board and lectured about black holes, Swartzchild radii, and event horizons. Velocity constants, time variables, and the instability of quantum black holes. At last the Professor was done with the blackboard, producing a finishing volley of irritating sounds (peck, peck...tap, tap tap...scree and a final click) as he laid the chalk down with a flourish.

"Some of you are familiar with the concept of virtual particles; others of you might not be.

"So.

"I shall begin by explaining," pointing over his shoulder he interjected, "for those who can understand the math, it's on the board here," then continued. "I shall begin by explaining in words, as exactly as I can, what a virtual particle is, and what it can do for us."

He turned and once more pondered the mood of his audience, attempting to gage the level of their competence. Many of the attendants were students come to learn, others were Professors in their own right. The ones Reynolds wanted most to impress with his ideas were those he had invited to invest in the pilot plant he sought funding to build; so he might test his theories.

"Suppose," he said, "that reality were a movie. What appears to us as a continuous progression of events across the screen upon which the film is being projected are actually a series of still images. These images flash before our eyes at the rate of twenty four frames per second. What is really occurring is that for one/twenty-fourth of a second the screen of our film universe is lit up by a single motionless image of whatever is transpiring in the course of the movie when we observe whatever particular scene is playing itself out at that moment. The next instant the screen is black, and the next is an image, then blackness and so forth throughout the length of the movie.

"The human eye sees in a series of still images at the rate of ten frames each second, that is: Every one/tenth of a second the eye sends to the brain a new set of information comprising the pattern of light and color falling upon the retina at that moment. The brain processes these images into the moving color panorama viewed by our conscious mind."

Reynolds began to pace back and forth across the stage now, looking about at the various sections of his audience as he passed in front of them.

"Let's get back to our reality movie. As we observe the screen upon which our movie is being projected, we always see a lighted screen, depicting a scene from the film we are viewing. Even though the action is comprised of a series of still images, we see constant motion because those images are being replaced at over twice the rate at which our eyes can discern the difference between a moving object and a still image. We do not know what is going on during the tenth of a second that our eye is processing a new image, during that time span two and a half more images have been projected upon the screen. We perceive motion where none exists. We are affected and moved by the story unfolding before us in an implicit projection of reality."

Turning face on to his now rapt listeners and placing his hand over his chest like someone honoring a rendition of the National Anthem, Reynolds declared, "Now we come to heart of today's discussion! There are rules we expect to be observed in our movie, it has to have a beginning and it should progress in an orderly fashion toward a conclusion. We cannot have the actors in our movie suddenly appearing standing on their heads, or walking down the street backwards or showing up to work naked...." At this the auditorium was filled with brief laughter.

"Well.... In some shows they do, but not in today's rhetorical film. However. These things could be happening all through our movie right on the same screen and we would never know they were going on. If every twenty/fourth frame of the film had the star actor standing on his head, this image would exist as a part of the movie while we went along through the entire show without ever being any the wiser. Without being affected at all."

"What about subliminal advertising?" Someone called from the audience.

"Aaa ha!" cried the professor, pointing his index finger upward as if he had just now been the recipient of an unexpected brilliant new idea. "Now we can go from the harmless prank, of perhaps an upside down man, played upon our silver screen reality and proceed on into the realms of invisible actors. Secretly influencing how we are affected and moved by our reality movie. We might well be watching a scene set in the frigid wastes of the arctic northlands, all the actors dressed in fur overcoats and mittens, as they trudge through the frozen desert of the tundra, and yet find ourselves thirsty for an ice cold drink as we watch the show."

Resting his left arm across his stomach, and holding his right elbow in his hand the professor placed his other hand on his chin in a puzzled gesture and ask, "How could this be? Certainly these are not conditions which tend to make one thirsty." He waited a moment, silently gazing out at his audience, as if expecting an answer. Then proceeded to clarify the mystery of the thirsty movie goer:

"What if there were projected, every twenty-fourth frame, not a scene from the movie but instead the image of a man in the desert, stumbling dazed through the sandy wastelands as the sun beats mercilessly down upon his sweat soaked brow. This scene would not exist in our conscious perception of the movie but would still impinge upon our eye when it flashed on the screen. Our brain would simply discount it as an image not relevant to the rest of the images it were receiving and file this nonconforming picture somewhere in the lost and found of our memory for later use if the need arose. The viewer would not be consciously influenced by this fleeting but recurring image.

"Still, we would find ourselves becoming thirsty." As if simply discussing the concept had ignited his thirst, Professor Reynolds returned to the podium for another drink of water from his glass.

"The real universe," he stated, "is much like our movie. At a subatomic level the universe behaves likes the framed images projected upon the screen. Things react, move, and function in quantum leaps across time and space. Not actually--in the sense that we are accustomed to in the macroscopic world--occupying the intervening distance separating two points in space or time. Instead, they make discrete jumps from one level of being to another, from one space in the structure of their microcosmic world to the next. From one microsecond in time to the one following. Matter exists as tiny packets of mass, each distinct class of particle, of a uniform size with all of its brothers. Energy levels change at certain preset amounts in specified lengths of time. No more. No less.

"A virtual particle is much like our invisible subliminal actor, it appears in space and time so briefly that it does not have any immediate effect on the universe at large. It isn't there long enough for the eye of the universe to note it's presence. Such a particle can have a quantitative effect upon the universe. It is there for a sufficient span to be impacted by a photon and gain energy or eject a photon and release energy. In a stable arrangement of atoms and subatomic particles the passing of a virtual particle may leave the impression that energy has been created out of nowhere or that energy has disappeared from the universe into nothing.

"This is as much an illusion as is the apparent motion of the actors on our screen, or the idea that our sudden thirst came from out of nowhere. Just as the subliminal image of the man in the desert created this thirst without us being aware of having seen the picture so the virtual particle can create a change in the temperature of its surroundings without the universe noting an apparent cause behind the change. It can move energy from place to place in ways that normal matter cannot do. So even though a virtual particle may leave the impression of creating energy from nothing it actually does not, it simply is moving that energy from one place to another.

"If we could get that virtual particle to go to say...the interior of the sun and then come back to this room it might, in the course of that passage, pick up energy in the form of heat while visiting the sun and then release that same energy back here in this room. By repeating this trip over and over, by using many virtual particles, we could effectively concentrate that heat energy, which would otherwise radiate from the sun randomly throughout the surrounding spaces, in one place in a form we can tap into and use to generate power.

"We don't have a method of locating any virtual particles and convincing them to go to the sun but it is possible to entice them to come to us.

"Virtual particles have an affinity for the event horizons around singularities, such as black holes.

"Of course, if we had a black hole we wouldn't need any other power source, just tossing matter down the throat of one of those babies will generate massive quantities of energy. Unfortunately we don't have a handy black hole around. Which is just as well, as the energy they produce when they suck matter into themselves is far more deadly then what we are already generating in our atomic power stations.

"What we can do however is create a singularity. We can generate our own event horizon and attract all the virtual particles we want to visit us. Some of those virtual particles will have been in the heart of a star and be radiating vast amounts of heat while they are here."

Raising his arms in a gesture of triumph Professor Reynolds concluded, "All we then need do is harness that outburst of heat and have a clean, efficient and unlimited source of power which will last indefinitely.

"We can have access to plenty of energy. Written upon the board behind me is the math showing how these things might be done...."

* * *

As the film ended and the lights came on again, the Chairman rotated his chair back around to face the others assembled at the table.

"After the original viewing of this film the Institute commissioned some very astute mathematicians to review the formulas Professor Reynolds demonstrated on the blackboard while giving the lecture you just saw. The report we received back from them indicated that while most of his theories were very esoteric and at--or perhaps beyond--the leading edge of any physics research being conducted today they could find no flaw in his calculations and in theory the claims he made could, with sufficient effort, be realized as fact."

The Chairman waved his arm around the table in an encompassing gesture and pointed out, "In the folders on the table before each of you is a detailed history of Professor Reynolds activities during the last seven years. In that time he has left the university and gone into private research using funds solicited from various sources, mostly from power companies, seeking to find a way out from under the yoke of the petroleum and coal conglomerates who control the pricing of fuels around the world."

As those seated about the room opened the folders and began to glance through them the Chairman concluded, "Ladies and gentlemen. Three days ago in a suburb on the west side of Chicago Professor Reynolds and his associates successfully generated the singularity he spoke of in his lecture and, as a result of this, released a considerable amount of power which if harnessed and commercialized could undermine not only the utility companies now lighting our cities but also the petroleum and automotive industries of the entire world. I think we can all see the implications of what would follow the release of this technology."





CHAPTER INDEX


FIVE -- Illinois: September, 1979






Powell waited until the boy and his father had driven away before coming out of the shed behind the ruins of the Wilson's house, and crossing to where the disaster had occurred. He negotiated his way past the trees, which had been chard and burned as they were felled by the force of the blast. All were aligned in the same direction, pointing away from the center of the explosion. Those lying closest to the source of the eruption had completely incinerated leaving only piles of sallow gray ash outlining the indistinct shapes of what had been trees before they fell. Anything which had been closer still was gone without a trace.

Using the same badge he had shown to Thomas Wilson, Powell made his way through the fire and police patrols still searching for survivors and attempting to put out the last of the blazes ignited by the heated debris thrown off from the explosion.

As he stood next to the yellow tape the police had strung around the hole in the ground where only hours before had stood the mysterious gray building Powell saw with disheartening certainty that this anonymous patch of ground would never speak to him its secrets.

Finding no different answers for the old questions he had already ask many times, Powell stood awhile and searched for new questions.



CHAPTER INDEX


SIX -- Illinois: October, 1979





Moving was simplified by there being nothing left to pack except what cloths and small personal belongings had survived the ordeal that September night only one short month ago. Tommy and his father stayed at a motel in Elgin until his mother was released from the hospital.

As the ambulance attendant had promised, her physical injuries proved to be minor and after only a few days of observation by the hospital staff she was pronounced fit and sent home. The emotional trauma didn't become obvious until Amanda realized the extent of the devastation wrought upon her family by that one fateful night. She rapidly slumped into a lethargy of despair and the woman--who had always been the center which held the family together--unable to cope with her loss, added to the burdens her husband and young son were shouldering as they attempted to reconstruct their lives.

Tommy loved his mother dearly and, saddened by her unaccustomed state, did all he could to cheer her up. He brought her boxes of the chocolates she loved so much and sat with her watching the day time television shows that would have left him having fits of boredom in the past but now held a vital interest in his world, as therapy for the stricken woman.

In the weeks following their neighborhoods devastation Tommy's father comforted his wife and son as much as possible while simultaneously cleaning up the wreckage of his families home, finding a place to store what was left of their belongings, and fighting with the insurance company which had eagerly underwritten his homeowners policy but now didn't want to admit liability; all the while searching for a new house for his family to move into.

When Thomas Senior had gone to the Court House and inquired about the owners of the building, hoping to contact them and file some form of claim for compensation, he was informed that the FBI had usurped control from the local authorities, and was conducting its own investigation into the explosion. No one at City Hall could tell him who the owners were. After spending several days giving in to the frustration brought on by his inability to move the powers that be into taking some action to assist his family, he finally realized that the overwhelming numbers of newly homeless and, even worse, dead and injured citizens had incapacitated the local governments ability to cope. With this realization came the awareness that most of the other victims were in far worse conditions than himself and his family. Many had nowhere to turn at all, and no resources of their own to fall back on.

With this knowledge of his own comparative good fortune to bolster his determination, Thomas went to visit his broker at A.D. Edison and sold all of his stocks. Then he withdrew the family savings from the bank and went forth with these funds to purchase a home. Either the insurance companies would settle, and he would be able to rebuild his savings accounts, or he would simply have to start over from this point and build anew. They would not be the first family to begin again after experiencing overwhelming disaster.


* * *

Tommy was sitting in one of the two straight backed chairs, which sat on either side of the bed in the motel room, and watching the small color television while his mother napped.

His father came in through the door waving a set of keys in the air and smiling from ear to ear as he proclaimed, "All right all you deadheads up and at 'em! We're going for a ride!" Tommy started to shush him and let him know his mother was sleeping but it was too late she had been awakened by Thomas Seniors grand entrance.

Sitting up on the side of the bed and rubbing the sleep from her eyes Amanda ask, "What's all the fuss about Thomas? What is this about taking a ride? I'm not even dressed, I'm still in my housecoat."

"Well get up and put some cloths on woman!" he said in an urgent voice. "I've got a surprise for both of you and I want you to see it before sundown!"

Having lived with the man for almost twenty years and knowing his moods Amanda gave in to her husbands demands. Even though she truthfully didn't want to go anywhere or see any surprises she knew how badly Thomas would be disappointed if she refused. He did so love doing nice things for his family. In addition, she realized that maybe it was about time to pull herself out of her slump and put this family back together. There was no telling what her two men had been up to while she sat around feeling sorry for herself. Why the poor things were probably living on fast food hamburgers and pizza. She looked across the room to the small dinette table where the remains of the bucket of chicken Thomas had brought in for lunch was sitting and silently admitted that she hadn't been eating all that well herself.

Tommy sat and continued watching the television while his mother got ready to go. He wasn't really paying attention to the movie, which was some old production about World War II submariners that he had already seen several times, but looking at the television was better than just staring at the walls.

He had been so concerned with his mothers health for several weeks that Tommy hadn't had the time to devote his intellect to other problems. Now she had begun to show signs of once more taking an interest in what was going on around her, and for the last few days, freed from the self imposed necessity of devoting all of his thoughts to his mothers well-being, the boy had begun to dwell once more on the purpose of the gray building which had seemingly appeared overnight and then sat unobtrusively for a few short months before exploding and taking his home with it.

Tommy had been endowed at birth with a powerful curiosity that, had it not been checked with enough intelligence and common sense to limit its effects, would have led him into dire straits on more than one occasion. He also had his fathers stubbornness, determination and sense of responsibilities. He knew that his inquisitiveness about the facility across the woods from his back yard had endangered his own life but had the vision to see that the explosion could not possibly be connected to his actions. Somebody had been doing things out there in the dark which had threatened his family and Tommy had determined to find out exactly who they were and see to it these people were punished for their transgressions. If it took him the rest of his life.


* * *

As they traveled north on State Road 31, Tommy presumed his dad was driving back to Hills Lake where the family had lived until the night of September seventeenth when the explosion that had demolished their neighborhood had forced them into the motel in Elgin. He continued to ponder the events of the preceding weeks as his father drove, paying little attention to his surroundings until the car turned west on State Road 72.

Pulled from his reverie by the unexpected turn, Tommy looked out the side rear window of the Oldsmobile at the unfamiliar passing scenery and questioned, "Where are we going Dad?"

Thomas glanced over at his wife and then smiled mischievously in the rearview mirror at his son.

"Just be patient," he replied. "You'll see in a few more minutes."

Amanda, believing she had already figured out what her husband was about, sat silently anticipating their destination with an awakening hope that all might yet be made well in the lives of her family. She still had the most important part of her existence right here in the car beside her. As long as her husband and son were safe all else could be replaced.

They drove past a small sign which stated:

PEACEFUL HOLLOW

"pop. 493"

and below that another sign; proclaiming a twenty-five mile per-hour speed zone. Thomas Senior continued on with his family. Silent now, smiling in open satisfaction as he realized that both his wife and son had figured out the purpose of their drive.

When they came to the intersection of Main Street and Illinois 72 Thomas turned to the left, drove past the combination Sheriffs Office and Court House, then continued on for several blocks finally stopping the car in front of one those old two story homes which had originally been designed with separate entrances and live-in servants quarters at the rear of the main house. This particular structure had been remodeled, the extra entrances closed off, the servants stairs and private passages opened up and incorporated into the living area of the main house.

As the car came to a stop in the drive and Thomas shut off the engine, Amanda and Tommy sat for a moment, neither one saying anything as thoughts of actually moving into this house forced a final internal admission of the terrible changes which had so recently taken place in their lives. Up to now some part of their minds had harbored the delusion that they were merely vacationing and their stay at the motel in Elgin would come to an end soon and all of them could go home to their old lives.

Actually looking at their new home in person brought, with an abrupt permanence, the complete realization that all was not, and never again would be, as it had been.

Thomas finally broke the silence and ask, "Well; what do you think of it?"

"It's big," Tommy uttered as he eyed the massive house from his position in the back seat. Thomas heard his son and the part of his mind which was listening instructed his head to nod in acknowledgment of the boys response. The majority of his attention was focused on his wife as he waited for her to voice her acceptance, or express disapproval of the house her husband had chosen for his family. After waiting for several minutes and still getting no response from Amanda, Thomas began to explain himself as if in answer to some unspoken question.

"I got a great deal on the place," he said. "It has four bedrooms and there's a sun-room in the back where you can do your sewing. You always complained at the other house that there wasn't enough room for all of us to spread out and have our own space. It's a nice quiet neighborhood and I can get to the toll road and make it to Chicago a lot faster from here so I'll be at home more and spend less time commuting." He realized he was babbling but couldn't seem to stop himself. "Amanda I'm sorry if it upsets you that I decided on a house without waiting for you to feel up to getting out but Tommy has to get back to school and I need to work. We can't live in a motel forever--"

Interrupting, Amanda lifted her hand and placed her fingers against her husbands lips to silence him and said, "That's not it Thomas. It's a very nice house and I'm grateful to you for finding it for us." She continued to speak, her reply muffled, as she burst into tears and buried her face in the palms of her hands. "It's just the shock of it all Thomas. It just hit me all at once," she said. "Our whole life has been turned upside down and we don't even know what happened!"

Thomas reached over and gently removed Amanda's hands from in front of her face. He pulled her to him across the seat and resting her head on his shoulder, whispered in her ear as he held her, "No Darling, our whole world isn't gone. Only a house has been lost to us. We still have our lives together.

"That is our world."






CHAPTER INDEX


SEVEN -- Peaceful Hollow: September, 1980







Eleven months passed without further incident in the lives of the Wilson family, nothing outside the normal everyday affairs of a middle class family living in that part of the Midwest during those times. In the preceding year Tommy had learned that as you walk the roads of life sometimes you stray into a dark alley and the gravel wounds your heels. During this gentler time he learned somewhat the truth of that, when you come to smoother roads, time also heals the wounds. Before the road once more turns rocky and hard.

Enrolled in a new school, occupied with making new friends, mourning the ones who had not survived those other days, for a while missing and then at last forgetting the living who had survived and like him each gone their separate ways, Tommy was kept busy enough that his resolution to avenge the tragedy of that fading past faltered. If left alone to the rest of his growing up Tommy's life might have found another purpose and let the perpetrators of that undeserved destruction seek their own path to justice.

The one difference which highlighted the pages of those days in their lives were the changes taking place in Thomas seniors demeanor. Before the night of the explosion Tommy's father had been a carefree, outgoing person who basically trusted everyone he dealt with; finding fault only in those others who made it so obvious that even an altruist such as himself had no choice but to see their bad intent. Now the senior member of the Wilson family began to exhibit the behaviors of one who distrusted all on general principles. Although they had moved from one neighborhood isolated from the more prevalent evils of the day to another even more sheltered and close knit, Thomas bought and--not wanting even the manufacturers technicians to be knowledgeable of the sensor locations or the codes needed to access and disable the system--installed himself, the most reliable and up to date home security alarms he could afford. In addition, he installed locking shutters on all of the ground floor windows and reinforced steel doors at all three entrances.

His new neighbors--for whom the most exciting event on their quiet street in recent memory was when Old Man Tollison (who, half blind, shouldn't have been driving in the first place) swerved to avoid a stray dog, lost control of his car and ended up parking it in Mrs. O'Neils flower bed--surreptitiously viewed his antics, shook their collective heads and muttered to each other in private, "City Fellows!"

Tommy wondered at these outward changes in his father. He understood the feelings of insecurity which came with the certain knowledge--which only those who have lived the horror truly know--that your life could be uprooted in a single split second. This did not explain the sudden paranoia exhibited in his fathers behavior. No one had invaded their home or accosted the family in the street. These were not precautions that would prevent the devastation of another explosion or protect the home from natural disaster. Something other than the events of that September night was driving Thomas seniors prudent behavior.

Tommy could only surmise that after he had gone outside, whatever conversation had taken place between his father and the mysterious bearded man in the shed behind where their old house had stood was the influencing factor. But then everyone was growing more paranoid and the innocent days of the seventies were gone as cable television began to bring a growing plethora of the worlds violence and hatred into the living-rooms of rural people who had before lived with the conviction that these things only took place in the cold cruel hearts of big cities. His fathers wary behavior, of itself, would not have re-ignited the flame of avenging crusader in the boy. Tommy convinced himself that his father had simply become that much more protective of his family from having nearly lost them and would have carried this conviction into his adult life had the senior Wilson's efforts to secure his home proven sufficient measure to protect his own.

The boy was snatched into manhood and made to fully comprehend that his life was not to be his own when he learned that his suspicions of the gray building in Hills Lake, and the people who occupied it at the time were justified, not only by events on the night of the explosion but by all which followed. Bringing these lessons with them when they came, the black clad men he had first encountered--a world away in time--in the darkness of the woods behind their old house, reappeared in the street out side their new home and once more diverted the path of his young life.

A year to the day of the explosion.



CHAPTER INDEX


EIGHT -- Illinois: July, 1978








Marcus Reynolds was in Research Scientists Heaven.

The first test of his invention had proven successful, far beyond anything he had hoped to achieve this soon. Today his team would once more generate the singularity. This time attempting to sustain and control the outflow of energy pouring from the swirl of virtual particles erupting into normal space through the portal opened into their timeless world.

There was little doubt remaining that the quantities of energy available through the process by far exceeded the amount necessary to generate the singularity. With this process, coupled to the same technology used to operate an atomic power plant--without exposing anyone to the radiation hazards of nuclear fission--mankind could power the world into the twenty-first century, and beyond.

Standing in the center of the torus, he could feel the magnetic pulses tugging at his flesh as his Vortex Generator (the unofficial name his team had given the machine) kept the heavy fluid within circling at just below critical velocity. Listening to the low hum emanating from the torus, Reynolds nodded to himself in satisfaction. Everything was functioning as it should.

He made a final check of the monitoring instruments set up there, and was about to leave when Peggy came in from the control room and ask if he needed any help. "No," he replied. "I'm finished up in here. But you can help me seal the door when we go out."

"Sure. No problem," Peggy volunteered cheerily, as she followed the Professor out of the chamber. Marcus checked the rubber gasket framing the entrance against which the submarine style door would seal and isolate the chamber from the outside world when secured. Then the two of them pushed it closed and began tightening the clamps which held the door snugly in place.

He looked at his watch and said, "It's eleven now. We've got two hours until the test begins. How about we get some lunch and relax a bit until then?"

"That's a good idea," she agreed.

Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, Peggy said, "Let's go outside and walk it off after we eat. I've got to get some fresh air."

Peggy complained, smiling as she did to soften the criticism a bit, "You should have built this place with some windows. I can't stand being cooped up like this."

"Couldn't do that," he said, failing to notice the slight. "The generator is underground to limit the damage if something goes wrong. There is a tremendous amount of energy stored in the torus, even when it's just idling, as it's doing right now. If we had a catastrophic failure while operating at full power there wouldn't be much left but a sizable hole in the ground."


* * *

Unless circumstances called for immediate action, Ted Preston was one who took his time. He explored options and consequences; looked for causes and solutions; questioned what tomorrow might bring before deciding to risk today. Once he became convinced that a certain goal needed to be accomplished and had charted a course toward those ends his actions were often swift and deliberate.

The Chairman had assigned Ted the task of securing the facility outside of Hills Lake Illinois. His team would contain any information concerning operations there and recover, if necessary, any documents which might have already left the grounds. This operation was paramount to all other considerations. Once the lab was secure the Department would study the possibilities inherent in this new technology and decide if this were something which could be incorporated into its own plans.

If Professor Reynolds and his invention were of immediate use to the Department, studies would follow to see where best to apply this revolutionary new power generator. Perhaps it might be decided to shelve the equipment for use another time. Should this turn out to be the case, all documents would be confiscated, the machinery would be dismantled and everything would be moved to a secure location for storage. Most of the people involved in the project would be given the opportunity to forget their part in the work and go on with their lives in other fields of endeavor. Those who could not be trusted to abide by such an agreement would not be given this option. They too would be removed to a secure location for storage.

It was unlikely in this situation--the time would surely come when mankind needed new sources of power--but on occasion the Department had decided that some things were better left unknown.

In that eventuality storage would not be a concern.


* * *

The Go Team assembled in Crystal Lake, taking over as a temporary base of operations the Presidential Suite at the Traveler Inn. The last of Ted's agents arrived. As he entered the room the man closed the door and locked it, then walked through to where Ted was seated at the conference table set up in the meeting room and handed his supervisor a large couriers pouch.

Ted opened the package and extracted first an envelope containing aerial photographs taken the day before of the facility and its nearby surroundings. From yet another pouch within the larger, he removed a sheaf of maps which had been drawn from the photographs. Unfolding one of the maps, he laid it out on a table and began to explain his plan of attack to Malovich. Ted knew that an administrator could not second guess his agents in the field and try to back seat drive an ongoing operation. Once he decided to promote his assistant he had turned the exercise over to her and was offering his plan as an option. If the woman decided to make changes he would not object. She was capable of the job or she wasn't. Just as he would either make it as a competent administrator or would be assigned to shuffle papers somewhere.

"Unless you see a better way," he said, "we'll take Randall Road south, then cut over onto Algonquin until just before getting into town. From there I think we should turn off on the feeder road and come in next to the corn field here." He indicated on the map where he was talking about before continuing.

"That way we won't be driving through this subdivision next to the objective. With luck no one will ever be aware of our presence until we are inside the building and everything is secured." Looking up at his assistant, he concluded with a question, "Do you see any flaws?"

Malovich studied the map for several seconds and then ask, "How do we get through the gate? Is there a guard posted, or is it just locked?"

"The gate is locked, but there's no guard." Preston replied.

"Cut the lock?" she ask.

"Not necessary. We have a key," Ted stated, feeling in the couriers pouch until he found a small envelope marked "Gate Key", which he placed on the map.

"I take it we have someone inside then?" Malovich questioned.

"Yes; one of the scientists. She was recruited to keep an eye on Reynolds several years ago." Pulling a small notebook from his shirt pocket Preston checked the entries until he found the name he wanted, "Her name is Peggy Thompson. She's been involved in the project for a while but was instructed to keep a low profile until recently."

Pacing across to the other side of the table, Malovich looked over the map again, as if seeing it upside down might reveal something she had missed from the other side. Then ask, "This woman's not an agent?"

"No," Preston said. "She was told that Reynolds is receiving funding from the Soviets and instructed to contact us if they succeeded in making the thing work, or if she spotted any suspicious activities at the facility. Of course we knew he wasn't tied in with the Russians," he clarified. "We just told the woman that to get her cooperation. The Department needed someone inside knowledgeable enough to know what was going on."

Malovich turned her back and thought for a moment. Then spun around to face him again and declared, "I don't like using people outside the Department, but...OK. Let's go with. When do we start?"

Ted looked at his watch and replied, "We are supposed to meet her at the gate in one hour. At twelve noon."


* * *

As Marcus and Peggy walked across the well tended grass which grew all about the compound surrounding the gray building which housed the vortex generator and its auxiliary equipment Peggy saw a dog running near the fence at the other end of the grounds.

"That's not the dog who got into the building during the first trial, is it?" she ask.

Marcus laughed and replied, "As a matter of fact it is. We can't seem to get rid of the mutt."

"Surely he must have an owner. Didn't someone contact them to come and get him?"

"Tried to," Marcus answered. "We had a hell of a time just getting him out of the generator room--we never did figure out how he got in there in the first place--Phill chased him around the torus for five minutes before he caught him."

"So why didn't the owners come for him?" Peggy wondered.

"We couldn't get hold of them," Marcus said. "I called the phone number on his dog tag and the operator said there is no such listing. Then I called the Veterinarians number marked on his rabies tag and he has no records of the dog, even though the pooch is wearing a tag from that clinic. The Doc said somebody probably had an old tag and put it on the dog to keep him from being picked up."

He stopped and, still watching the dog across the way, continued talking, "Funniest thing though, the tag was dated 1979, a year from now. I ask the Vet if they dated rabies tags that way and he said either I was pulling his leg or somebody was pulling mine." Then, as if he were asking her opinion about some scientific puzzle, he ask, "What do you make of that?"

"I don't know."

They walked on together a little further before Peggy questioned, "So why is the dog still here?"

"We tried to get the clinic to take him but they didn't have any room. I was going to call the pound, but before I could Phill turned him loose. He's an animal lover, and the thing is just a puppy. You know how Phill is."

Peggy nodded her head in agreement. "Yea, Phill's a softy."

"Well, anyway, now the dog won't leave; he keeps trying to get back inside, and the guys keep feeding him, which only makes it worse. Guess we got a free guard dog," he concluded.

They were on the back side of the building, walking next to the fence where the trees blocked their view of the subdivision on the other side of the woods.

Marcus reached out to take her hand and began saying, "Peggy I just wanted you to know that I had a really good time with you the other night. I've never...."

Both of them stood with embarrassed looks on their faces, as he left the sentence trailing off unfinished and she interrupted him, saying, "Don't say anything now that you might regret later Marcus. We just had dinner together, that's all."

"Well," he said, "I just wanted you to know that I enjoyed your company and--" Marcus broke off what he had been saying when he noticed a line of cars coming through the now open gate and heading up the drive toward the facility, as they rounded the corner of the building and started toward the front entrance.

"Who the hell are these people?" he challenged anxiously.


* * *

Ted lowered the binoculars, through which he had been observing the inside of the compound, as the lead car stopped and one of his agents got out to unlock and open the gate. Then he pointed toward the north end of the building where two figures had just emerged from behind the structure.

"There's the woman now," he said, over the hissing and popping noises emanating from the field radios as the squad leaders issued final instructions to the operatives already deploying from their vehicles.

"Who's that with her?" Malovich ask.

Ted looked through the binoculars once more and then replied: "From the pictures I've seen it looks like that might be the Professor. It's hard to tell from this distance."

Malovich reached down to the console, and lifted the microphone from its clip on the radio mounted there. "Car one," she called into the airwaves.

"Go."

"Command: Pick up the two people by the north end of the building. Don't let them get back inside."

"Roger." The car which had just stopped to let out the man who had unlocked the gate, sped ahead and intercepted the pair before they were able to completely take in the events unfolding before their eyes and react.

All of the cars were now inside the compound. As they halted beside the entrance to the building, doors flew open and black suited figures dashed about in various directions to take up their assigned stations. Some moving to cut the phone lines or to secure any possible exits from the building. Others hurrying through the door and disappearing inside the structure.

Ted sat back in the seat of the command car, listening to the radio chatter as the agents in the building rounded up the people inside and took control of the facility. Mostly, he observed Malovich and ascertained that she was doing a fine job of coordinating the operation and keeping a steady hand on any possible complications. When the building and grounds had been secured, the leaders of the assaulting force stepped from the car now parked beside its mates, and went inside. They moved down the hallway toward the elevator, Ted could hear the whine of machinery coming through the wall from the south end of the building. When they passed a door marked:

"GENERATOR ROOM"

Malovich stopped to question the agent standing guard there.

"Was there anyone working in that room?"

"Yes Mam," the man answered. "There were two attendants watching the machinery when we got here."

"Are they still in there?"

"Yes, they said they couldn't leave the equipment unattended. Chuck and Paul are keeping an eye on them."

"Okay. Find out if whatever is running in there is safe the way it is. If so: leave it alone. Otherwise: have the operators shut it down," she instructed.

She started to walk away, then turned back and stated, "If there are any operating manuals or blue prints in there secure them."

"Yes Mam," the guard replied, informing her: "That has been taken care of."

"What else is on this level?"

"Other than this room, just storage and spare parts."

"All right then; carry on."

"Yes Mam."

When they came to the elevator the agent stationed there pressed the call button and the doors slid quietly open. They stepped inside the car and Malovich checked the operating panel. Other than the controls for the door and an emergency stop switch, the panel only had buttons for two levels. The top button was marked:

    "Ground",

and the bottom one said:

    "Basement".

Malovich looked at Ted with her head tilted to one side, raised an eyebrow, and quipped, "Going Down?"

"I would think that's the obvious choice," he replied.

"Bargain Basement," she instructed the agent operating the door.






CHAPTER INDEX


NINE -- Chicago: September, 1980









Powell fidgeted in his seat, hoping desperately that he would make it to his destination in time, as the plane began its descent toward the runway at O'Hare Airport. He knew he should have waited to fly out to the west coast, but the opportunity to invest in the new microchip company opening up in California would not arise again. This company was about to market a new chip which would make its stock worth millions in only a few months, and Powell had little other choice; he was working without the support of the agency now and, if he wanted to continue operating on his own, he had to cement his finances as fast as possible.

Operating well outside the law, cut off from the backing of the Agency, he needed to secure funds sufficient to bankroll the mission ahead of him. Ten years as an agent had left Powell with the knowledge necessary to locate the people who could provide any form of identification he might require, and he had wasted no time securing his position about the country and establishing the legal credentials to foster this new identity upon the world. Not being able to use his old name was somewhat of a difficulty at the outset but in the end was proving to be an asset in itself. If his enemies could not identify him they could not find him. Powell knew the oppositions every move and could act ahead of time to counter any threat to the boy, but knowing where he had to be wouldn't help if he weren't there.

He shouldn't have cut it so close, he would only have this one opportunity to change things.






CHAPTER INDEX


TEN -- Peaceful Hollow: September, 1980











Tommy was sitting at his desk in front of the window, which overlooked the driveway of his parents house, doing his homework, when he heard the first car pull up. He finished his math and closed the text book, intending to read a chapter of English before giving up for the night, but when he heard the second vehicle come to a stop in the street out front he got up instead and moved the curtains aside to see who had come by. The sun had set a few minutes earlier and in the shadow-less evening twilight everything was a blur of fuzzy monochrome images. The streetlight at the corner did little to relieve the gloom.

Tommy started and backed from the window, sliding the curtain closed as he moved away, when he saw the black suited figures gathering at the foot of the driveway leading up to the house. Many times visions of the dark men who had chased him through the woods a year before had visited his dreams, but the nightmares, and any thoughts of actually facing another encounter with them, had begun to fade.

Backpedaling further into the room, forgetting it was behind him, he knocked the chair over in his haste to be out of sight from the street. He was halfway across the floor to the exit when his father burst in, looking like an apparition, his cloths in disarray, his face drained of blood and ghostly pale. He stopped when he saw Tommy, and then motioning for him to follow hurried back the way he had come.

"We've got to hurry son," he said, still breathing hard from his dash up the stairs. "I've tripped the alarm and the police should be on their way. Your mother is already downstairs, we're just going to go into the shelter, lock the door and wait until they get here."

The house had come equipped with a fallout shelter, which the previous owner had installed sometime during in the sixties when, in the heyday of the cold war, such things had been as fashionable as backyard swimming pools became ten years later. The cold war was cooling off now and Tommy's father didn't expect to need a bomb shelter for its original intended purpose but had updated and restocked the thing as a part of his ongoing security program. Amanda wanted to turn it into a storage room but her husband insisted they had plenty of storage space and besides it added to the value of the house. She finally gave up and let him have the thing.

Tommy followed his father down the stairs, expecting to go directly to the basement and almost running into him from behind when Thomas Senior made a sudden stop and turned left toward the den instead of right and down the basement stairs. He chased after his father and then hearing a sudden pounding at the rear of the house stopped and called out.

"Dad! They're at the back door!"

"I hear them! Just get downstairs with your mother, I'm right behind you!" his father shouted out from the other room. At the thought of his mother, Tommy did as told and headed at a run for the basement.

He curved around the furnace and hot water heater, which both stood in the middle of the large unused basement, that his father had plans for turning into a family recreation room, and saw that his mother already had the door of the bomb shelter open and was inside waiting for her husband and son to get there.

Tommy bent down to get through the low passage, which was only five feet high and led downward at an angle for six feet, then let into the shelter proper, the floor of which was another four feet below the basement level. Entering the shelter, required passing through two doors, one at the basement entrance and another in the shelter itself. Both were hinged to open outward and were made of heavy steel. The doors were connected by cables to a counter weight which could be released with the pull of a lever causing them to close automatically. Once shut in this fashion they could not be opened until the weight was released. If the doors were latched from the inside they could not be opened from the other side at all.

Tommy and his mother stood peering anxiously out through the entrance of the shelter watching for Thomas Senior to appear at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly they heard the sound of gunshots coming from outside the house, followed by a tremendous crash from somewhere above them further violating the peace of their home. The floor over the basement vibrated from the impact of running feet. More gunshots followed, this time much louder, as if the battle taking place in the yard had now moved inside the house.

The boy started to run out and check on his father but his mother restrained him and admonished, "No! Thomas said to stay here until he came, and to pull the emergency door release if anyone besides him came down the stairs."

"But Mom he could be hurt!"

"Your father knows what he's doing Tommy," Amanda said. "He may seem crazy with all of this security business over the last year, but he has his reasons, I'm sure. Now you just do as you're told."

The basement door flew open and Amanda quickly pulled Tommy clear of the door and placed her hand on the release lever and waited to see who was coming.

* * *

After sending his son to the shelter Thomas ran into the den, intending to retrieve the pistol he kept locked in his desk. As the hammering at the back door turned into the sound of gunfire, he abandoned the idea and turned to make a dash downstairs to join his family in the safety of the shelter. Before he could move more than a few steps there came a muffled thump from the direction of the kitchen followed by a crash as the kitchen door gave way. There were more gunshots, this time resounding through the house with deafening volume. A mans voice screamed briefly as if in terrible pain and then came the sound of someone falling, followed by silence. Thomas halted his flight as he reached the doorway, peered cautiously through the opening to look down the length of the hallway and into the kitchen.

The steel framed exterior door looked as if it had been smashed open by a tremendous impact or the force of an explosion. It was broken in two with the halves not quite separated from each other, the top half twisted away from the bottom and hanging perilously from the frame, suspended by a single hinge. The bottom of the door was standing ajar in front of the opening. The still form of a man lay across the kitchen floor, a pool of blood spreading from his body. Another man was crouched behind the remnants of the door, holding a pistol in his right hand. As Thomas looked on, the man rose and fired several shots into the night.

The sound of return fire came from the back yard and Thomas quickly ducked behind the wall as several bullets impacted the wooden door frame next to his head, splitting the wood and showering his face with flying splinters. The man at the door turned and still crouching over ran across the room and slid to a halt next to Thomas. Only then did he recognize the bearded man who, a year earlier, had appeared in the night to warn his family and then vanished until this moment, only returning to once more assist them in the midst of another crisis.

With a twisted smile of grim humor on his face, Powell said, half in question, as if not sure it were true, "Mr. Wilson; you're alive?"

"As far as I can tell," Thomas replied.

Powell pointed over his shoulder toward the kitchen and said, "Sorry about all the noise but I had a hell of a time convincing that fellow to let me in."

Still in shock, Thomas replied, "Well he certainly wasn't an invited guest either."

"I gathered that," Powell commented, ignoring slight. Still grinning, looking like someone who has just pulled off a fabulous practical joke at the expense of someone he doesn't particularly care for, he pulled the other man through the door and directed him toward the basement. "What say we get you down to the shelter before that guys cohorts figure out I'm not blocking the door any more and work up the nerve to come in and see what's going on?"

As they made their way down the stairs Thomas heard the man behind him, seemingly talking to himself, say once again, "You are alive."






CHAPTER INDEX


ELEVEN -- Illinois: July, 1978














Ted watched, from his seat near the back wall of the conference room, as Malovich faced the displeased assembly of scientists and technicians seated before her.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," she stated. "I understand your confusion, and I do sympathize with your anger. However; complaining will avail you little and threatening me will get you locked up." She paused for a moment and then continued speaking after consulting the list of names taped to the top of the podium standing before her. "The exact nature of our presence here has been explained to your employer--Professor Reynolds--and any questions you have will be answered by him."

An overweight man, with the look of one that having not only spoiled himself has in addition become accustomed to having his way among his peers, who had been seated in the middle row of chairs stood up and began to storm across the room, apparently headed for the door, shouting over his shoulder as he went, "I'm telling you this is outrageous! We don't have to stand for these Gestapo tactics in this country! Just exactly who the hell do you people think you are?"

He made it as far as the last row of chairs before two of the agents standing along the back wall moved in and apprehended him. The rebellious man submitted immediately when one of the agents twisted his arm up behind his back.

"Would you two gentlemen take this man to a quiet place and explain to him exactly who the hell we think we are?" Malovich spoke into the now silent room. With a rustle of clothing on chair cushions, the remaining members of the newly captive group shifted uneasily in their seats.

"I will not tolerate any misunderstandings," Malovich said. "Those of you who wish to do so may remain here and continue your experiments until a decision is made whether to close down this facility or not. For the last time: I am informing you that the existence of this laboratory has become a risk to the security of this nation. No person now present in this building will leave, or communicate with the outside world in any fashion without my express permission."

Malovich scanned the faces of those seated before her and questioned, "Is there anyone here who does not understand what I just said?" When no answer came she continued speaking. "In future anyone who does try to leave, or contact parties outside the building, will be immediately restrained. If we determine that you have knowledge which cannot be spared you will be locked up until we are able to extract that information from you. If you are not needed to operate this facility you will be taken to a secure location and imprisoned forthwith."

Once more she paused, this time to let the implications of her words take root in the minds of her listeners. "If this happens, and you are deemed to be a security risk, you might well spend the rest of your life there. Think about that."

The scientists began to murmur among each other now. Malovich let it go on for a moment before cutting them off. "I will let Professor Reynolds address you now. After that I suggest that you figure out some way to partition off sleeping quarters in this room and make yourselves as comfortable as possible. You are going to be here for a while."

The quiet whispering among the scientists rose up once again as Malovich picked up her notes, made her way to the back of the room and exited through the door. Ted remained seated and waited to see how Reynolds was going to handle his people. It would be much better if they could be convinced to cooperate willingly. Were things to deteriorate too far the Department might have to bring in their own people to check out the machine without the assistance of those already familiar with its operation, and that would cause lengthy delays.

Ted hated delays.

As the Professor rose from the seat he had occupied in the front row of the assembly and walked around the lectern to address his fellows, the whispering grew in volume until it became a babble of mixed voices, all shouting questions at once.

"What about our families?"

"Who's gonna pay us?"

"Put that out! You can't smoke in here!"

"The hell I can't!"

"I want to call my lawyer!"

"When are we going to eat? I'm hungry."

Reynolds picked up the gavel lying on the podium and banged it sharply several times against the wooden surface. After waiting several moments he repeated the process and the crowed began to quiet down. When he finally got their attention and had returned the room to a semblance of silence the Professor began by answering some of the questions already ask during the confused outburst.

"Firstly," he said. "I have been assured that your families have been contacted and notified that you will not be coming home for a while. I'm not exactly certain what they have been told but was promised the reasons given for your absence were designed to cause a minimum of concern on the parts of your relatives."

He glanced quickly at the men standing along the walls, made a coughing noise as he nervously cleared his throat and continued, "It seems that these people are quite experienced at this sort of thing so I suggest that we all just go along for now, until we know exactly what it is they intend to do with us. In the meantime you are all still drawing the same pay you were since we began operating, that is not a problem at this point."

"I don't think anyone is going to be calling their lawyer any time soon," he said, and then pointed to a woman in the back who had her hand raised in the air.

"Yes Sylvia, you have a question...?"

As the woman ask her question Ted, having heard enough, stood up and motioning for the agents standing guard along the walls to remain at their stations, quietly left the room to find Malovich. After questioning the guard outside the door of the conference room he walked down the hallway which led directly to the control station.

Ted opened the door and entered. The overhead lights were dimmed, the room in semi-shadow, lit only by the dim glow coming from the rows of lighted control consols which, although not in operating mode, had been left powered up on standby.

After recovering from the initial shock of having his operation taken over by gun wielding, badge waving invaders Reynolds, motivated by self-preservation, sprang into action and rapidly explained to them that they could not just turn off the machinery without jeopardizing the integrity of the operation. The Go Team had looked on suspiciously while the equipment was powered down and made safe, then ushered the confused crew from the control station, herded them to the conference room and sequestered them there.

The control room resembled something out of a science-fiction movie. Ted walked over to stand next to Malovich, who was poised before the observation window with her hands pressed against the leaded glass, shoulders tensed as if expecting an alien to suddenly transport in from another dimension and step from the seeming mystic circle of the torus.

The pair stood together in silence for a moment before the woman, turning to look at Ted, observed, "It's hard to believe that these few people working in a small building isolated at the edge of a corn field in Illinois could put together a machine which might affect the future of the entire human race."

"I've seen stranger things," Ted replied, the tone of awe in his voice telling more than the words. "Back in the sixties I was assigned to track down the inventor of a device that worked something like a capacitor. With this device he could store large amounts of electricity in a small box and then release it at any voltage or amperage he required.

"The thing would have bankrupted the oil industry. The gasoline engine would have become obsolete overnight. It would have eliminated the need for all the thousands of miles of power-lines running across the country. Coupled with solar cells to charge the device it would have made the individual homeowner virtually independent of outside sources of power."

"Well wouldn't that be a good thing?" Malovich conjectured.

"In the long run, it probably would be," Ted agreed. "If it were actually marketed and sold to the public. In the meanwhile; there would be a depression that would make the thirties look like the boom years. People would panic, especially among those at the helms of the institutions now in control the economy; who would stand to loose the most. The power companies; the oil companies; the automotive industry. Just to name a few.

"There would be frantic buying and selling of utility and petroleum stocks. Businesses would go bankrupt, the flow of oil and power would falter, millions might be left without jobs. In general the economy would collapse."

Malovich turned from the window and moved toward the first row of consoles to pull out the operators chair and sit down. Ted watched as she crossed her legs, deliberately exposing the inside of the muscled thighs beneath her skirt for a moment, which sparked a fleeting surge of desire in his loins. He quickly suppressed this reaction to the woman's unfair use--against his portly figure--of her physique. She knew from their years of working together that she could not influence Ted with such tactics but nonetheless continued to tease him from time to time.

For the fun of it.

"So; what ever happened to this fabled 'power box'? I would think something that useful would have been too valuable to suppress forever. Why hasn't it been incorporated into our economy by now?"

Ted walked from his place by the window, pulled up another chair, turned it around backwards and sat down facing her. With a look on his face which might have been the remnants of some long ago terror, he folded his arms across the chair back and continued to tell his story.

"The guy who invented the thing never applied for a patent. The Department only found him out by accident. He tried to get Western Power and Light Company to invest in developing his machine for commercial use. When he did the Department got word of the device and sent a team to investigate." He patted his shirt pocket, looking for the chocolate bar he had put there earlier in the day, then remembered he had eaten it on the ride out.

"We didn't know why at first, but the guy panicked as soon as we approached him. He slipped past the agents sent to his hotel room to question him and check out the invention. Then he fled into the desert.

"It took us a week to track him down."

"Why would he do that? You might have been potential investors for all he knew."

"We checked back with the power company and found out the man had a working model of his invention. He had demonstrated it to them only the day before."

"And it worked as claimed?" Malovich ask.

"Oh yes! To the point that it had left the place in an uproar." Ted gave up the search of his own person for something to snack on and accepted the piece of chewing gum Malovich held out to him as a substitute.

"He hooked the thing up to their test equipment and showed them what it could do. From what the engineers there told us, the box contained enough power to blow the breakers on the tester, which was designed to check the output of a megawatt generator," he said as he unwrapped the gum.

"That seems like a lot of power."

"That is an incredible amount of power! Especially when coming out of a container the size of a small suitcase." Ted seldom called his lieutenant by her first name. He didn't want any assumed familiarity to interfere with the mutual performance of their duties. Immersed in his recollection of the events which had taken place those many years ago in the deserts of the southwestern United States the emotions of those frightening days overcame his religious adherence to his own guidelines.

"Doris," he declared. "Until being involved in that particular assignment I did not truly comprehend the importance of the Departments mission. Sure, I believed that we should keep a hand in and not let someone like Hitler get charge of technologies that might enable them to disrupt the peace of the world, but I just didn't understand the awesome powers that have become available to mankind in the last century."

Malovich realized that even though Ted was looking in her direction he was not seeing her. Instead his eyes were focused on a terrifying vision of some possible future that only he could see.

Seeming at first to be going off the subject he ask, "Do you know how much the core of an atom bomb weighs?"

"No," she replied. "I can't say that I do."

"Pounds," he informed her. "Only a few pounds. Yet those few pounds of mass have enough energy stored within them to--if controlled and harnessed over the course of several years time--light and power a city. That same energy if released in an instant can destroy the land for miles around. This is the power humanity has at its beck and call. It's a dangerous power. Fortunately only governments are able to muster the resources to control and exploit such energies. Otherwise chaos would reign."

About to slide the stick of gum into his mouth, he delayed the action long enough to ask, "Can you imagine the consequences of every person on the planet having their own personal atomic bomb?"

"A frightening thought."

"Exactly. Well that's what this guy we were looking for had."

"You mean some guy was just walking around the country with a nuclear reactor in his suitcase?"

"No, no. It wasn't radioactive. The power company checked it with a Geiger Counter. It was a battery of some kind, only not like any battery they had ever seen before. The people he demonstrated it to ask him exactly how much electricity the battery could hold and the inventor told them he wasn't sure, that he had been charging it for years and it still wasn't showing any signs of being filled up. That's when they lost it. When those people realized how much power--in more ways than one--was sitting there on the table in front of them, they tried to take it away from him. The guy snatched it up and ran with it."

"So they called for help," Malovich guessed.

"No, not at first. I think greed was the controlling factor in their decisions, until somebody finally realized what would happen if this guy decided to crack the thing wide open and release all at once the power he had spent years storing up."

"Then they panicked."

"You're damn right they did!" Ted declared. Somebody called the FBI and one of our agents inside the Bureau relayed the call to us. By this time the guy was already gone and as I said it took us a week to find him. He was holed up in a trailer out in the desert. I sent a team in to take him and they were all killed before even getting close to the place."

"A team of our agents killed by one man? I don't believe it!" Doris stated.

"Well it happened," he asserted. "I was there. The fellow had driven spikes in the ground for half a mile around the trailer, ran wire to all of them, and was feeding power into the grid with his machine. Anybody came close, he just cranked up the juice until they fell over."

"Damn," she said. "What did you do then?"

Ted shook his head and concluded, "We didn't do anything. Oh, we would have flushed him out eventually. One way or another. If nothing else we could have just harassed him until he used up all the electricity he had stored in the thing. But it didn't come to that. We'll never know if they guy did it on purpose or if something went wrong with his machine. Whatever happened, it solved our problem on the instant. Obviously I wasn't there when that took place or you would be hearing this story from someone else. I was back in Washington briefing the Chairman on the gravity of the situation when a phone call came through and we were informed that the contrivance had exploded.

"Everything within a thousand feet of where the guy was holed-up was vaporized in the blast."






CHAPTER INDEX


TWELVE -- Peaceful Hollow: September 1980












Tommy listened with his ear against the door, but if anything was happening on the other side the sound of such activity was unable to make its way through the thickness of the steel plate, from which the barrier had been fabricated.

"What do you think Dad?" he ask. "I haven't heard anything for a while now, maybe they're gone."

"Maybe they are," his father replied, "and maybe you wouldn't hear anything if anyone was out there. Believe it or not that door is thicker than your head. I don't think very much coherent sound penetrates either one of them."

Tilting his head to one side and winking at the boy he said, "Know what I mean?"

"Aaa.... Come on Dad."

Thomas Senior laughed good naturedly, "Just be patient Son. As soon as I get this lens screwed on the peephole we'll be able to see into the basement and then we'll know for sure what is on the other side of the door."

The blast proof wall of the bomb shelter had been constructed so that a periscope like device could be installed, through which those ensconced inside could be afforded a view of the outer world without exposing themselves to its perils. Although the parts for the viewer were all in the shelter, the builder of the place had never completed the installation of the viewer. Now Tommy's father was attempting to fit the rest of the parts together without the luxury of being able to open the door and access the outer wall of the subterranean structure.

The outer lens was already in place, but was covered by a steel cap to protect it from the effects of the bomb the shelter had been designed to survive. Once he had the eyepiece installed Thomas Senior now had to remove a safety plate and strike a steel rod, which extended thorough the wall and was positioned to pop off the outer metal cap. The rod and opening through which it was to travel were machined so precisely that no air from the outside world could pass along their length and enter the shelter, thus allowing radiation or poison gasses inside. Thomas Senior would have only one chance to clear the lens as the rod could not be drawn back out of its inserted position once driven through the wall. Surprisingly, in sublime testimonial to its unknown designers skill, over twenty years after it was installed, the mechanism functioned exactly as it had been intended to do.

Tommy hovered at his fathers elbow while the elder Wilson inspected the basement of their home to ensure that the invaders had indeed departed for good.

"What do you see Dad?" Tommy questioned impatiently as he continued to jostle his father, denying either of them a look at the world outside the shelter.

"Well now, if you'll hold still long enough to let me see what's going on I'll tell you!" his father replied sternly.

"Tommy please," his mother said softly from her position at the rear of the shelter. "Your father has enough on his mind without you bumping into him every time he tries to move."

"Sorry Dad. I just want to know what's happening."

"I know son, we both do, but I also do not want to open that door until I know my family is going to be absolutely safe when I do!"

Then he turned to Amanda and smiled reassuringly, "I guess there really is no hurry after all, is there? We're obviously safe in here or whoever was out there would have got at us by now." He laughed heartily and continued, "After all, this place was designed to survive an atom bomb! Here Tommy, take a look and see if you can tell what's up. I can't see a thing anyway."

When his father moved aside Tommy stepped up to the eyepiece and peered through to the other side.

Turning to face his father Tommy ask, "Gee, what happened to the lights Dad? It's pitch dark in there."

"I imagine our attackers must have cut the power lines. I know they cut off the phone, the line went dead right after I sent the alarm to the police station."

Tommy went back to observing the darkness on the other side of the lens, rotating the handle which was supposed to aim the device and afford views from different directions, but no matter how badly his eye wished to form a picture of the world outside their temporary prison that world was sending no image for his retina to receive. He continued fruitlessly manipulating the viewer until his mother, who had opened some cans and prepared a meal from the stock of supplies Thomas Senior had cached in the shelter, called for him to come away.

Amanda was glad that she hadn't interfered with her husbands pursuit of his paranoid hobby, had she done so her family would be going hungry now.

"Tommy," she called, "come away from there and eat. We've all missed our supper and the world isn't going to vanish while we are down here."

"All right Mom," he replied. With the mention of food, Tommy realized that while much of the queasiness in his stomach might well be coming from nervousness brought on by the events of the evening, he was indeed hungry.

Once the family was seated at the small table which pulled down from the back wall of the shelter and served the double purpose of acting as a door for the pantry when not in use as a table Thomas Senior said a blessing over the food and gave thanks for the survival of his family. Tommy raised his head after his father was through and surveyed the dinner his mother had prepared. Originally the shelter had been equipped with an electric heater to warm the canned and packaged foods stocked there. Thomas Senior had installed one of the new microwave ovens which had began to enjoy popularity with the public over the last few years and the meal was all the better for it.

"Now I don't want to hear any complaining from either of you," Amanda chided her husband and son as she named each dish while filling their plates with the steaming hot meal. We have canned ham, and some canned peas to go with it. There isn't any bread but I found a box of crackers which aren't stale. We've got Orange Juice or water to drink and if you both eat all of your food I've got a special dessert for you!"

Thomas awarded his wife with an appreciative look and ask, "How did you fix all of this so fast? I didn't even see you get anything out to cook."

"How could you, with your eye stuck to that thing over there trying to see in the dark. The both of you fighting over it like a couple of kids with a new toy," she retorted, while giving her husband an appraising stare. "If I didn't know any better, Thomas Edison Wilson Senior, I would swear you planned this entire thing; just so you could test your shelter."

"Now you know that's not--," he got out before she interrupted him.

"The way you've been hiding out down here playing with this bomb shelter for the last year. It's like you were just waiting for something to happen so you could have an excuse to lock us all up inside it and test the thing out."

"But Amanda--," Thomas tried to say.

"I used to ask myself, 'Why doesn't he get a boat, or take up golf, or just go bowling. Do something normal, some kind of hobby like other men have.'"

"I wish I could do those things Amanda," he finally got in.

"Well there's nothing stopping you," she attested. "I surely wouldn't mind--not that I don't enjoy having you around, because I do--but it wouldn't hurt you to get out of this house on occasion for something other than going to work."

"It would hurt a great deal to leave and then come home only to find that my family had been taken from me," he stated flatly.

Seeing that she had taken the joke far enough to hurt his feelings, Amanda hurried to appease Thomas, saying, "I was about to say that, after tonight, I surely am glad you had the foresight to prepare this place Thomas. It seems your worries were justified after all. I'm just saying, thank you for taking care of us."

Thomas sat for a moment as if trying to make up his mind whether to reply or not and then said, "I wasn't going to say anything about the danger Amanda, especially in front of Tommy." Before his son could bridle at the implied suggestion that he might be unable to deal with these adult matters, Thomas hurriedly continued explaining himself to his wife.

"Do you remember when I told you about the man who approached Tommy and me the morning after the explosion?" he ask.

"Yes," she answered.

"Well, at first, I wasn't inclined to listen to anything he had to say. I was pretty much an emotional wreak after watching you being carted off to the hospital. But after I got myself calmed down a little he and I had a discussion about what had happened during the night."

"And?" she ask, reaching for his glass to fill it with juice.

"Some of the things he said were kind of hard to believe. I just stood there listening, thinking maybe this guy had received a bad bump on the head in the excitement and was having a spell of hallucinations."

"Well what did he say Thomas?" she interjected.

"Yeah Dad," Tommy piped in from his seat at the end of the table. "You never did tell us what went on in that shed after you made me go outside."

He looked at his father accusingly and added, "I was afraid you were going to kill the guy or something after the way you slammed him into the wall when we got inside the shed."

"Thomas!" Amanda cried.

"Now Honey," Thomas said aloud while giving his son a look, as if to say, "I knew I should have talked to your mother about this in private."

"It wasn't at all like that Amanda. The boy makes it sound as if I attacked the man or something. I was just trying to shake some answers out of him. I guess I got carried away for a second." He shot Tommy one more punitive look before continuing.

"Anyway the guy, his name was Powell or something--"

"William Powell, Dad," Tommy said. I remember exactly because he said it all formal like. 'Powell. William Powell.' You know the way that English spy does in the movies."

"You mean the one who always says, 'Bond. James Bond.'"

"Yeah! That's what I mean Dad."

"Now listen!" Amanda commanded the two of them, banging her closed fist on top of the table as she did. "That's enough of this nonsense. Thomas Wilson you tell me this minute what 'Mister William Powell' had to say that night which was convincing enough to cause you to deliberately find a house with a bomb shelter in it and then equip the damn place with enough food and water to stand up under a siege!"

"Why Amanda! Such language from the mother of my son. I'm shocked."

"You're going to be shocked--in more ways than one--if you don't tell me what the hell is going on with this family and whoever it is that is trying to kill us!"

"Well now, I don't have an answer for either question. The identity of the people that are causing all of this trouble, or what they were doing over there. All I can figure is that likely they believe we had something to do with the building exploding. They don't know who it was they chased away from the building that night. All the men saw was Tommy and a grown man who, in the dark, could easily have been mistaken for me."

"Why aren't the police doing something about them?" Amanda ask. "What are they doing while these lunatics are running the streets, trying to kill innocent citizens?"

"I don't know that either." Thomas replied. "Powell told me that night that they were dangerous people and that they would harm my family if I didn't take steps to protect you."

"And you believed him?"

"Well of course not. Not until he showed me his badge."

"And?"

"He said he was with the FBI and that he was investigating the operation at the facility across the woods from the subdivision. That some sort of terrorist group had been operating out of that building. I guess he was inside and just managed to get out ahead of the explosion."

"You're right Dad. He was in there. I saw him run out the door a few minutes before the place blew up!" Tommy exclaimed.

"That's right, you told me that Son, I guess I forgot. For all I know Powell might have blown the building up himself."

"Yeah!" Tommy said.

"Anyway, whoever was running things over there and whatever it is they were doing, they obviously think we had something to do with it, and are after us." Thomas concluded.

Amanda sat for a moment, thinking over what her husband had just told them. "So, why isn't the FBI here now? Why haven't they captured these people?"

Thomas stood up and went over to the cabinet where the supplies were stored, and took out a jar of instant coffee. He filled two cups from the bottled water dispenser in the corner and, while waiting for them to heat up in the microwave, answered her. "It seems that the FBI doesn't know any more about what was going on in that building than we do."

"You're kidding?"

"Nope! When that guy Powell didn't show up again after several days had passed, I began to wonder about things. So I looked up the number and called the FBI Office in Chicago to ask about the investigation. I wanted to know if it was safe to go back to our lives or, if maybe we should have some protection."

"What did they say?" Amanda ask.

"Well first off: they had never heard of William Powell and second: they wanted to know who I was and what did I know about the explosion. That's when I really began to worry," Thomas stated tonelessly, as he returned to the table and handed his wife a cup of the coffee he had just brewed.

Tommy had grown quiet toward the end of the conversation and sat digesting what he was hearing. Neither of his parents noticed the look of puzzled concern on his face as his father concluded the conversation. Tommy suspected that, for reasons left unspoken, his father was not telling quite all he knew.




CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTEEN -- Illinois: August, 1978















It had taken the Department a month to sort out the workings of the facility outside of Hills Lake, Illinois. Ted had overseen the operation from Washington and left Doris in charge at the complex. If not for the decision of the committee to allow further testing at the plant, he likely would not have returned to Illinois at all. Malovich was more than qualified to field the team and dismantle the place were that all which needed doing.

After reviewing the photos and records Ted brought back with him to Washington the Chairman decided that this material was not conclusive enough to determine the fate of the project and, once he was assured by Ted that the operation in Illinois was completely under control, had given his approval for a more definitive study to ascertain if the generator was indeed capable of producing what amounted to free electrical power on a large scale.

On the return drive to the facility from the airport in Crystal Lake, Ted realized that he was actually looking forward to getting back to the gray building sitting next to the subdivision in Hills Lake Illinois. Until spending time with her on this operation he had not allowed himself to acknowledge the true depth of his feelings for Doris. He had never been completely immune to her charms and now, for whatever reason, was beginning to appreciate her as a woman and not just as a friend or fellow agent. Having at last admitted to himself just how much he actually enjoyed the company of Doris Malovich, Ted began to ponder how he might win her affections. If things went the right way after they had completed this operation he might well decide to pursue a closer relationship with the woman. With himself moving into an office job and Malovich taking charge of his group in the field there would be no conflict of interest generated by any such involvement between the two.

Indeed, perhaps it was time he considered marriage, maybe even the addition of a couple of little Preston's to the equation would not be going overboard. If he were to actually make such radical changes in his life, who better to be married to than someone else in the agency. Neither one could ever say they didn't have enough in common to remain interested in each another. Plus that would give Doris someone she could talk to about the events taking place on her operations. In their profession only her direct supervisor was entitled to know the details of her job and, as her husband, Ted would be the perfect confidant.

While the limo continued down the two lane road toward Hills Lake, Ted smiled to himself at the logic of his plans. When he had been younger his work had supplied him with all the romance and adventure he required in his life, but as time passed Ted had begun to long for a companion with whom he might sit before the fireplace on cold winter evenings and discuss the secret events of his life as an agent working for the Department. He understood the loneliness of life in the field.

Yes sir, things could work out just fine if only Doris were to see the beauty of his idea. Ted knew he would have to take things slow. This was a new aspect to his life and he didn't want to rush in and make some silly mistake that might scare Doris away before he had the chance to let her know about his true feelings. The more he thought about the more he realized what an empty life he had led up to now and the more attractive the woman became to him.

He rode along in the car delving into the possibilities inherent in this imagined future until, finally drawn from his fantasy by the sound of his drivers voice coming over the intercom to let him know they had arrived, Ted shelved his plans and returned his thought to the completion of this last field assignment.


* * *

The excitement of powering up the torus and once again probing the mysteries hidden inside the invisible world of the subatomic universe was still as evident in the faces of the scientists and technicians operating the equipment from their places about the control room as it had been at the beginning of the project. Marcus realized however, that the people gathered today in this room were not the lighthearted explorers they had been only a month ago when, with dreams of fame and fortune, or simply for the challenge of discovery, they set off to explore the far reaches of inner space. He had spent the month analyzing his own feelings about being taken captive by agents of the government he had believed was supposed to be his protector and then held incommunicado through the weeks following the takeover. From his investigation of his own personal emotions, Marcus decided that it was likely the rest of his team were experiencing more adverse effects from the experience than himself.

Marcus had no family to be concerned about or whom he was afraid might be suffering because of his absence. Very few people outside this complex would much note his disappearance from the circles of humanity at large. Marcus, and likely many other research scientists as well, was prone to withdrawing from society for long periods when deeply involved in some project or other. The majority of the people working with him on the development of the vortex generator however were technicians and engineers. They had come here as much for simple employment as to study esoteric sciences, and had families which most of them would choose over the project immediately, go home, and never come back if given the opportunity. Including those who lived far enough away to rule out returning home each day. Normally they stayed at nearby hotels during the week but, as a rule, left on Fridays to spend the weekend with their loved ones. He did not imagine those people would accept the idea of never seeing their families again.

Even the scientists for the most part were accustomed to orderly lifestyles and did not adjust well to random changes in their routines. As much as they deigned to pride themselves on being independent thinkers, people who lived outside the regimen of everyday nine-to-five society--where the overriding concerns were getting ahead of the Jones's and having a color television, equipped with stereo sound and remote control, which they could escape into, and thus avert the dawning realization that this was not happening--the majority, once they left the wilderness of the unexplored scientific frontier, would be considered by an outside observer as the stalwart citizens who made up the backbone of society, and not as the radical theorists they saw themselves to be through the eyes of their own egos.

Now, as Marcus gazed around, calculating the readiness of his team, he detected a nervous tension in the body language being spoken throughout the room and noticed a spark of fear shining from behind eyes which, a few weeks ago, had blazed with excitement and interest as their work progressed toward completion. With the arrival of the invaders, who claimed to work for some secret government agency, all of this had changed. There was only suspicion and uncertainty written on the faces of his crew. There wasn't much he could do about the men and women who had taken over his project but he could counsel his own people and try to keep them from letting the stress of this unnerving situation mar their performance to the point that it might not only endanger the project but the lives of everyone involved as well.

Marcus made a note to himself to discuss with Peggy the possibility of setting up some form of group therapy sessions in the evenings; a forum where he might be able to encourage his fellow prisoners to unite and help each other through this time. He certainly was grateful for the company of the woman. She had been a comfort to him, and they had spent the wasted hours, while waiting for the verdict to be read on the fate of the project and the people involved, getting to know one another. No sooner did she cross his mind, and Peggy entered the control room with the calculations for today's test of the generator.

She walked over and patted him on the arm.

"Sorry I took so long Mark."

"That's all right, there's no hurry," Marcus told her. "We're not going anywhere." No one else had ever called him by that shortened version of his name before and at first Marcus had resented her doing so. Then he saw that she did it as a sign of affection and smiled broadly every time she spoke to him in front of his colleagues, who slipped each other secret winks and nodded their heads in the couples direction, as if to say, "Marcus has a girl friend!" He knew it was silly but Marcus had never formed any lasting relationships with the opposite sex; too much of his life had been taken up with his career. The women he did become involved with eventually left him for someone who had more time to spend. When Peggy was around he felt like some high school boy who had managed to win the heart of the Prom Queen and he wanted to take her in his arms and parade her about the lab so everyone would know his triumph.

As he accepted the papers from her, he searched her eyes, looking for signs of illness. Peggy seemed a trifle more tense than the situation called for, and he was beginning to be concerned. All of them were under a great deal of stress but the tension had begun to ease after it became apparent that the people now in charge intended no immediate physical harm to their captives.

"You OK?" he ask. Peggy hesitated, glanced nervously back over her shoulder toward the door leading into the hallway, through which she had just entered the control room.

"Yes," she answered. "I'm just tired is all."

"Well if you don't feel up to this," he told her. "You can sit the test out. I don't expect we're going to accomplish much more than we did on the original run through. Mostly, I just want to see if we can duplicate the results of that experiment."

"What do you think they want?" Peggy inquired, changing the subject and tilting her head in the direction of the door to indicate who she meant by they.

"I don't know," Marcus answered. "I can't figure out why we're even being allowed to continue operations. Maybe the government intends to confiscate my device and use it for the military or, something else equally disgusting."

"Do you really think the vortex generator is that important Mark?"

He placed the calculations on his console and, using the keyboard mounted there, began to punch the numbers for the power level settings into the computer as he talked. "I certainly do believe it's that important. I've believed that all along. Peggy I'm not doing this for the money--oh sure if I had money enough it would be so much easier to pursue my research--I'm doing this because the world is on the verge of disaster. We have to have a clean and plentiful source of power to take mankind into the twenty-first century."

"Marcus, can I ask you a question?"

"Why certainly," he said, puzzled by her asking. "Why would you think you couldn't?"

"Oh no. I didn't mean it that way," she said. "Not that I couldn't ask you, just that it might be a sensitive question...." She spluttered for a moment and then went on, "Well this may sound silly.... I mean I just thought of something...."

"Just ask the question Peggy," Marcus laughed.

"Well.... Yeah, OK. Marcus, are the Russians involved in this kind of research, do you know?"

Caught off guard by her question he hesitated a moment before answering. That was the last thing he would have expected her to say. "As far as I know Peggy, we are the only group anywhere doing anything with virtual particles. A lot of people in the field don't even believe they exist. But why would you ask if the Russians are experimenting with them? Even if they were it would likely have little bearing on our trials, unless that is they managed to steal my blueprints and beat us to the punch. Still I think we would get the credit. I have the notes from all of my experiments to back my claim as inventor of the process. I doubt anyone else is even close."

Then, as if a light had come on in his head and illuminated the idea for the first time, he grabbed her by the shoulders and whispered, "You don't think these government boys are here because they believe the Russians may have got wind of this and try to come and take it, do you?"

Before she could reply he shook his head and said, "That's pretty unlikely. I'm still trying to figure out how they learned about the lab in the first place and, for that matter, what it is they want. None of them seems in a hurry to take anything. All they're doing is keeping us here." To his concern and utter bafflement, she began to cry.

"I don't know anything anymore," she declared through her tears. "Maybe I've made a terrible mistake. Oh I wish we could just go back to a month ago and start over!" Then as Marcus stood and watched, totally confused about what it was he had done to cause this reaction, she turned and ran from the room. He stood looking incomprehensibly at the numbers flickering on the video screen before him and then realized that the background chatter which had earlier filled the room was gone. Glancing up, he saw the others at their stations looking on expectantly, waiting to see his reaction to this awkward turn taken by the Marcus and Peggy show.

Suddenly embarrassed, he shouted at them, "All of you just mind your own damn business, and see to it you have the generator ready for the test when I get back!" He hurriedly followed Peggy's exit route, chased through the door by the amused chuckles of his fellows.

"Ain't love grand!" someone called after his fleeing form, and the chuckles turned into outright laughter. Marcus halted and turned back to glare for a moment at the door, which had closed behind him preventing any further comments from reaching his ears. Then he realized that it would only make things worse if he went back inside and resumed his march down the hall.

He searched through the conference room and not finding her there continued out the other entrance and on into the cafeteria and spotted her sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in front of her. Deciding that the solution to this enigma might require some tact, as well as a little patience, he walked past where she was sitting to the cabinet mounted on the far wall of the room, removed one of the cups there and filled it with coffee from the pot on the counter. Then, turning back around, he stood resting his back against the wall, while sipping from the cup and waited to see if Peggy would speak to him.

He was about to give up on this ploy when she looked up, facing him. The traces of her recent tears still on her cheeks. "I called them Mark," she blurted out.

"What's that?" he ask.

"It's all my fault," she admitted. "I called them and told them we had the generator working. That's why they came." Marcus turned away and carefully sat the cup down on the counter. He was suddenly afraid he might drop it if he held it in his hand any longer.

"What do you mean, 'You called them', Peggy." She burst into tears again and came toward him with her arms out, as if about to embrace him, but stopped several feet short of actual contact when he held up in hands, palms out in a gesture obviously indicating for her to stay back.

"Peggy, why would you do a thing like that?" he ask, shaking his head as if unable to fathom such an idea.

"I'm sorry Mark. I didn't know--I mean--I did know, I just had no idea all this was going to happen." She dropped her arms and let her shoulders slump in dejection. "Mark I'm so sorry!"

Still shaking his head in disbelief, he repeated his question. "But why?"

"I thought you were working for the Russians Mark."

"What ever would make you think a thing like that?"

"They told me."

When Marcus became excited about his subject he needed room to speak, his entire body often becoming tools to semaphore what he was unable to express verbally. Moving away from the counter he threw his hands up in the air and making as if to walk past her said, "Now I am totally lost. How could they have told you a thing like that? I thought you just said you called them."

Peggy turned away and walked back to sit down at the table once more. She pointed at the chair across from her and said, "Please sit down Mark; and I'll try to explain. Okay?"




CHAPTER INDEX


FOURTEEN -- Peaceful Hollow: July, 1981














Afraid she would break it off in the lock, Emily Williams hands shook as she jiggled the key back and forth until she finally managed to successfully operate the mechanism. Emily didn't need that to happen, she was already nervous enough about making her first sale without a senior partner from the firm along to provide instruction and support. Emily only wished it didn't have to be this house, which had a history of bad luck among the people in the neighborhood.

The property had been on the market for six months without selling, and after the only two people to actually come and look at the house in person had left without making an offer, the owners had agreed to reduce the asking price. With the house still unsold, and not a potential customer in sight, the firm had awarded the sale of the dwelling to Emily by default. Emily hadn't known anything about the property until after the company had assigned it to her as her first commission. While familiarizing herself with the house in preparation of her own debut showing she struck up a conversation with the neighbor from across the street and was told some of the houses hidden secrets. Intrigued by this discovery Emily spent the following morning at the Courthouse and that afternoon in the library reading up on the history of the place.

She found that the original owner had been killed while standing at the front door. His wife had heard a shot and came running from the kitchen but all she found there was the body of her husband laying in front of the open door. The killer had vanished in the night, and the crime had never been solved. Eventually the widow had sold the property to a newlywed couple who had lived there for several years and then simply gone missing one day. Their belongings, including the family car, were all there when the police were finally summoned. Of the couple was never found a trace. The house then sat vacant for almost a decade until a distant cousin of the missing owners had inherited the property and moved in. This inhabitant had been very reclusive, but had spent a great deal of money renovating the house including the installation of a secret bomb shelter in the basement. Unlike the rest, he had died of natural causes.

The biggest surprise she had came while reading a copy of last years Peaceful Hollow Gazette and discovering that, only a year after moving in, the current owners had been attacked in the house one night, by invaders seemingly intent on murdering the entire family. One of the intruders had been killed during the attack, and the rest had escaped. The owner and his family were missing when the sheriffs police arrived at the scene and were not found until after several hours of searching. They had been hiding behind the camouflaged door in the basement hideaway and refused to come out of the bomb-shelter until convinced that it really was the sheriffs men waiting on the other side. When questioned the family claimed a mysterious stranger had shown up on the scene and killed one of the attackers, then ushered them downstairs and disappeared into the darkness.

Emily could understand why these people might want to move.

Only after digging into the history of the house did it occur to her that there might have been ulterior motives involved when her superior recommended Emily be promoted to full partner and be assigned her own sales district, even if it was only one small town in the country. But it was too late now to back out, and she had determined to make good on the sale--to spite her partners if nothing else--and, if at all possible, make a profit for the sellers, who had already moved away and were willing to sell for just enough to recover the cost of their mortgage.

She only had the house listed for two days when the man with her now, waiting patiently for the door to be opened, had called, wanting to see the house. She could hardly contain herself when he told her that if he liked it he would be willing to pay the original asking price. It did occur to her, but Emily did not care enough to question his motives, that this stranger was yet another mystery to be added to the houses lineage. She did not want to lose this sale, if she pulled this one off her position at the firm would be cemented for life.


* * *

Powell waited patiently for the agent from New Century Realty to unlock and open the door. He was in no particular hurry this day. He had known that the boys parents were selling the house. He had also been aware that the Realtor wasn't having much success moving the property and that he would be able to pick it up for a song if he had desired. The Wilson family needed the cash flow right about now and Powell had solved his financial problems neatly with the deal last year in California so had decided, since he needed a base of operations close to Chicago, this house would do just fine, and in addition allow him to help the boys family without their being aware of his intervention.

Powell knew he had plenty of time to settle in and prepare. He could rest for a while. The boy was safe in Chicago.

Next year, he feared, would be a busy time.



CHAPTER INDEX


FIFTEEN -- Chicago: September, 1981
















Although Tommy's life had been visited with violence and tragedy, these events were separated from the rest of his experience by enough time and distance to allow adjustment and forgetfulness to ease the trauma. Living in the peaceful environment of rural America had left him with the subconscious conviction that such things were not a part of normal living and must come from some terrible place outside of the world most people inhabited; so when his family moved to Chicago Tommy was left totally unprepared for the pressures of urban existence.

The hustle and bustle of a city the size of Chicago was more than intimidating, it was at times terrifying. At every turn were cars blaring their horns at you, or people jostling and shoving for position on the crowded sidewalks where you were forced to do most of your outdoors living. The buildings towered menacingly above, seeming to lean outward and gaze down at you in contempt with their cold dark eyes of steel and glass; no pity shown on those blank brobdingnagian faces, which had been rudely drawn from the cold inhospitable heart of some granite mountain. Tommy was certain that he would never adapt well enough to become at home within these concrete canyons, where unavoidable death surely loomed around every corner.

That same menace seemed to go unnoticed by the native canyonites. They danced out their lives amid the cityscapes with the same ease displayed by a mountain goat as he walked unconcerned along the edge of a cliff, nibbling on the scrub grass growing there.

For the third or fourth time--the wind having blown it loose again--since he had been standing here on the corner awaiting the arrival of the CTA bus, he tucked his scarf back into the collar of his coat. His father didn't think it was safe for him to be traveling on public transportation, but Tommy had rebelled today after missing his ride home from school. Now, standing here with the teeming life of the city closing in all about him, he began to wish that he had called a cab instead. Then the bus came and as he endured pressing the flesh with the other passengers long enough to find a seat toward the back of the vehicle all of his anxieties left him. There was no longer room in his mind for thoughts of anything but the beautiful young brunette he found himself seated next to.

After his initial look at the girl, he sat with his head facing rigidly to the front, while surreptitiously attempting to turn his eyes to the side enough to gaze at her and memorize every detail of her face without letting the girl know that he was staring. He lived with the illusion that this tactic was working until she burst out laughing in a surprising, musical, voice.

"You're going to pop your eyeballs from their sockets if you keep doing that all the way to your stop," she teased.

Tommy, embarrassed by her having caught him out and startled by the sound of her laughter, nearly jumped from his seat and ran off down the aisle. She placed her hand on his arm and at her touch he was paralyzed into immediate immobility.

"I'm...I'm sorry," he stuttered. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just...I mean you're just so pretty I couldn't help myself. I mean.... Geeze!"

She laughed again, this time not teasing, laughing more to hide her own embarrassment at his compliment. "It's all right," she said. "I get stared at all the time. I'm used to it. At least you had the grace to not just sit there and leer at me. My name is Helen Cole," she added. "What's yours?"

"Tommy Wilson," he replied.

"Well it's nice to meet you Tommy," she declared. Further enslaving him with her smile. "Are you new here?" she inquired.

"Yea," he admitted. "We just moved to Chicago this summer; is it that obvious?"

"Never lived in the city before huh?"

"No," he said, still wanting to stutter and shuffle his feet as he talked to the girl, having not yet crossed that threshold which leads a young boy from the innocence of childhood into the more trying age of young adult, where the social skills used to relate with the opposite sex are developed.

Then in an unconscious flash of genius Tommy said exactly the right thing to cement their friendship. "I wasn't at all certain I was going to like it either, until I met you."

"Why isn't that just the sweetest thing!" she said, fluttering her eyes at him and feigning belief of his flattery. "You probably say that to all the girls."

"No," Tommy hurriedly clarified. "Actually I don't. In fact, I really don't talk to very many girls."

"Well you should," Helen instructed. "It's good for you. It'll keep you from turning into a Neanderthal like most of the boys I know."

Tommy laughed aloud and said, "You sound like my Mom."

"Do I now?" she replied in a flat tone.

"Oh I didn't mean it that way! It's just that she teases my Dad all the time, and you reminded me of her when you said that about men acting like cave men. I like my Mom you know," he added in his own defense.

"I am glad to hear that. I mean, if you didn't like your own mother I would hate to find out what you thought of other women!"

They laughed together at the silly turn their conversation had suddenly taken, neither realizing that this was often the path used by two people who found they liked each other but did not yet have any common history upon which to base their conversation. They would discuss inanities until learning enough about one another to converse sensibly about topics of mutual interest.

They also did not realize that most people can never pinpoint the exact moment of their first meeting. That they look around one day after seeming to have known one-another all of their lives and discover that first encounter has been lost in the fog of memory. There is sometimes a special bond engendered between two people who can recall instantly the exact moment each first laid eyes upon the other. There is some magnetism which has drawn them together, or has been generated as a result of the circumstances of that initial encounter. Whatever the case with Tommy and Helen, that day was to become one of the benchmarks of their young lives.

As the bus neared his stop Tommy fretted over how to ask Helen for her phone number and address in the small time remaining before they must part. To his immediate relief as the bus pulled up at the corner where he was to disembark, he noticed that she was also getting out of her seat. "Is this your stop?" he ask.

"Yes," she replied. "Yours too?"

"Yea," Tommy said, smiling when he noticed the pen in Helen's hand and realized that she had been about to hurriedly write down her phone number or address. After the bus pulled away, Tommy waited until Helen turned to move off down the sidewalk and then, with the natural motion of one taught gentlemanly behaviors from childhood, fell in to flank her on the side nearest the street and began to walk along with the girl as if it were something they did together every day.

"So. You must live close by?" she ask, as they strolled abreast down the tree lined street, which was bordered on either side by six and eight story high-rises. All inhabited by the moderately well to do. People who could easily have afforded fine homes in one of the cities growing suburbs, but who, preferring proximity to their white collar jobs, chose the posh elegance of the security guarded apartments near downtown Chicago instead.

"Yea," Tommy replied, raising his arm to point along the street. "We live in that brown building at the end of the block."

"Oh, then we're neighbors," Helen responded happily. "I live right across the street in the gray building!"

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

"That's great!" Tommy declared. "We can ride together to school from now on. If you would like to, that is."

"Sure," she agreed, and smiled at him again.

Tommy had completely forgotten that, less than an hour before, he had been downtown standing on the corner, feeling like someone who is suddenly plucked from his native land, then dropped into the midst of strangers, and left to flounder about without even a language in common by which he might question his surroundings.

His alienation now a thing of the distant past. His lonely isolation at an end. Walking with this beautiful young girl at his side. Completely enchanted with Helen of Chicago, Tommy thought this might well be the greatest of cities, and could not imagine himself ever wanting to leave.


* * *

Over the weeks which followed their initial meeting, Tommy and Helen became fast friends. They did indeed become more than friends and were soon on the road to young love.

There have been many times and places where two sixteen year olds would have rapidly explored this relationship to its limits but Tommy, nor Helen were in any such hurry to face the trials of adulthood.





CHAPTER INDEX


SIXTEEN -- Illinois: August, 1978


















Marcus could only sit and stare across the table in amazement after Peggy had told her story of intrigue and secret spying for the mysterious government agency which now held his laboratory under its sway.

He wanted to be angry at the situation, but had used that emotion over the last few weeks to the extent that he seemed to have exhausted it from his soul. All he could summon from his heart was a swell of bitter resentment at the overall naivety--himself included--of people in his profession. How many times would such as he have to be used by those in power for the purposes of control and suppression of their fellows before the lessons of the past were finally learned once and for all? Before the ones who--by increasing their knowledge of and ability to manipulate nature--sought to improve the lot of mankind, removed themselves from harms way and made damn well certain that their ideas and inventions could not be taken and perverted by others who could only conceive of evil uses for modern science?

He smiled across at his fellow scientist, who had also become his companion and confidant, then took the napkin laying next to his coffee cup and dabbed the tears from her cheeks. Marcus felt remorse for her sadness, as if it were somehow his fault that she had been victimized by these loathsome people.

"I think it doesn't matter all that much Peggy," he stated calmly.

"How can you say that?" she ask. "After what I've done. I wouldn't blame you if you hated me."

"It's an easy thing to say. I've dealt with these kind of people before. All they are concerned with is money and power. None of them gives a damn about what we're doing here. Their only motivation is whether or not they can somehow profit from our labors, or ensure that if they can't no one else does."

"That still doesn't make it any easier to live with what I've done to you Marcus!"

Once more he touched her cheek. He cupped her face gently with his hand and spoke to her in a soothing voice. "Peggy, you haven't done anything all that horrible. You simply, because of your inexperience in such circles, let yourself be used by people who specialize in exploiting other people. People like us!"

"They wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me!" she cried.

"Nonsense," he replied. "Just think about it! The very fact that you were approached and recruited to inform on my activities is proof that I was already under surveillance. If it hadn't been you it would have been someone else. Hell, for all we know, there may be others anyway. I doubt that these people trusted all their information to come from a single source."

Peggy stared in amazement when he suddenly laughed aloud. Then she reluctantly smiled, as he explained. "You know what is really funny?" he ask. "They brought us together. It's true! If you hadn't been ask to keep an eye on me we might never have met. Now tell me, what's so horrible about that?"

Peggy and Marcus sat together for a while longer discussing their dilemma, eventually deciding that there wasn't much else they could do for now but accept their situation and continue with the experiments, hoping in the meantime that things would work out for the best.

To Marcus giving up entirely was never an option. He was grateful to be allowed to continue his experiments, even if he did have operate under the thumb of the government agency who had usurped control of the lab. Even this was preferable to shutting down completely. Both agreed that there was nothing to be gained by abandoning the project or leaving the test facility to the care of the invaders.

Marcus picked up their empty cups, carried them to the counter and left them in the sink, to be washed later. He looked at his watch. For some reason, despite their circumstances, he was in an extraordinarily good mood. "All right then. It's almost time to power up the torus for the next test," he declared, as he walked jauntily across to where Peggy was now standing next to the cafeteria table.

Bowing in a stately manner, Marcus swept his arm in the direction of the door and invited, "Shall we proceed Ms. Thompson?"

Peggy cocked her head to the side quixotically and answered, "I don't see why not Mr. Reynolds!" With identical carefree smiles of abandon pasted on both their faces, the pair bounded toward the door, practically skipping out of the room, for the moment, no longer concerned by their uncertain future.


* * *

Ted was seated in one of the observers chairs, which had been intended by Marcus for the use of visiting colleagues, the press and any potential buyers who might be interested, when he was ready to announce the success of his invention, but were now the exclusive residence of Ted and his agents. As he noticed Marcus and Peggy make their entrance into the room he nudged Doris with his arm and leaned over to whisper in her ear. "I think we should keep an eye on those two," he said. "From the looks of them they might be up to something."

Doris giggled merrily and replied, "I don't know Ted. I've been keeping an ear to the wall and by the tone of the gossip I've overheard around the complex, it seems the two of them are having an affair of some note. They're the talk of the place. I think what they're up to is pretty obvious to everyone!"

He sat in silent thought for a moment, with his chin resting in his hand gazing toward Marcus and his companion before commenting further. "Well," he said, "that might even be worse. She was supposed to be working for us. If she has ended up in a tryst with the Director of this facility she may well be playing as a double agent. Using both sides against the middle."

"Why would she have called us if she were doing that?" Doris ask. "Maybe she initiated the relationship just to get him to divulge the information she was after. Or to keep him from suspecting her motives for asking about the progress of his experiments in the first place."

"That's possible, but I doubt it," Ted half agreed. Then remarked, "Remember. She's not an agent, she was just recruited for this one operation." Just then the overhead lights dimmed and Marcus addressed the assembly of scientists and technicians who were already on duty at their stations. This procedure was made somewhat easier than it had been during the original trials as a loudspeaker system had been incorporated into the room to overcome the noise from the generators penetrating downward through the floor of the room above.

"OK Guys and Gals," Marcus called cheerily into the silence which had followed the dimming of the lights. "We're now...," he glanced at the clock on the wall, "fifteen minutes from power up. Is there any reason we should not proceed?" He paused and waited for a reply. Receiving none he continued.

"We're only going to use half the operational power we expended during the last run. I believe we might have overdone it that time. When we kicked the torus through critical mass we generated a somewhat larger singularity than we probably need for our present purposes."

The team went through its, by now, well practiced sequence of checklists and began to power up the machinery for the critical moment of transition. This time there was a new array of instruments positioned around the torus, some of them mounted so they might actually be moved inside the circle of activity.

In addition to the variety of radiation monitors, magnetic field detectors and a multitude of different electromagnetic sensing devices, several motion picture cameras and video recorders had been added to the array. Aside from the scientific value of the films, Marcus had included them in the trials hoping to capture some visual highlights for later use in promotional brochures when the time came to seek funding for a full scale generator.

As the torus reached the moment of optimal mass the Professor signaled his approval to continue with a thumbs-up signal and the computer was allowed to complete the sequence of events which triggered the opening of the singularity. All in the room save for the agents seated in the observers seats were prepared for the small violence that accompanied the creation of the vortex. Those of the scientists who were not so involved in the process, they had become unaware of the world outside the sphere of their own duties, took a modicum of revenge upon their captors--who were already stressed by the torrent of noise descending from the turbines in the room above--as they saw the momentary terror blossom in the strangers expressions at the clash of sound and the dazzle of light which erupted through the window between the control room and the room housing the torus. Once the agents realized nothing was amiss they relaxed and alternated between watching the video monitors mounted on the back wall of the control room, the view through the window, or the personnel manning the equipment.

Ted and Doris tried to watch all three simultaneously.

The scientists were for the most part unconcerned with the live action footage playing out on the video monitors. While there had been a few exciting seconds of oscillating blue/green lights flashing in the cameras view when the singularity established itself at the center of the torus, afterwards there was nothing to see but a cylindrical shaped blue column, glowing serenely above the generator ring; all of which could be seen much more distinctly by looking directly through the window. Even though the operators were much better able to determine the status of things within the singularity and its immediate vicinity by watching the instrument readouts on their consols most of them did, from time to time, sneak a glance through the window into the other room. There is nothing quite like actually seeing things with your own eyes.

Just the day before most of these people, if given the opportunity, would have eagerly dashed for the door, hoping never to be confined within these walls again. A month of captivity is enough to convince the majority of humanity that whatever the endeavor they had been involved in; it really, after all, hadn't been that important. Although these desires would return, for now, once more caught up in the excitement of exploration and discovery; given another chance to pursue their original goals, all thought of leaving had been set aside.

"T-plus two minutes twenty-five seconds," noted the timekeeper.

"Power levels nominal," someone else called out.

"Check," Marcus answered. "The singularity is stable and we're getting good readings on all the instruments." He looked up to note the reactions of Ted and his agents to his next statement. All were studiously watching the video monitors, as if they really were just observers at the event and not actually the ones who could say whether to continue or not.

"Begin moving the sled over the torus. I want to see if we can get any readings from within the vortex." Marcus ordered.

"T-plus three minutes."

"Roger. Moving in now," responded the technician operating the controls which determined the positioning of the carriage holding the monitoring devices.

The sled was mounted on tracks running above the torus and was situated so as to hold the instruments on it at a distance several feet back from the glowing blue cylinder of radiant energy, or if desired to carry them within that circle of light.

Marcus looked through the window as the apparatus began to slowly approach the circumference of the torus. As the first of the instrument packages encountered the wall of radiance it abruptly vanished.

"T-plus five minutes."

"What's going on!" Marcus called to the operator.

"I don't know. We've lost the readings from the sled. They were all off the scale for a second, then everything went to zero."

Marcus glanced toward the video monitors and noted that the ones from the cameras positioned outside the torus were still showing the blue cylinder. The one recording the view from inside the singularity had lost its picture and was filled fuzz.

Ted rose from his seat at the observers station and crossed the room to stand next to the console where Marcus was seated. "I noticed something just before the screen went blank," he said.

"What was it?" Marcus ask.

"I'm not sure, I know this sounds crazy, but I swear I saw trees!"

"Trees?" Marcus ask, doubt clear in his tone. For the moment forgetting to be angry at the man who had taken over his project; answering as if he were speaking to one of his colleagues.

Ted shook his head and repeated, "I swear, there were trees in the picture."

"You couldn't have," Marcus adamantly denied. "You probably just saw bands of color flash on the screen when the monitor lost its signal."

Irritated at the others disbelief, Ted emphatically repeated his claim, "I am a trained observer Mr. Reynolds. When I look at something I see what is there, and I'm telling you. I saw trees!"

Once again fully aware of who he was talking to, and as much as he hated to terminate the trial before they had completed all of the experiments set for this run, Marcus decided that there were too many unknowns to continue without first determining what had happened. He only hoped they would be allowed to try again.

"Pull it back out," he ordered.

"Roger. Retracting now." At first nothing seemed to be happening, then the sled abruptly reappeared in its place above the track.

"How are we doing?" Marcus ask.

"It's hot in there," one of the men answered, "but the coolant pumps are handling it without any problem."

"T-plus thirteen minutes forty-seven seconds."

"Begin power down."

"Roger."

"Power down sequence initiated.... Now!"

"Mark."


* * *

"Look at this!" Marcus said as he hung the chart of the temperature readings against the wall and held it up while Peggy taped it in place. The entire crew was assembled in the conference room; the government agents included. After powering down the torus, the team had moved there to go over the data recorded during the trial.

"What is it?" Peggy ask.

"Look. Look at the temperature." He pointed to a location on the chart and explained. "Right here--before contacting the singularity--the ambient temperature around the sled was holding at one-hundred and fifty degrees. Now," he said, moving his hand down the page. "right after entry, the temperature dropped to seventy-three degrees."

"Yes. I see it," she said, nodding her head.

"OK. The chart recorder was on this side of the singularity and kept recording but, since there was no data coming in it's, reading blank until the sled crossed back over. For a second here, as soon as there is a reading again, it's showing seventy-three then it shoots back up to the original numbers."

"I would say that the temperature must have held at seventy or so the whole time the sled was inside the vortex," Peggy noted.

"I agree."

"So why would it be so much cooler inside the singularity?" she ask. "I mean, why any temperature difference at all?"

Marcus stood looking at the chart for a minute and then turned to the table where the rest of the charts were laying. "I think I might know," he said. "But it's just too fantastic to believe! I've got to check a few things first, before I'm willing to commit myself."

He ask the man standing at the other side of the table, "Jim, where are the readings from the magnetic field detectors?"

The man shuffled through the pages until finding the one Marcus wanted and then handing it across saying, "Right here Professor."

Peggy and Marcus hung this chart on the wall next to the other one and the group studied it in silence for a moment.

"Looks similar to the temperature readings," Jim noted.

"You're right," Marcus said. "See right here, we've got an intense magnetic field, then it drops to a level you would expect to see if you took a measurement of the earths magnetic field just about anywhere on the planet."

"Okay," someone called across the room. "I've got the television set up. Are we ready to look at the tapes?"

Marcus glanced at his watch. "What say we break for a bite to eat? By the time we're done with that the film from the camera should be developed. We can look at the video and the film together and compare the recordings. If the film hasn't been damaged, we may be able to get a look at what was going on the entire time the camera was inside the vortex."

Ted started to object to the delay, but at the mention of food the people in the room had risen and were already filing through the door on their way to the cafeteria. Bowing to necessity, and the realization of his own growing hunger, Ted shrugged his shoulders in resignation and joined the line.





CHAPTER INDEX


SEVENTEEN -- Chicago: January, 1982

















Before the attack in Peaceful Hollow Thomas Senior had been certain of his own ability to protect his family from the evils of the world unassisted. That incident had taught him some humility and motivated the move to the security protected building in Chicago where Thomas could be assured that men far better equipped for the job than himself were seeing to his families safety. He now felt confident that, at least while they were in their own home, his wife and son were protected, whether he was there with them or not. The apartment was in one of the most secure buildings in Chicago and the security company charged with the safety of the tenants was a top notch firm. Thomas had personally validated their credentials before moving his family into their new home.

Thomas knew his wife and son could not spend all of their time locked away from the world and that he could not be constantly at their sides when they ventured out into the streets. Moved by this concern, he encouraged his family to take some form of training in self defense. Aside from all of the, as yet, unexplained attacks upon his family Thomas Senior had deemed the training a good idea simply because of the city environment his family was now exposed to. Chicago in 1982 had already become a place where pedestrians need beware and be able to defend themselves if necessary. He breathed a sigh of relief when Amanda eventually agreed to take classes in firearms safety and get a permit to carry a handgun and--although Thomas had suggested the boy take up Karate--Tommy had begun his classes in Tai Quan Do.

Tommy was enjoying the learning and practice of this ancient art of being. At first, when his father had insisted he enroll, he didn't want to take the classes, believing this was just more of his Seniors paranoid "they're all out to get us" thinking. He had argued with his Dad that he couldn't see any point in spending his time in some smelly gym wrestling with a bunch of muscle-bound apes who all thought they were Rambo but had--to appease his father--finally given in and agreed to take the classes, at least for a while. He was surprised when he met his instructor and the other fellows in his group, and found most of them to be people much like himself. The training was not at all what he expected either.

Instead of a rigorous regimen of lifting heavy weights and sparing, Ninja fashion, with the others in his class, Tommy was delighted to learn that the group spent a great deal of time simply sitting and listening to their instructor as he explained to them how to explore the ways of their own hearts and minds, or led them in an exploration of the strengths and weaknesses of their bodies. All of these activities were centered around the idea of properly maintaining their physical and spiritual selves.

To his delight, Tommy found he was not being taught to fight, he was rather, learning to use every part of his being the way it was designed to function. Physically, mentally, emotionally; and spiritually. He began to look forward to Saturday afternoons and the two nights during the week which he spent at the gym four blocks from his apartment building.

Even though it was January and bitterly cold outside, Tommy continued to walk home after these sessions. Having spent his early childhood in the semi-country of the suburbs he was at heart an outdoors person and hated being cooped up inside. Tommy was seldom sick. Still, he figured there was no sense in going out wet and risking a cold and seldom used the showers at the gym. Instead he waited until he was home to clean up.

Today, because he was meeting with Helen to see a movie after his session with the martial arts instructor, Tommy used the gyms facilities to shower up and, putting on fresh cloths before heading out for the theater a block away, decided he would not freeze to death before reaching the warmth of the movie houses lobby.

Tommy hurried through the frigid air. His eyes, stung by the bite of the seemingly arctic wind, which he generated as he ran the length of the block, began to stream with tears. They ran down his cheeks, freezing in place and leaving a salty residue clinging to his skin. As he made his way down the street toward the theater he wished he had forgone the shower and trusted in Helen's feelings for him to protect their relationship from his obnoxious aroma. When he arrived and was safely inside, once more surrounded by the artificial summer of a gas fired central heating system without freezing solid, decided he had made the right decision after all.

When Helen came in from the street, Tommy handed her one of the tickets he had purchased while waiting. Then helped her off with her coat and folded it over his arm with his own as they passed through the turnstile. "Did you walk?" he ask.

"No. My mother dropped me off. She said to call when the show is over and she will come to pick us up," Helen replied.

Tommy led her to the concession stand and ordered popcorn and a soda for the two of them. "Good thing your mom is coming for us," he commented. "It's colder out than I thought it was going to be. I nearly froze walking from the gym."

The movie was one of those "High School High" affairs. Where the young girl who is unpopular ends up with the school football champion, dumping the class nerd, who until then has been her only male friend, in fact her only friend, until the football player came along. The nerd (how could you not know?) ends up being the unsung hero of the film and in the end meets the love of his life (who is--of course--the Prom Queen).

After the show Tommy and Helen used the phone in the lobby to call Helen's mother for a ride. Tommy was watching the cars pass by on the street and daydreaming about what it would be like next year when he had his license and he and Helen could drive themselves around the city and explore all of the places now denied to them by their lack of transportation.

He heard his name and turned to see if Helen were speaking to him. She was still holding the receiver of the phone to her ear and Tommy wondered at first if he had mistaken something she said to her mother for a comment made to him. "Did you say something?" he ask.

"There's no answer," she repeated.

"Maybe she's already on her way."

Helen listened a moment longer then, still getting no answer, hung up the phone, looked toward the street and said, "I don't know. I've been trying to call for ten minutes already. I would think she could drive five blocks in that amount of time!"

"Well, if she's not here pretty soon I'll call my house and get my dad to come get us," Tommy assured her. "Maybe your mom went out for something and got caught in traffic."

"You're probably right," Helen admitted.

They waited another ten minutes before giving up on Mrs. Cole and Tommy fished some change from his pocket to pay the phone with. After letting the phone ring for what was surely a sufficient amount of time he hung up and turned to Helen. "There's no one there either. My dad took off from work today. Him and Mom must be out somewhere together."

"Should we call a cab?" Helen ask.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, "I've only got a dollar left. If you don't have any money, I guess we're going to have to walk."

Helen laughed. Showed him the fifteen cents she was holding in her hand, and said, "This is all I have on me."

"We walk."

"Right."




CHAPTER INDEX


EIGHTEEN -- Illinois: August, 1978
















Marcus waited until the last of his people had returned to their seats and then signaled the man operating the video player and the movie projector to dim the lights and run the scenes recorded during the few minutes both cameras had been inside the vortex.

"Let's run the video first Phill," he said. "Then we'll look at the film."

"Okay Mr. Reynolds. Can do."

Marcus turned and gave Ted a questioning look. "I hope, for all of our sakes, Mr. Preston that what we shall see here is the results of a malfunctioning camera," he said. "If, as you claim to have witnessed, there are scenes of trees on the film or the video tape we're likely to find ourselves faced with a quandary greater than the simple question of whether or not your agency thinks the world deserves the grace of a power source you could not restrict the use of. I believe I've had a vision of a future which might just frighten you even more than that."

Ted, caught off guard by this unforeseen criticism, blustered and said, "Just get on with it Marcus. We've all been cooped up here for a long time and I'm not in the mood for games!"

"Yes sir, 'Herr Commandant!'" The Professor replied. "We certainly have been locked away from the world long enough. Perhaps we should open a door and let in some fresh air."

"Roll the damn tape!" Ted commanded. Marcus saluted sharply, did an about face and nodded for Phill to run the video."

Everyone leaned closer, trying to peer around those seated in front of them and see the picture on the television, as the video tape began its replay. They watched as the cylinder of radiance formed above the torus and then for several seconds nothing happened until the sled began moving toward the singularity. The screen filled with the blue/green glow until the walls of the room across from the torus became faint and washed out in the image. As the camera entered the zone of the singularities influence there was a flash of white and, just before the scene dissolved into a uniform fuzz, the clear pristine image of dozens of deciduous trees filled the picture. Reynolds had the projectionist run the tape several more times--at one point freezing the picture so everyone watching could see the view of the trees--before instructing him to dim the lights and run the film from the movie camera.

A scene similar to the one they had already witnessed on the television played itself out on the movie screen behind the podium at the front of the room. When the movie camera crossed through the wall of light they saw again the same flash of white and then for several seconds the picture disintegrated into a riot of random colors before once more clearing up. There before them was repeated, this time projected on the screen in large enough format for the entire room to see unhindered, a better view of the same trees seen by the video camera. Since--unlike the images stored on the video recording that had been sent from the camera to the tape machine in the lab, which had nothing to record once it lost the signal--the movie camera carried the film across with it to whatever place the sled had taken it and kept right on filming the whole time it had vanished from the room on the other side of the plate-glass window.

The scientists sat in utter amazement and watched as, for the entire duration of its brief sojourn to wherever it had gone (Another planet; another universe; another dimension?) the projector unveiled what the camera had seen:

Frame after frame of trees. Doing just what trees do. Placidly waving their branches, and rustling their leaves, at the behest of some temperate breeze. A breeze, perhaps much like any that might gently waft...upon some other world.



CHAPTER INDEX


NINETEEN -- Illinois: January, 1982















Tommy and Helen were in such a hurry to get in out of the cold that, when they entered the door, neither noticed the absence of the doorman, who was invariably stationed inside the entrance to the building where the Wilson's lived. A guard from the same security firm stood station at the door of Helen's building and both of the teenagers had become so accustomed to their attendance that--like any other object which is a constant in your world--they most times didn't even notice the guards presence, any more than either noticed the door in their path, other than enough to automatically open it and walk through. The absence of a door would have caught their attention and had it not been for the cold so too would have the missing guard.

They were halfway across the lobby before Tommy stopped and ask, "Did you see the guard when we came in?"

Helen thought for a moment and then replied, "No. But I wasn't really paying all that much attention."

"Me neither," Tommy said. "I just figured he spotted us through the glass and unlocked the door, but now that I think about it I didn't hear the buzzer, and...." As he turned to look over his shoulder, Helen mimicked his action. All they saw was the door and, off to one side, the unoccupied desk where the guard should have been sitting.

"Maybe he had to go to the bathroom and left the door open in case someone came while he was gone," Helen suggested.

"Yea I...," Tommy started to say. Then thought better of it.

"No. They don't do that. He would have called the upstairs guard to come down and relieve him. They never leave the door unattended. "I know that because it was one of the reasons my dad decided to move here. He liked the idea of always having a guard at the door."

"Well it's no big deal," Helen said. "I'm sure he'll be right back. Wherever he went."

Having lived in Chicago all of her life and taking urban living a little more for granted than Tommy, assuming he was still a bit paranoid about the reputation of the city, Helen did not really understand the level of his concern. Especially since, even though they had become sweethearts, Tommy had not yet shared with her the history of the attacks against his family. Afraid at first such a story might drive the girl away; either out of disbelief or, worse yet, in fear of being in his company, and later simply having put thoughts of such morbid events aside, enslaved as he was by the singular joy just being in her presence gave him.

Suddenly, alarms began to sound in Tommy's imagination. During the course of the last three years, when all had seemed to be exactly as it should, only one thing out of the ordinary had at times signaled the onset of disaster. Blasé as he might outwardly have become about those earlier times a part of him had not forgotten, had been, without his conscious knowledge, waiting vigilantly for the first signs of danger. A terrible sense of impending loss suddenly overwhelmed his reason and--as if afraid she might be abruptly snatched from his side--Tommy protectively pulled Helen closer to him and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Don't make any noise," he cautioned her. "Something is wrong here; I can feel it." Then putting his finger in front of his lips, to reinforce this admonition, he took her hand in his own and began leading her toward the stairs.

"Where are you going?" she ask. Despite herself, thinking he was being silly, she realized she was also whispering.

"I don't want to use the elevators," he explained. "They might be waiting for us to get off on my floor."

"Who might be waiting?"

He stopped to look at her and replied in all seriousness, "The men in the black suits."

Helen jerked her hand out of his grip and exclaimed, "That's it Tommy. You've seen one too many movies, and I don't think this is funny anymore!"

"Shhh!" he said, putting his hand over her mouth. "I'm not trying to be funny!" he whispered emphatically.

"Can't you feel it? Listen to the building. It's too quiet in here. Something is wrong."

Beginning to become afraid herself now--although not knowing exactly what she should be afraid of--Helen did begin to listen to the sounds within the apartment building; and noticed that all of the continuous noises--the ones which are constantly there but are tuned out of your mind, and not consciously acknowledged--a building makes as it goes about the business of being inhabited were strangely missing from the air.

The quiet susurrus blowing of the central heating system was absent, that white noise you still hear in the background as--even when the heat is off--hidden fans continue to circulate fresh air throughout the structure. The sound of a phone ringing somewhere in another part of the building. The echo of a voice, or the closing of a door as someone is leaving or returning home again.

Then, with out speaking aloud, she touched Tommy on the shoulder and pointed to the ceiling. In the bright light of the evening sun coming in through the front entrance neither of them had spotted the fact that the florescent tubes, which normally filled the lobby with their blue/white radiance, were dark. The power was off in the building.

Cautiously the pair crept up the stairs until they were standing at the edge of the stairwell on the third floor. Getting on his knees and keeping his head as low as possible (He had heard some actor in a war movie, playing the part of an experienced soldier, tell a rookie in a similar situation, "If you can't go high boy, go low.") Tommy carefully leaned around the corner, trying to expose only his eyes, as he looked the length of the hallway in both directions.

"I don't see anyone," he said, as he pulled his head back into the comparative safety of the stairwell.

"Maybe it is just a power failure," Helen hopefully suggested.

Tommy turned around and sat down on the stair above where she was standing. "Yea, but if that's what it was there should be people milling around asking each other what's going on and complaining about it."

Helen held out her hand and pointed out, "We'll never find out by just sitting here. Come on let's go to your apartment and see if anybody's there."

Tommy, torn by the dual concerns of Helen's safety and determining the welfare of his parents, was on the verge of turning back the way they had come. The thought of getting to a phone, where they could summon the police and wait for them to come and handle the situation, was beginning to seem like a good idea.

When they heard the sound of heavy footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs below them, Tommy and Helen, now faced with the immediate choices of heading still higher in the building or seeking safety on this level, retreated into the hallway. Still holding tightly to each others hands, the pair jumped up and ran the length of the hallway, stopping before the door of the Wilson's apartment. Tommy hurriedly fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the lock. He turned the knob and pushed on the door which easily swung open, riding silently on well oiled hinges.

The living room was empty and silent. Tommy hesitated at the door uncertain whether to go inside or turn and head for the stairs at the end of the hall, go down and exit the rear of the building.

"Wait!" he said, reaching for her, as Helen stepped through the door and called out for Tommy's parents.

"Mr. Wilson! Mrs. Wilson! It's us, Tommy and Helen! Is anybody here?"

Tommy followed her into the room. Not forgetting that someone had been close behind them on the stairs he shut the door and turned the dead bolt to the locked position. Then stood quietly, cautiously listening for sounds of activity in the apartment. "I don't think anyone is here Helen," he observed.

"I'm starting to think there's nobody in the whole building," she despaired. "What could possibly be happening?"

"They're here," Tommy said. "Or they've been here and gone."

"You mean your mysterious men in black?" Helen retorted, still unconvinced.

"Exactly," Tommy answered, as he crossed the room, picked up the phone and held it to his ear. "The phone is out," he said.

"Maybe it quit when the power went off," Helen said.

"Maybe it quit when they cut the lines."

"Tommy this is just too mysterious. I want to get out of here." She turned and started back toward the door, "I don't care if my mother is there or not. I'm going home, and when I get there I'm calling the police!"

Tommy hurried to catch up with her saying, "That's a good idea Helen. I don't think we should stay here any longer."

Before the two could take another step, the door of the apartment flew open, slammed against the wall and would have rebounded closed again except for the man standing there, who stopped it with the palm of his left hand. He stood crouched, motionless for a second. Not moving at all save for his eyes, and the gun he held in his other hand. His gaze and the weapon simultaneously darted frantically about, covering the breadth of the room with deadly intent. He lifted his coat out of the way and holstered the gun as he sprinted the several steps from the door to where the young couple were standing.

The intruder came toward them reaching, as if to capture them in his embrace. Tommy took a step to the side, grasped the man by his forearm and pivoting away from Helen, pulled the other toward him. Using the momentum of the mans own forward motion Tommy deftly flipped him over his hip and sent him sprawling face up on the carpet.

Tommy was still moving without conscious thought of what to do next or consideration about the outcome of his actions. Under the sway of his recent martial arts training, which he had not realized until this moment had begun to gift him with internal survival skills superior to any that could be provided by outside sources, he continued his turn, at the same time lifting his leg, aiming the heel of his foot to impact the prone figure in the solar plexus and disable him. Before he could complete the motion the man caught Tommy's foot in his grip, twisted to the side and without injuring the boy, brought his opponent down next to him.

"Wait Tommy!" he said. "It's me. It's Powell." Immersed in the mechanics of their own battle neither fighter had noticed when Helen snatched a lamp from the end table next to the door, then ran to get behind them, intent on smashing it over the mans head.

Tommy held up his hand when he saw her coming and said, "Hold it Helen! I know this man. He's a friend...I think."

For a second Tommy thought Helen was simply ignoring his warning, and stared helplessly as she continued to swing the lamp above her head. He began the motion of blocking it with his arm as she released the porcelain object from her grip, but found there was no need as it sailed past him and headed for the open door of the apartment. Tommy heard a solid thump behind him, followed by the sound of a heavy object hitting the floor, and as he turned to see what the girl had been throwing at Powell rolled to his feet and ran to subdue the man who was now lying across the threshold attempting to regain his senses and locate the gun which had slid from his grasp as he fell.

As Tommy took all of this in, Powell clocked the man behind the ear with the but of his own gun, which had been drawn and used with such speed that the lad had not been aware of the man having it in his hand. Powell then cautiously checked the man in the floor to be sure he was not faking unconsciousness, slid the still form out of the way, closed the door and turned the end table up and wedged it under the now broken lock to prevent the door from being opened by someone on the other side. Then he turned so he could address both of the young people.

As Tommy got up from his position on the floor Powell said, "You caught me by surprise Tommy. I thought I might have to fight my way in the door but I wasn't expecting you to be my attacker!" Then he addressed Helen, "And as for you young lady, that was an excellent take down shot with that lamp, it saved me having to use my gun on him and attracting unnecessary attention to our little drama."

Embarrassed by the suddenness of his own unexpected aggression against another human being, Tommy said, "Sorry. I didn't know who you were. I thought it was those people from the last time."

"You were right in a way Tommy. I only managed to beat them here by a few steps," Powell replied.

Helen, who had been silent throughout the entire confrontation, now on the verge of screaming, burst out angrily, "Tommy. Would you please tell me what is going on here!"

Tommy turned to Helen and took her in his arms. "It's all right Helen," he soothed. "We're safe." Remembering his parents Tommy turned to Powell and questioned, "Are my mom and dad OK?"

Powell stood for a moment without answering, then said, "I think so. Looks like Mitch got them out in time."

"Who's Mitch?" Tommy ask.

"Friend of mine," Powell replied. "Did you check in the bedrooms before I got here?"

"No," Tommy said. "We heard you coming up the stairs and ran in here and shut the door just before you broke it down."

"OK; I'm going to check out the rest of the apartment. Wait here, but stay away from that door. If anyone tries to come in, run in the kitchen and don't come out until I give the all clear," Powell instructed.

At the same time Tommy did not want to let the man out of his sight, he also did not want to look in the other rooms, afraid of what he might find there. Dreading that the man might discover his parents badly injured or dead somewhere in the apartment Tommy nevertheless agreed to wait with Helen in the living room. Hoping, despite his earlier premonitions of loss, that Powell would find the rest of the place unoccupied. They listened to the sounds of the search as Powell went through each room opening closet doors and looking under beds for signs of intrusion. He returned shortly to state that the place was empty, and it didn't look as if anything had been disturbed.

Powell glanced at his watch and said, "We've still got to get out of here though. The police will be arriving any second, and I don't want to be here when they show up. I don't think you should be either. There is no need to let them connect you with this and have them asking questions you can't answer."

"I have questions that better be answered!" Helen declared, withdrawing from the comfort of Tommy's arm. "Maybe--since no one here wants to tell me--I'll just wait for the police and find out for myself what this is all about."

"You're going to have to tell her Tommy," Powell said. "But not here. We have to go. Now!"

"He's right Helen. We can't stay here, and the police can't tell you what's going on," Tommy said. "Because they don't know."



CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY -- Illinois: August, 1978





















While the others in the room were waiting for the film to be rewound for a second showing, Ted quietly rose from his seat and, motioning for Doris to join him, moved unobtrusively toward the door. He waited for the projectionist to start the reel once more and then told Malovich what he wanted her to do. "I want this building sealed," he instructed in a sibilant voice, making sure the others in the room didn't hear him. "Locked down. No one is to leave, and no one gets in. Post double guards and all exits and make sure they understand. No one gets out!"

"Gotcha," she replied, and started to walk away.

He called her back and said, "Doris, these people have stumbled upon something which is absolutely incredible. I'm not sure exactly what this machine is doing; teleportation or whatever it is.... 'Beam me up Scotty!' However, I am completely certain that we must remain in control here."

She put her hand on his arm and reassured him, "I'm with you Chief. Don't worry I won't let anyone get away." When she was gone Ted closed and locked the door. Using sign language he signaled for his agents still in the room to be ready if they were needed to subdue anyone who might get out of hand. He waited until the film ended for the second time and then called for the light to be turned on.

The room began to buzz with conversation as the scientists speculated with each other about the implications of the film. Ted let it continue for a moment as he listened to see if he might overhear something from one of the professionals which might improve upon the layman's theories already galloping through his own thoughts. Deciding he had waited long enough he interrupted.

Pulling his gun from the holster he wore beneath his jacket he yelled out, "All right! Everyone listen up!"

When they realized who had spoken the scientists all stopped talking and every head in the room turned to face him.

Ted continued. "As of right now, absolutely no one who has seen these pictures will leave this room until I give my permission. When I do let any of you leave you will only do so under the escort of two of my men. Anyone who tries will be shot dead before they get through the door!" At this the several agents standing along the walls drew their pistols and, in a volley of ominous clicks, one after the other chambered rounds and released the safeties on their guns. Then stood threateningly at the ready position with the weapons pointed at the ceiling, eyes scanning the room for any untoward movement.

Ted searched the walls until he spotted the object he needed, then rapidly crossed the room. He squatted down before the phone jack mounted on the baseboard, grasped it in his hand and forcibly ripped it from its mounting. He took hold of the wire coming from the wall and pulled until the strands parted somewhere along their length inside the partition. He continued tugging at the wire until the loose end came out of the hole, then gathered up the strands and shoved them into the waist pocket of his jacket.

Turning to face Marcus, Ted ask, "Are there any more phone jacks in this room?"

Still shocked by the death threat which had so recently been issued within the confines of the room Marcus was slow answering. "No. I don't believe there is," he finally replied.

Ted fixed him with a glassy gaze, pointed at random with his free hand and stated tonelessly, "If you are lying to me Mr. Reynolds, I will.... What is your name?" he ask the unfortunate victim of his finger without turning to see who he was addressing.

"Charles. Mr. Preston, Charles Abernathy."

Then he did look at the man, fixing him with the same emotionless gaze he had cast at Reynolds, "Thank you Charles."

He turned back to Marcus, "Mr. Reynolds, if you are lying to me I will kill Charles--with my own hand--the instant I discover your dishonesty. Are we clear on that?"

For a moment it seemed as if Marcus were in such a state of shock as to be incapable of giving a reply. Then in a subdued voice, still looking at Ted, he said, "Charlie, I would suggest that you make a thorough search of this room and determine that there are no hidden phone jacks about. If you do find any please notify Mr. Preston immediately."

"I guess we understand each other," Ted concluded. He surveyed the room once more, picked out one of the men standing along the walls and called him over to the door.

"How you doing Mike?" he ask the other.

"I'm holding up Mr. Preston," Mike answered. "I've never been in quite this kind of situation before. But I'm okay with it."

Ted eyed the other man critically for a moment before going on. "That's good," he said. "You heard my orders clearly; did you not Mike?"

"Yes sir."

"Any problem there?"

"No sir. Uh.... Sir you knew that, except for the command post, we cut all the phone lines when we took the building, didn't you?" Mike ask.

Ted let out a quiet chuckle and said, "The phones were cut under my direct orders Mike. Of course I knew. That little scene back there was just for effect. I wanted to scare the shit out of them. We've been here a while and sometimes when people are held captive long enough without anyone being harmed they get cocky and forget who's in charge."

"I imagine it probably worked sir. You certainly scared me. I thought you were going to shoot that man."

Ted glanced back at the unfortunate scientist who had been the prop in his little stage show, and who was now searching frantically along the walls, looking for hidden phone jacks, which Ted already knew he would not find. "I would have Mike," he said. "I will yet if it becomes necessary. Do you have any doubt about that?"

Mike wiped at the sweat on his brow with the hand which was not holding his gun and replied, "No sir. I don't."

"OK. I'm going out this door. I want you to lock it after me. No one goes through it in either direction until I return. If anyone, including another agent, tries you are to shoot them dead. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Mike said, beads of sweat already once again popping out on his forehead, bordering his hairline like tiny crystal pearls.

Convinced of his agents willingness, if not his ability, to follow through on his orders Ted said, "Let's do it then."

He opened the door, stepped quickly through and closed it behind him, waited to hear the lock engage, and then hurried off down the hallway until he came to the door across the hall from the control room, which lead into what had originally been Marcus Reynolds office, until the takeover.

Without knocking, he opened the door, walked in and ushered the two agents inside out of the room. Closing the door behind him he unlocked the cabinet against the wall which contained several items critical to his job. One of them was a voice scrambler of the type used by the military. This particular model had been improved upon somewhat by the incorporation of technologies available only to the department. Ted removed the connection from the phone and plugged it into the device, then replaced the plug running from the phone to the wall with the one coming from the scrambler.

He sat for a moment before dialing the number he intended to call. He knew that once that call was made there would be no turning back. Forces would come into play which would attract the attention of everyone in the Department, from the Chairman on down. What he was about to do would not cost his job if he failed in the execution of his plan. It would cost him his life. Deciding there were no other options, he picked up the receiver, placed the call, and waited for the party on the other end to pick up.

The phone rang two times before a distorted voice answered. "Removal. What is your clearance?"

"Number: 26873109. Letter: P, as in Papa," Ted replied. He waited as his credentials were checked in the book he heard being opened by the person at the other end.

"What is your middle name?" the voice buzzed from the hand set.

"Wallace."

"What is the priority."

"Code Red."

"Do you require disposal or do you wish to store the merchandise?"

"Immediate disposal," Ted answered.

"Location?"

Ted thought for a moment and then said, "My team will deliver, on the hoof, to the warehouse in Chicago. Starting tomorrow. We'll need termination and disposal from that location."

"We're on our way." Ted hung up the phone, replaced the scrambler in the cabinet and re-locked it. He went back into the hall and locked the door behind him.

Turning to the agents, who were standing one on each side of the door he ordered, "Guard this door until you are relieved. No one goes inside." Then he walked across the hall to the control room. Malovich was waiting there, flanked by two agents, who stood just inside the door with their guns at the ready. As he had done in the other room, Ted motioned for these two men to step into the hallway and closed the door once he was alone in the room with the woman.

"Is the building secure Doris?" he ask.

Doris answered affirmatively, "Locked up tight. A cockroach couldn't get out of here with out backup."

Wanting to find out if Doris was aware of his latest activities Ted ask her, "What about the phone line?"

"Rudy and Wally are covering it. No calls coming in, none going out," she said.

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, thinking he still might be able to pull off a cover up he said, "Good. We have some time to breathe and decide what to do about this situation."

Walking over to the nearest console, Ted pulled out the chair sitting there and plopped down in it. Doris pulled out the one next to it and seated herself beside him. "This is really something Ted. What do we do next?" she ask.

"First," he said, "we need to have a little talk with our good Professor. Would you have the men outside go and get him for us?" Doris sent the two agents away. They returned only moments later and knocked on the door.

Ted got up to answer it. "Sorry Chief," one of the men said, "Mike wouldn't open the door. Said those were your orders."

Ted started to berate himself for being over cautious, then silently thought, Better safe than sorry.

"All right. Those were my orders. Come with me; I'll get him myself."


* * *

Ted returned shortly with the Professor in tow. Once the three of them, including Malovich, were seated in the control room, Ted sent one of the agents in the hallway to get them some coffee. While they waited he turned to Reynolds and questioned the man.

"Professor Reynolds, do you have a rational explanation for what we saw on those films a few moments ago?" Marcus sat, apparently in a daze, and was silent for longer than Ted was willing to wait.

"We're not going to have a problem are we Reynolds?" he ask.

Marcus jumped, looking around as if he had just realized there was someone else in the room with him. "What? No, no problem. I was just thinking about the singularity. I didn't have any idea. I mean I guess subconsciously I knew it was theoretically possible that the virtual particles might--or even must--create a virtual space in which to exist. Now that I've actually seen it, it's obvious. They can't exist in this space so they must needs carry their own with them."

Now that he was aware of the others presence he appeared to forget the circumstance of their being here. He stood and began pacing back and forth as if giving a lecture at college. "I would imagine it's somewhat similar to the way a photon carries it's own magnetic field with it, so it has a medium in which to generate the wave it actually is and still be a particle at the same time...."

"Mr. Reynolds!" Ted shouted. "Sit down!" Marcus spun about and, as the truth of his situation once more dawned upon him, hurriedly returned to his seat.

"Now," Ted went on in a softer tone. "You will please explain to us, in English, exactly what you believe happened inside the...what did you call it?"

"The singularity."

"Yes. The singularity. What caused the camera to disappear and where did it go while photographing pictures of trees? Even more: How did it go?"

Wanting to stand, but now unwilling to risk it, Marcus instead sat fidgeting in his chair as he tried to explain. "Well," he said. "Perhaps I should begin at the beginning."

Holding up his hand, Marcus hurried to explain his intentions before Ted could chastise him again. "I don't mean at the very beginning. No. I need to tell you what has occurred since the moment we began operational testing of the vortex generator. You see, when we started out I was certain in theory that a singularity could be generated. I was hoping it might be of a type which could be used to attract virtual particles to its vicinity. I was not at all sure what would actually happen in reality when the machine was activated until the first time we powered the damn thing up...."

Marcus told Ted and Doris of the events which had occurred before the agents from the Department had raided his laboratory and taken command of the station. Explaining his intention to develop a new, and revolutionary, power source which might free mankind from the yoke of the oil industry, financially as well as environmentally.

He told them about the dog which had somehow found its way into the generator during the first trial run and which had until now crossed his mind as only a minor enigma but which--after seeing the movies taken inside the vortex--had become of paramount importance in his thinking about what was taking place inside the effective zone of his generator.

"....so you see, it wasn't until I actually saw the trees on the film and realized that by creating a virtual space around themselves, and bringing that other space with them into our universe when they appeared, the virtual particles were creating a congruity between two different places in our universe and in effect making them one. That was when I figured out that the dog hadn't somehow gotten into the generator room from the outside; he had walked right into the room from inside the vortex. Through the virtual space created within the circle of the torus. That same space which was coming and going from one location to another in such an incredibly short span of time that, to us, it might as well exist in both places at once."

"So Professor Reynolds," Doris said, "what you are saying is that you have created a gateway to someplace else through which objects may pass back and forth without having to travel through the intervening distance. Is that correct?"

Reynolds thought for a moment before answering then stood, removed a piece of chalk from his pocket, and looked about for a blackboard to write on. Then realizing the futility of this gesture sat back down and said, "In essence, Ms. Malovich, that might describe what has occurred. But it is not quite the truth. We did not actually create anything. We generated an artificial singularity. That is: one maintained by a small quantity of mass moving at a tremendous velocity rather than the way nature does it, which is by concentrating a large amount of mass in a very small space. The end result, however, is the same. Once the singularity is created, and as long as it is sustained, it continuously invites the presence of virtual particles."

"Why do virtual particles appear in the singularity?" she questioned.

"They don't appear in the singularity itself," he said, still holding the useless piece of chalk in his hand. "They might, but if they do we will never know they were there--you can't see inside a singularity--they appear near the boundary of the singularity, the place where time as we know it exists on the outside but holds no validity on the other, inside the singularity. Don't ask me why they tend to appear there; if you were a physicist I could show you the math but it isn't something that can be expressed in words. There are virtual particles constantly appearing and disappearing throughout the entire universe, but we never know they are there, we have no way to detect them, there aren't enough of them in any one place at a time to have any method of knowing where they are. By creating the singularity at the center of the torus we are inviting the presence of enough virtual particles in the same location that we are able to detect them, by the energy they release into our universe. What I did not at first realize was that some of them are bound to return to the same place again and again and thus create a sizable virtual space within the torus, and take that same space with them when they depart. In the process taking whatever happens to be occupying that space along for the ride."

"Such as the dog you spoke of, or the cameras on your sled this last time?" Doris ask.

"Yes that is exactly correct," Marcus said.

"OK, I get it," she said. "So where did the dog come from?"

Marcus looked from Doris to Ted and back again. He smiled a secret smile before answering. "No; you don't understand at all. Not where did the dog come from. When did he come from!"

"What do you mean when?" Ted demanded.

"As I said, for the interval during which they appear, these virtual particles create by their very presence a virtual space. This space, like the virtual particle itself, can only exist for less time than the plank constant--the time it takes light to cross the nucleus of an atom--it has to, otherwise the physical laws of this universe would begin to apply to it and it could no longer exist, but that doesn't matter because it can't exist that long anyway. The natural laws of our universe function--partly--as an aspect of time, the only way the virtual particle can sustain its existence is to be somewhere else in time, not in space, before the plank interval elapses, before the universe can acknowledge its presence. For an incredibly tiny fraction of time we created a virtual space within the circle of the torus, the space went somewhere else in time, but it's still the same space. During the interval in which it existed in our universe, the dog occupied that space. At some point in time, a time in our future, he walked through that space and out the other side. The other side being here; in our time."

"Are you saying that you have opened a door to another time and the poor mutt simply walked through."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"But.... Do you realize the implications of that? Why, it's incredible!"

"Positively."

"What we have here is a time machine!"

"A time machine that can travel into the future to be more specific," Reynolds clarified.

"Why only the future; why not the past?" Ted countered.

"Because the virtual particles which brought with them the virtual space the dog used to step around the intervening time between the future and now, did not occupy that space until we created the singularity. We can conceivably bridge the gap between here and any point in the future, once we generate the singularity, if we had enough power available to us, we could project that space as far ahead in time as we wish. But it cannot exist before it existed."

"So we can't go into the past?"

"We could if we could find a black hole that's been around for a while, and if we could survive there while we walked through the singularity. Otherwise: No."

Doris ask, "So, Professor Reynolds, why didn't you realize that if you were successful in creating this singularity you would be reaching into time to extract the energy your machine would release?"

"Actually I did. It just never occurred to me that anything other than virtual particles would be able to cross over the gap. I had no idea that the particles we called together here in this building would stay together in such a sizable mass and reappear as a group again in the future. That has to be what they are doing, otherwise there would not be a space there for anything larger than a subatomic particle to enter.

You have to remember, I wasn't trying to build a time machine I was looking for a better power source. I really have to think about all of this. Are we through here?" he ask.

Ted stared fixedly at the Marcus, as if by studying the others face in depth he could determine whether or not the man was telling him the truth. "From the future you say?"

"Yes," Marcus replied. Then added, "You see, that explains the existence of the dog tags that were dated a year after we first discovered the dog."

"Could a person go through this thing and return?"

Now it was the Professors turn to stare at Ted for a time. "Once we learn to control the power level and the duration of the event...I don't see why not. The dog made it through," he said.

"Could a person go through and change the future?" Ted ask.

Marcus beamed with satisfaction as he replied, "Of course. The dog is proof of it. We changed the future by bringing him here." Once more fidgeting with the piece of chalk in his hand he almost pleaded, "I really need to do some calculations Mr. Preston...."

"Yes, yes; of course!" Ted replied, waving the scientist to silence. He thought for a moment and then made his decision. He went to the door and motioned the agents standing outside to come in.

"Take Professor Reynolds to one of the empty rooms and keep him there until I send for him. Then go to the conference room and tell Mike to make arrangements to get those people fed and bedded down for the night. We'll sort them out and decide who to keep in the morning," he ordered the men.

After the others had gone Ted locked the door and returned to sit once more next to Malovich. "Doris," he began. "I'm going to go out on a limb with you. I want you to know that I've become rather fond of you these last few months we've worked together. We're a good team."

She smiled and said, "I think so too Ted."

He returned her smile, "I'm glad you do." Then, speaking with a concern in his voice which she had never heard before, he told her, "Doris we can't let the Department have this thing."

"What do you mean Ted?" she questioned.

"Think for a second," he replied. "What would the government do with something like this if they got their hands on it?"

She sat in silence for several heartbeats and then, with a dawning realization on her countenance said, "Take over the world?"

"Exactly," he agreed.

"Ted. We are the government."

"That is a problem. Isn't it?"




CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY ONE -- Illinois: January, 1982



















Powell kneeled next to the man in the floor, rolled him over on his stomach and, pulling a pair of police handcuffs from a clip on his belt, secured the others hands behind his back. He then slapped and shook him back to consciousness. As his victim groaned and complained at being so rudely returned to an awareness of his unpleasant position Powell forcibly lifted him to his feet, turned him to face the wall, leaning him up against it as he did. So the man wouldn't fall down again. Then he explained, speaking in a stilted voice and emphasizing each sentence, what was going to happen next.

"Listen up pal! You and I are going for a walk. You're going to walk in front of me. If we pass anybody in the hallway, just keep walking and don't say a word. You try anything, anything at all, and I'll shoot you in the back and step over your bleeding corpse like you were never born." He pulled the man back, then shoved him hard against the wall again and ask, "You got that?"

Even with his face pressing into the plaster of the wall, the anger in the mans voice was clearly audible. "Yea, I got it."

"You better have it buddy," Powell said. "Because you'll never hear it again."

As Powell maneuvered his captive out the door and started off down the hallway, Tommy followed. Helen, still holding onto his hand, reluctantly allowed herself to be led along. Powell, pushing the invader ahead of him, escorted the teenagers through the silent corridors of the apartment building. He swung wide of the doors which lead into the other apartments.

Once they were moving, Tommy ask him, "Where is everybody Mr. Powell? Did you evacuate the building or something?"

"I don't know. I guess they're in their apartments waiting for the power to come back on. Or maybe they just all went out for dinner. It is Saturday evening you know."

Powells captive laughed and said, "They're taking a nap."

Shoving the man ahead of him once more, to keep him moving, Powell glanced down at Tommy and speculated, "That explains that. Our buddy here must have released something into the ventilation system before he killed the power."

"What happened to the guard?" Tommy ask. "He's wasn't at the door when we came in."

Powell continued to scan behind them as he talked and at the same time waved his hand and encouraged them to pick up the pace, "He's under his desk with a knife in his back. Probably put there by our ugly friend here when he came in."

"Fuck you."

Powell broke stride long enough to pelt the man in the back of his head and said, "Shut up asshole or I'll break your jaw." The other man mumbled resentfully to himself but did not speak aloud again.

"If he hadn't taken the time to find the basement afterwards and cut the phone lines he would have been waiting for you in the apartment when you arrived. You got lucky," Powell concluded, as he leaned around the corner and checked the stairwell at the opposite end of the hall from the one Tommy and Helen had climbed coming up. Once he was certain there were no intruders approaching he lead them down the stairs. After opening the emergency exit at the rear of the structure he peered out and checked the alleyway before rapidly ushering them over to a black car which was parked in the alley next to the building wall.

Powell opened the trunk and, with the business end of his gun pointed at the other man, convinced his captive to climb in. He then closed the trunk, hurried around the car and got behind the wheel.

As he assisted Helen into the car and waited while she slid across to the middle of the seat, Tommy noted the thickness of the glass, and the extra heavy feel of the passenger door. He climbed in next to the girl and remarked to Powell, "These are some heavy duty doors on this car Mr. Powell. Heavy enough to be armor plated."

Powell, having started the engine the instant everyone was in and the doors were all closed, put the car in drive and took off toward the end of the alley. He smiled as he replied, "As a matter of fact Tommy, they are. This is a standard Chevy Impala which has been modified for use by the FBI."

"So what did you do, steal it from them?" Tommy reproached the older man.

Laughing outright now, Powell replied, "No. Nothing all that sinister. It just so happens, I know which company does the modifications for the Bureau. Anybody who walks in the door and lays enough money down on the counter can buy one."

"I don't know very many people who need a bullet proof car," Helen commented.

"I think Mr. Wilson has an order in for one," Powell stated without humor.

"That's not even fun...," Tommy started to say. Then realizing the other just might not be joking, he chopped off his retort. Powell drove on in silence as he turned the car to the west and headed away from downtown Chicago.

Tommy ask, "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you to your parents," Powell replied, flashing them both a reassuring smile as he drove along; at the same time watching the side windows and the rearview mirror for signs of pursuit. "They should be at the restaurant by now," he said. "It's not far."

Tommy only wished he knew for sure if he could, when Powell said, "Trust me."




CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY TWO -- Illinois: August, 1978























He was, at the core, a decent man and had served his country with the intention of making it a better, safer place in which his fellow citizens could live out their lives. Faced with something which could--in the wrong hands--become a far more terrible master of the common man than any tyrant from history had ever been; knowing full well that if it were not stopped now, before it could commence, there would never come another chance to end the reign of terror once it was begun.

Of a sudden, he knew that, caught up in the game, he had let his actions through the years wander far afield from his original intentions.

Perhaps it was not too late to make amends.

Ted Preston turned his eyes inward and, flipping through the pictures of his memory, gazed over the deeds which marked his life as a dedicated agent of the government he had served. During the course of that service Ted had been witness to many atrocities. He was just now beginning to admit to himself that most of them had been committed by agents of that very same government; in the name of peace. Before making the phone call which would bring his career to an abrupt end (one way or the other) he had decided the power inherent in this device must not be allowed to fall into the hands of his employers.

He had participated in activities which often bordered on being as despicable as the actions of the enemy he was supposedly protecting the American people from. Until now he had told himself the end justified the means. That freedom was worth any price. He had believed this to the extent that killing someone in the name of freedom was the least of the deeds which could be credited to his record.

Ted Preston did not know Marcus Reynolds at all, but he understood the motivations of his own colleagues quite well. Reynolds had been very astute when pointing out that, if what he imagined might be possible were proven to be fact by the film they had been about to watch, it would terrify Preston. The agency Ted was a part of wanted to determine the course of the future. Ensure that it followed the path of their choosing. Ted only desired to see to it that the forces at large in the world today did not deprive tomorrow's children of their destiny in a misguided attempt to secure their own. Without even knowing exactly what it was the machine did, as soon as he saw the trees on the film Preston had realized the deadly power inherent in a doorway through which one could step across the world. Now that he did know exactly what the device was capable of he was not afraid, he was indeed terrified.

To be able to look into the future. To be capable of reaching into tomorrow and rearranging it to suit your needs was more than terrifying. It was intolerable.

The Department had already set itself up as the arbiter of the worlds future. Just based on what they believed might occur as the result of each new invention that came to light, this agencies leaders had already meddled with the worlds tomorrow's. Suppressing technologies, or keeping them for the private use of the Department when doing so would give that agency an edge over other powers who might oppose their own plans. Ted could well imagine the oppression which would be imposed on his fellow men--by the very agency which was originally formed to prevent such rule--were those in power able to actually see the future and decide whether or not it met up with their expectations. And. Were able to make changes at will. These men would become empowered to reach centuries into their own futures and decide the fate of people yet unborn. Playing with their lives like invisible and unknown puppet masters. They would be delving into lives and social environments they could not possibly understand enough to make rational decisions about. No more than would Columbus comprehend the civilization which now sprawls across the vastness of the American Continent, were he today to land the Santa Maria on her no longer virgin shores.

As he contemplated these issues in the short time allotted between the avalanche of this foreboding knowledge into his consciousness and the decision that the machine must not be allowed to exist, Ted also contemplated the consequences of sciences, inventions and technologies, or even social institutions and ideologies being brought from some distant future into the present and unleashed upon the world before society had matured enough to conduct itself in such august realms. It would be like giving Napoleon jet fighters armed with nuclear bombs. He might well have destroyed the world, not having lived with the development, initial deployment and use of these war machines as a part of his education and, through that growth process, learned the dangers inherent in unleashing such forces.

He considered what might have resulted had the concept of democracy been given to the world a thousand years ahead of its time. The rich cultural traditions which had flowered among people of many diverse nations--people who lived under many different social systems, from Monarchs and Dictators to divine religious Emperors--might never have formed. The same traditions that are now the legacies of these noble nations. The peoples of those lands might have become less than they actually are, for having missed that part of their growth.

Anyone who had such a machine as this would be invincible.

They could--like someone from a science fiction nightmare--reach out of the past and arrange the lives of future generations to suit this ones whims. Instead of building today the foundations from which their descendants might achieve something greater still than that which their forefathers had realized, the holder of such a power would wrongly control. Much like a domineering parent who could not let their children grow into adults and lead their own lives. Succeed or fail in their own right.

Possibly with the best of intentions, who had the use of this machine would, no matter how they began, end dictating the lives of others who had not yet even been born. The people of the future would not only be unable to intercede. These unfortunates would most certainly remain completely unaware that their destiny was being manipulated. Their lives would become Jobian comedies of justice. As they were lived out, then swept away to be started over. Time and again. For better or worse. Then changed yet again as these time wardens of the future played at being gods.

Played. Like the ancient gods of old: Immature, infantile, irresponsible and, at the last, outgrown by their own creations. Way in over their heads. Unable to undo what they had already done, themselves becoming the very beast they dreaded most. The destroyer of mankind.

Preston could think of no other way to keep this a secret, or prevent it from being used. He had to kill everyone in this building and eradicate all knowledge of this machine from the memory of mankind. If the principles behind it were ever discovered again, hopefully at some distant point in the future, perhaps by then man would have grown enough to be able to use it without destroying himself in the process.

When Doris spoke to him, Ted started, and realized he had been talking to himself. For a second he had forgotten she was in the room with him. It wasn't until he heard the door open and looked up to see the young agent, Mike, enter that he came back to the present.

At the same time as Mike closed the door and turned to lock it, Ted noted that Doris had risen and moved from her position directly across from him and was now herself standing next to the door.

She was holding a pistol in her right hand with her arms crossed in front of her. The barrel of the gun pointed loosely at the floor.

"You shouldn't think out loud Ted," she cautioned.

"I'm thinking about the future." he replied.

Doris waited several breaths before saying anything else. "Don't bother," she advised.

Ted was completely taken aback by this. "What do you mean?" he ask.

"I mean you won't be around to worry about it. You should probably concern yourself with this moment I think. It's one of the last few remaining to you." Suddenly apprehensive, Ted slowly turned his chair toward her and began to stand up.

"Watch it!" she cautioned, bringing the gun up and pointing it in his direction. "No sudden moves now."

"Doris! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Ted demanded.

"My job," she laughed. "Which would be a tad easier if you had been doing yours instead of making eyes at me and going soft in the head." She laughed again and delivered a final humiliation, "Did you really think I could have any romantic interest in a fat little toad like you? I wish you could have seen yourself over the last few weeks." Puffing out her chest and imitating his voice (Teds embarrassment made all the worse by having Mike witness his humiliation) she continued ridiculing him, quoting: "Oh Doris! The life of an agent is so lonely. It would be so much better if we all had someone to confide in. I've grown really fond of you of late, Doris. We're such a good team, you and I."

"Bah!" she spat. "The Department should have retired you a long time ago; you arrogant porker. Spilling your guts to me about secret operations like some school boy. With your candy bar eating ass!"

"Doris...," Ted said, unable to go on for a moment, his feelings of rejection evident in the sound of the single word. Until, summoning a firmer tone, trying to pull himself together and regain control of the situation, he continued, "I'm closing this operation down. This thing is something that doesn't need to be loosed upon mankind. We have enough problems living in our own time without meddling in the future."

"What do you think you have been doing for the last twenty years Ted? Strolling down memory lane?" she rebuked him. "Hell no! You've been helping your government dictate the future to people who don't even know you, or the agency you work for, exists."

"Doris I--" This time Malovich cut him short, her derision biting him with her every word.

"Ted. Don't you get it? The Chairman has had me on your tail for months. Your secret phone calls have all been monitored and recorded. Your movements have been carefully detailed. The Department has suspected for a while now that you were becoming ineffective."

She laughed, "That in itself wasn't a problem. After this operation you were to be moved to a secure office and given paperwork to shuffle but you've crossed the line Ted. You've become untrustworthy."

"Doris I'm going to see to it that you...!"

"Oh shut up Ted. You're not doing anything. Your assignment with the Department has been completed. We're sending you back to the Army. I believe you'll be on burial detail. For a day or two."

"So why are you still talking to me?" he ask tonelessly, at last accepting the inevitability of his position.

There was a knock at the door. Malovich opened it a crack and spoke to someone in the hallway: "Is everything under control? Good...No that's OK" She started to close the door then pulled it back and said, "Send someone in to clean up this room will you?"

Ted had always adhered to a strict policy of trusting no one except himself. He concluded that his position at this moment was a direct result of deviating from that practice. First he had lost faith in himself; violated his own cardinal rule. Then he had trusted Doris. Now it seemed his trust in the very agency he had served for so long was also misplaced. Apparently, they had considered him expendable the entire time.

Three strikes and you're out.

He knew, even if he could have overpowered Malovich without being shot, that he stood little chance against the both of them. Doris's eyes had never left him and, her gun remained steady, trained upon his chest. He had little chance at all of reaching her from this distance before being brought down.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet and raced toward the woman. He saw the flash erupt from the silencer attached to the end of the gun barrel and heard the soft "chuff-chuff" as she pulled the trigger twice. Hitting him in the chest with both shots.

Unexpectedly receiving his last desire, Ted Preston fell at the feet of the woman he had just recently envisioned sharing the rest of his life with. Fell dead.

She looked down at him as she wiped it, ejected the clip from the gun and reloaded it with a fresh one from her pocket. "I wasn't talking to you Ted. I was just waiting to make sure I didn't need you anymore."




CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY THREE -- Illinois: September, 1978
























Marcus had no idea what had occurred to cause the changes which had taken place over the last month. For reasons their captors had not seen fit to explain to anyone working in the lab, Mr. Preston had disappeared and the Malovich woman had taken command of the lab. He had cautioned his former employees to just go along and continue to do whatever was demanded of them. The one major improvement about the situation was that the scientists were once again being allowed to proceed at full speed with the development of the generator. In fact, things were now moving ahead at a pace which would have been impossible without the unlimited funding provided by whomever was behind the takeover of the lab. Anything they needed was provided without question. The only reservation being that each new item was first inspected to ensure that it wasn't something which might be used to engineer an escape from the lab.

The hallways were becoming crowded with new faces. Most of the men who had been guarding them were gone, replaced by others who--if that was possible--were even more stoic and unaffected, than their predecessors. Marcus found that as long as he went about his routine and kept the badge he had been issued prominently visible on the front of his lab coat he could travel without interruption within the confines of those parts of the building he was allowed access to.

Along with the disappearance of the original guards, some of the scientists who had been employed by the Professor had been taken away. Marcus inquired of Malovich concerning their whereabouts and was told to keep his mind on the business of getting his machine on line and letting her worry about who was there to man the controls. Another crew of technicians were brought in, given instructions on operating the equipment and updated on what progress had been made to date. Marcus noted that once inside the complex these newcomers were no more free to leave than were his original team.

After less than a month of powering up the generator, sending through a variety of instruments and recording devices, then tabulating the results of these varied tests, Malovich was now ready for the team to begin human trials. Marcus was adamantly against this move, but was overruled. In the end he agreed to do it, stating however, that no amount of threats could induce him to guarantee the safety of anybody who went in the chamber while the torus was under power. As with previous issues they had disagreed upon, he was told to make sure his equipment was operating and let her worry about the well-being of anyone she decided to send through the vortex. A special force of men had moved into the facility earlier in the week and begun the training which was hoped would allow them to traverse the vortex and return. To Marcus they resembled nothing so much as a cross between a corps of astronauts preparing for the launch of some exotic manned expedition into the far reaches of deep space and a military assault team planning a mission into hostile territory.

He flashed a reassuring smile across the room at Peggy and gave her a thumbs up gesture. The universal sign of "Go For Launch". Then, looking through the window into the generator room, Marcus noted that the door was sealed tight and the room was empty of occupants. The single submarine style door had been replaced and an outer chamber attached with an airlock arrangement of double doors, which let the inner door be opened, allowing access to the torus while the other door was closed; thus still keeping the room sealed off from the outside world. The original window had been replaced by another which was twice the thickness of the first, and was actually constructed from several separate laminated sheets of plate glass, which were laminated together with steel wire reinforcement embedded between the layers of glass. Marcus didn't know what it was Malovich expected to come through the vortex but whatever it was she obviously wasn't planning on having it escape from the generator room.

The generator was running just below critical, awaiting only the small increase in velocity needed to open the singularity. If what the team had determined from the results of their trial runs proved accurate the men about to step through the blue/green curtain of light should walk out the other side five years into the future. Once on the other side they would have twenty four hours to look around and then the vortex would come back for them. For the moment Marcus would not allow the torus to be powered up any longer than necessary to send the men through for fear it would overheat and explode. He had assured Mallovich that the generator could be run continuously without danger as soon as the new liquid nitrogen cooling units he had ask for arrived and were installed. But until then they would live with the risk of its overheating anytime it was in operation.

Malovich entered the control room and walked briskly over to where Marcus was seated. "The men are assembled at the air lock and are ready to go," she informed him. "How long until you can power up and send them through?"

Looking at the figures written on the note pad clipped to his console Marcus replied, "Fifteen minutes to complete power up. Then another fifteen or so to stabilize the singularity. Say half an hour."

"All right then," she agreed. "I'll be back in thirty minutes." Once the woman was gone from the room, he stood up and went from station to station, checking in with each operator and making certain everything was functioning properly.

As he passed, he left them each with an encouraging word or a simple pat on the back to steady their nerves. The people who had been working for him all along were still committed to Marcus and, even though it was unfairly keeping them from the rest of their lives, wanted to see that the project succeeded. Of the new arrivals--having himself recently trained and tested them--he could only be positive about their qualifications to operate the equipment. Marcus knew little of their individual goals or the reasons they had for being here, and had to assume their loyalties lay with Malovich. With these people he simply checked over their work, nodding his head in approval or instructing them to make minor adjustments where he felt they were needed.

When he came to where Peggy was seated, expressing his concern for her in a more personal manner, he pulled over a stool and sat down to visit for the time remaining before Malovich returned and they would have to begin sending the men waiting at the airlock through the vortex.

"How are you holding up?" he ask her. Smiling, Peggy took his hand in hers to let him know she appreciated his worrying about her, and because she did take some comfort from his touch.

"I'm doing all right," she replied. Then they sat together for a moment, without speaking. Finally Peggy ask him, "What do you think this crazy woman is up to Marcus? What could she possibly hope to accomplish by sending those men into the singularity?"

"I don't know," Marcus answered, the confusion he felt obvious on his face. He looked around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear him then lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I do know one thing for sure. I'll destroy the generator before I will let her and her cronies use it in whatever secrete power games they're about. I promise you that."

As the door opened and Doris Malovich came back into the control room Peggy hurriedly told him, "I'll hold you to that promise Marcus. In fact, if you need help you can count on me."

Marcus pushed the stool back from her console and patted her hand as he stood to return to his station. "Good for you," he said. "Good for you."

The people about the room subsided into the easy rhythm of powering up the torus until critical mass was attained and they had once again successfully generated the singularity at the center of the ring.

As the familiar blue/green cylinder of radiance filling the space above the torus stabilized into a steady glow Marcus reached for the microphone attached to the gooseneck mounted on his console, pulled it to his mouth and spoke to the men waiting in the airlock. "Okay ladies and gentlemen. We are all set in here. Are you guys ready to go in there?"

The words were heard throughout the control room as the voice of someone inside the airlock replied, "We're 'Go' in here. Standing by."

"All right then. When I give the word. Open the inner door and proceed at five second intervals straight into the vortex. Just as we rehearsed. I would suggest you do not hesitate once you enter the light. Move completely through to the other side without stopping. Remember be back at your arrival point in exactly twenty-four hours. We will open the singularity and send the vortex to pick you up. If you are not there on time.... Well I guess we'll see you in five years."

He looked to Malovich for her final approval before giving the signal to go. Then returning his attention to the microphone he said, "Good luck. It is now Eleven-Fifty-Nine p.m. Proceed on my signal." Watching the clock on the wall above the window as it came around to twelve o'clock Midnight he counted aloud the last seconds, "Four...three...two...one.... Mark!"

Everyone in the control room watched through the plate glass window as the door from the airlock opened and the eight black clad men selected to attempt--for the first time in human history--travel in a time machine entered to stand before the vortex. Eight men who hoped with a single step to pass through the singularity and emerge five years later into an unknown future and then by the same method return to their own time. The last man through turned and secured the door behind him. Then one by one, without hesitation, they walked into the light and disappeared.

When the last of the men were gone, someone in the back of the room exclaimed, "Beats the shit out of taking the bus!" After that the only sound in the room was the incessant whine of the turbines coming through the floor from the level above.

Marcus turned to face Malovich. "I don't know how smart those men of yours are lady. But they for damn sure have plenty of guts!"

"That's exactly why I picked them," she stated. "They don't back down."

Marcus laughed and retorted, "I'm happy for them. Let's just hope they do come back."

The team was about to begin the powering down sequence when someone stepped from the vortex and stood for a moment staring through the window into the control room before collapsing on the floor next to the torus. Not only was this something they had not expected, the person in the other room was someone they had not expected.




CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY FOUR -- Illinois: January, 1982



























On the way Powell pulled into a gas station and stopped next to the drive up pay phone in the parking lot. Letting the window down and at the same time turning the heater on full he said, "Sorry about the window. I have to make a quick call." He dialed and held the phone to his ear until the party on the other end answered.

"Hello," he said. "Mitch. This is Powell. Everyone safe at that end...? Good...Yea, I got them out without any trouble. Well there was one minor problem but it's under control," he said. Thinking of the man in the trunk.

He glanced at Tommy and winked, "No, I don't want you to come out here. We're on our way. It's likely best I get off of the streets as quickly as possible. We're on our way...Right. See you in ten minutes."

As promised, the restaurant Powell took them to was only a short drive from the apartment building. The Howard Family Restaurant was a popular eatery in the neighborhood and Tommy's family had dined there on several occasions. When the three (four if you wanted to count the one in the trunk) arrived at their destination Powell left the engine running and opened the drivers door.

"It's safe here," he confidently assured the youngsters while getting out of the car.

Tommy too emerged from the car. Looking across the roof at Powell he demanded, "How can it be safe here? It's not safe anywhere! Why are these thing happening to my family?"

Helen's voice erupted from within the confines of the front seat as she threatened the younger of the two who had been riding on either side of her during their brief journey. "Tommy Wilson! If you don't tell me this instant what is going on I'm never going to speak to you again as long as I live!"

Powell, standing in the frigid air as if it were summertime, leaned complacently on the cars top with his arms folded in front of him. Returning Tommy's gaze, he repeated his earlier advice. "Tell the poor girl what is going on in your life Tommy. If you don't you might well be putting hers in jeopardy."

"I don't know what is going on!" Tommy yelled in frustration. For a moment it seemed Powell was not going to make a reply. He merely stood there next to the car, as if expecting someone else would provide an answer.

Then, sounding just as depressed and bewildered as Tommy, he said, "I don't know what all of this is about either, Kid. I'm just doing my best to survive." Suddenly cheering up, he pointed toward the rear of the car. "Maybe our buddy back there can explain it to me."

Tommy helped Helen from the car and the instant he shut the door she once again tried to demand an explanation. "Tommy...," Helen started to say.

Holding up his hand to silence her, Tommy interjected, "Helen. I promise. As soon as we're alone together I will tell you everything! I guess I didn't say anything before because I was just hoping it was all over. Plus, I figured you would think I was weird and not want to be around me." He paused for a moment and then added. "That's the truth Helen."

"But...," she tried to say.

"I promise Helen," he repeated. "Please. Just let me get inside and make sure my parents are all right first. Okay?"

She relented, buttoned her coat closed against the chill as it once again began to snow, and silently waited for the others to lead the way to the entrance of the restaurant.

As they walked toward the door Tommy ask, "What happened to those guys last year who attacked us at the house in Peaceful Hollow, Mr. Powell? Other than the dead guy in the kitchen, the police never found a trace of them. Or of you for that matter."

Powell stood for a moment without answering. In the midst of the shoot-out, as he had been making certain Thomas Senior was safely ensconced in the basement the attackers had rapidly withdrawn from the scene. By the time Powell had returned upstairs the intruders had vanished, leaving only the explosion damaged door, a quantity of bullet holes and the blood spattered about the kitchen to show proof they had ever been there.

Wanting to reassure the boy enough to at least lend the appearance of control, looking Tommy directly in the eyes without blinking, he stated, "I sent them back where they came from."

"And, after going to all of that trouble, they just quietly agreed to leave?" Tommy ask sarcastically.

"No Tommy. They didn't." He opened the door and ushered the youngsters inside. "Hurry now. Time to go. Your parents are waiting for you, and I've got things to do." Taking his advice, spurred on by the cold, Helen hurried inside toward the warmth of the restaurant.

Powell caught Tommy's arm and, as if he had only this moment thought of something else, said, "Tommy, wait a minute; would you?"

Tommy stopped just inside the entrance of the restaurant and rather petulantly said, "Yea, what is it?"

"The fellow I called from the pay phone is inside with your parents. His name is Mitch. When you find them, would you tell him I'm waiting for him at the door?"

"Sure; I can do that," Tommy replied.

Powell gave Tommy a look which suggested that he had thought long and hard before making his next statement. "Tommy. I can't explain what is going on and I know you must be wondering what my motives are. I want you to know I'm trying to protect you and your family."

He held up his hand as Tommy started to say something. "Just try to believe me. That's all I ask. But I want you to know. The people behind the attacks on your family would do anything to find out who I am. I can't take the chance of telling anyone more than they need to know."

Pulling a small black plastic box from his pocket and handing it to Tommy he said, "This is a radio transmitter which sends out a coded signal. Some of my people will be on station to listen for that signal around the clock from now on. If you are ever in trouble just flip the lid open and press the button inside. Myself or one of my people will be there within minutes."

Feeling foolish as he did so, Tommy accepted the device from his would be guardian angel. "This sounds like something out of a comic book Mister Powell."

Powell laughed and replied, "Actually I got the idea from a spy movie I was watching one night. Look just hang on to it. One of these days you might need help again. What can it hurt?"

"I don't even know who you are," Tommy observed. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I'm trying to keep us both alive. Haven't you figured that much out by now? When the time comes you'll know. Humor me. Just in case. Now go on and find your family. Don't forget about Mitch."

Tommy turned away without replying, and ran to catch up with Helen. They went in together to search for his parents. Tommy's father spotted the pair first and pointed them out to his wife. Both the boys parents rushed from their table to greet the young couple.

"I was so worried about you Tommy," his mother said. "And you too Helen," she added, noting that the girl seemed more upset and confused than her son did.

"We're OK Mom. Powell was at the apartment. He brought us here," Tommy said reassuringly.

"Our mysterious Mr. Powell again, eh," Tommy's father commented. "What the hell happened back at the apartment anyway? There were police cars everywhere when we drove past."

Helen, although still mad at Tommy, was no longer able to contain herself and burst out with the story, "We waited for my mom and then, when she didn't show up, we walked to your house and we couldn't find anybody. Then this man was there and Tommy beat him up, and then some other man kicked the door in and I hit him in the head, and the first man put handcuffs on him. Then he made the second man get in the trunk of his car. He said someone had killed the guard who was supposed to be at the desk. Then he brought us here, and I was so scared, and I wish someone would tell me what is going on, and I'm just glad we got away from there it was so quiet and no one was home, and I didn't know what to do...."

"Beat him up did you son?" his father ask, cutting Helen off in mid-sentence. "Getting to be just like your old man aren't you," he went on without waiting for his son to answer. "We seem to be making a profession of beating on our Mr. Powell. Not that it's causing him, or anyone else for that matter, to go away."

Tommy noticed a dark-suited man watching them from a table across the room and ask his father, "Is that the man named Mitch, Dad?"

Thomas Senior turned and looked to where his son was pointing and said, "Yes. That is the gentleman's name. Why?"

"Mr. Powell is waiting for him out front."

The elder Wilson led his family and their guest to the table where he and Amanda had been seated with the man in the suit. He spoke to the man pointing toward the front of the restaurant as he did so. Looking back once the man named Mitch quickly made his way out the door and got into the car waiting at the curb. As soon as the car door was closed the vehicle sped away like an ambulance off to an emergency call.

Tommy's father said, "I guess that takes care of that. At least we can eat in private now." He turned to Helen. "We need to call your mother and let her know where you are. She's probably frantic by now."

"Mr. Powell said he left her a note so she wouldn't worry Dad," Tommy told his father.

"We'll just call anyway. I'm not at all sure I trust Mr. Powell. He seems to have a way of showing up just when the shit's about to hit the fan."

"Thomas!" his wife scolded. "You're in a public place."

"Well it's the truth," he replied. Then looking around the room he concluded, "Maybe we'll have an uneventful evening. He's gone, and from the way he left it didn't look as if he was in any hurry to come back."

He didn't notice the two men in gray business suits, who were spending as much time keeping an eye on his family as they were eating.

* * *

"Are Harry and Scott watching them?" Powell ask Mitch before he drove away from the restaurant.

"Yea they're right across the room at another table," he chuckled. "The Wilson's don't have a clue anybody's tailing 'em."

"Okay. I've got the guy we were after locked in the trunk. I want you to help me get him to the house. Once he's safely locked up, you go get some sleep."

"He the one who killed Buddy?" Mitch ask. Referring to the guard stationed at the front desk in the apartment building.

"More than likely." Powell replied. "From what I saw, either he was alone to begin with, or his partners bailed out on him when the operation went to shit."

Looking out the side window, as if the solution to the riddle might be written on the glass, Mitch ask, "Mr. Powell. Why are these people--whoever they are--trying to kill the Wilson's anyway?"

"I honestly do not know the answer to that question Mitch," Powell replied. Pointing to the rear of the car. "If we get that guy inside before he freezes to death, maybe we can get some answers from him."

"Yea, and maybe a little revenge too," Mitch voiced hopefully.

"I know Buddy was your friend Mitch. But this isn't personal."

"Yea. But it was a nice thought just the same."


CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY FIVE -- Peaceful Hollow: February, 1982


























Powell had no intentions of setting the man free. He did not expect to keep him incarcerated forever, but for the moment could find no better solution to the problem of what to do with his captive. He decided to try questioning the man one more time.

The bomb shelter was proving to be an effective prison. When he purchased the house from the Wilson's the idea of using that space as a jail did not occur to him but once the need had arisen for securing his captive-by removing the latches from the inside of the door and modifying it to be locked from the outside-the room had proven sufficient to the task. Equipped as it was with food storage, a toilet, and a place to sleep, Powell imagined he might well keep a person safely locked away in that hidden space until they died of old age if he were of a mind to do so. Only someone conducting a thorough search would discover the entrance. A casual observer would find nothing out of the ordinary about the basement. Would never know the room was there. The man inside the shelter could make all the noise he wanted to. The outside world would never hear.

By the time Powell and Mitch drove from the restaurant in Chicago to the house in Peaceful Hollow, his captive was unconscious and nearly frozen. He and Mitch barely got the man out of the cold in time to save his life. Interrogating him that night had not been practicable. When questioned later the man was, and over the last month had continued to be, utterly recalcitrant when it came to explaining his motives for pursuing Tommy and his family.

Powell made his way down the stairs and carefully opened the door to the shelter cum jail cell, staying alert in case his captive had decided this was the day to make an escape attempt. This time his caution proved unnecessary, as the other was sitting calmly on the bunk across from the door, apparently reading one of the magazines Powell had brought in after the man ask for something to read. He didn't move from his position as Powell entered, pulled out and opened a folding chair leaning against the wall, then sat down facing his prisoner.

"Would you like to talk?" Powell ask.

"Sure. Why not?" the man answered. "Gets kind of boring sitting in here by myself."

"Give me the right answers to my questions and I'll let you go." Powell stated.

"I don't believe you," his captive replied derisively.

"What are you doing here?" Powell suddenly demanded, deciding not to be nice after all.

"Research," the other said calmly, holding up the magazine. "Collecting information about the enemy."

"That's not what I meant," Powell pointed out. A caustic edge beginning to sharpen the tone of his speech.

The man laughed. "I know what you meant," he blustered.

"Whatever you learn; the information won't do you any good if you can't take it back," Powell reproved the other man.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Never hurts to be prepared. Anything could happen."

Over the last two years Powell had learned much more than he had known at the time he found himself unexpectedly caught up in the events transpiring around the lab in Hills Lake the night of the explosion. Hidden somewhere in this accumulation of intelligence was the knowledge he needed to solve the puzzle of Thomas Wilson Junior.

After the abrupt realization that he could no longer make use of his resources at the Agency--could not for that matter even dare to use his own legal name--Powell had assumed a new identity and financed the formation of his own group of investigators. Hired the best operatives he could locate to staff his team and set out to decipher the mystery as best he could without the lost resources of the government behind him. So far the firm had been successful in its charter and, although his unwilling clients knew of him, they were not aware of the extent of his unsolicited efforts on their behalf. With the aid of the select group of people he gathered together in his employ, Powell continued as an anonymous protector of Tommy Wilson and his family.

Much remained to be uncovered.

As they talked, Powell noticed the man kept flicking his eyes toward the wall next to the door of the bomb shelter. Careful to keep the other in sight, he looked to see what was so interesting about that space. There was nothing on the wall except some gauges, which were connected to instruments on the other side of the wall. Geiger counters, thermometers, barometers and such. Above that small array of devices was a twenty-four hour clock, with times from around the world displayed on its face. He concluded the guy was watching the clock.

"Got an appointment?" he ask. Pointing over his shoulder.

His captive started for a second, at the question, looked at the wall and smirked. "I guess not. I haven't noted any signs of help arriving."

For the moment, Powell thought no more of the incident. "We found your car," he informed his prisoner; while watching carefully for a reaction to this statement. He detected a slight raising of the others eyebrows as, for the first time since being taken captive, he showed an outward sign of being affected in any way by his circumstances.

"Is that right?" the other responded carefully. Once again successfully hiding his emotions. "If you were just to up and find a car, how would you know it was mine?"

"Your fingerprints are all over the steering wheel."

"How do you know they're my fingerprints?" the man ask.

"I took the liberty of printing you while you were unconscious," Powell replied.

"It won't do you much good."

Now it was Powells turn to laugh. "I've already found that out," he stated. "Either you've never been fingerprinted or you don't exist."

"Actually... both."

Powell leaned forward in his chair and ask, "CIA?"

"Can't tell you. If I tell you I have to recruit you. Or: I have to kill you."

"I don't think you're in a position to do either one," Powell noted.

"Yea. You're probably right. So lets skip the romance and just remain friends."

Sitting back in his chair again, Powell said, "We found some very interesting items in the trunk of your car."

The man dropped the magazine and started to stand. Then thought better of it, remaining seated and--obviously eager to know the answer--asking, "What did you do with it?"

"Oh.... It's safe," Powell reassured his captive. Excited himself now that he at last had found something which could move his--until this moment--stoic inmate. "As a matter of fact. One of my men is on his way here with the contents of the trunk. We took the car back to the rental agency you--under an assumed name I imagine--rented it from. I thought it best not to attract attention. I'm sure you agree."

"Good idea for you," the other opined. Powell thought about the implications of that statement for a moment before taking his leave.

"I'm going to let you get back to your reading. I imagine you've quite a bit to catch up on after all this time." He waited for the other man to take the bait. When he did not, Powell got up and left without further comment. Checking twice to make certain the door was securely fastened before going back upstairs.













CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY SIX -- Illinois: September, 1978











Marcus and Peggy sat in the cafeteria together waiting for the forensic team brought in by Doris to complete the autopsy of the individual who had stumbled from the vortex and then, only moments later, collapsed dead before the astounded group of scientists.

"This is getting to be rather more than I anticipated at the inception of the project," Marcus said, as he held out his cup for Peggy to warm his coffee. "First the dog just walks in from next year--right through the vortex and into the generator room--without a scratch. Now this guy, whoever he is, shows up and falls over dead in front of our faces. To make it even worse, all he has in his possession is a bottle of whiskey and a receipt for the same dated September seventeenth, nineteen-ninety-nine."

"So he came from nineteen-ninety-nine," Peggy pointed out, sitting the coffee pot back on the warmer and resting her elbows on the table as she looked across at Marcus. "It's not like when the dog came through. This time we knew we were sending the vortex into the future. In fact we were sending men forward. Through that very same space! What's so strange about someone coming back from the other direction?"

Before he could answer she raised her arms from the table and held her palms facing upward in supplication. "Hell Marcus. I should think that would make you happy. Now you have no doubt that when we generate the vortex tomorrow the men who went through can come back again!"

Shaking his head negatively for emphasis he said, "Wrong Peggy. I now have every confidence that they won't come back. And. On the off chance that any of them do, I greatly fear they will be just as dead as tonight's unexpected arrival! Something killed that man, and it's not just that he is dead," Marcus declared, clenching his hands together and making a face of disgust as he did so. "No, no. He's been turned to jelly!"

Peggy was not sure how to respond to his pessimism. She sat staring at her boss for a moment, visualizing the state of the dead mans corpse as the medical technicians had attempted to lift his body onto a stretcher and remove him to the infirmary. Wherever they touched him, the flesh had peeled from the mans bones and fallen onto the floor, only to lay there quivering like lumps of Jell-O. When Malovich saw this she immediately called a halt to the removal until a complete set of photographs had been taken of the mans body, and an attempt to get some legible fingerprints completed before finally allowing the removal to continue. Peggy had not been able to stomach any more and had left the room before they resumed their grisly task.

Now, suddenly realizing she had focused on his last statement and missed the implication of all that he had just said, Peggy ask, "Why would you think they won't come back Marcus?"

"What?" he said. Emerging from his short journey into the realms of self pity. "Oh. Of course. I would think it should be obvious Peggy. We were intending to send the vortex five years into the future and, according to my calculations, that is exactly where it must have materialized. It seems however-in at least one instance anyway-the event occurred twenty-one years into our own future. Now either I have gravely miscalculated the power requirements of my device (Which I doubt.) or some outside agency is interfering with the field and increasing the power input beyond what is generated here. This would have the unwanted effect of sending the vortex farther into the future than we had calculated it would go. I can't at this moment imagine what might be the cause of this event. Such a thing would require a tremendous amount of energy. More power--by an order of magnitude--than we ourselves are producing just to generate the singularity." Before either of them could continue the conversation further, the door leading to the hallway was opened from the other side.

One of Maloviches storm troopers stuck his head in through the gap. "All right you two lovebirds," he snickered, pointing his thumb back over his shoulder in the direction of the conference room. "They're ready for you down the hall. The boss says to hurry it up. So get a move on." Following the guard, they were led to the smaller of the facilities meeting rooms and instructed to take a seat at the table with those already present.

Since the disappearance of Ted Preston--the man originally in command of the invasion forces--Malovich had brought in a score of new scientists to study and oversee the operation of the vortex generator. As these individuals steadily became better versed in the design and function the machine had originally been created to fulfill, Marcus and his people came to occupy the limelight less, and were on the way to being relegated to the positions of technical advisors. Expected by their new commander to stay out of the way of her plans (Whatever those were.) while, at the same time, keeping themselves available to supply the expertise needed to successfully coerce from the device a new purpose. One far overreaching the intent of the apparatuses designer: Convincing the generator to function as an operating time machine.

As soon as everyone was seated Malovich rose from her position at the head of the table and addressed the assembly. "We have, ladies and gentlemen, succeeded in translating--as far as we can tell at this moment--eight of our fellow agents to a distance in time five years...."

Marcus interrupted her to point out, "I've been thinking about that and I'm not at all sure the original span of time we calculated is accurate. It's quite possible Ms. Malovich that your men have gone ahead much farther than we anticipated."

The woman shot him a threatening look and warned, "There will be no more interruptions Mr. Reynolds. I am already aware of that possibility. As you should have inferred by now, from your own observations, the people I've called in to take over this operation are--if not individually, then surely as a group--quite as competent as yourself."

Peggy nudged Marcus and whispered, "Don't agitate the woman Mark. She's crazy as a bedbug." Marcus nodded his head in acknowledgment without answering aloud as, with a final warning glare aimed in the direction of the troubled couple, Malovich continued her dialogue.

"As I was stating: We are fairly certain that our agents went into the future. At this moment we cannot ascertain exactly how far these men have gone. In addition, while the gateway was open, we received the arrival of an unexpected visitor from that future. Unfortunately, our surprise guest did not survive the journey. We have, however, deduced several facts from articles the gentleman had in his possession upon arrival."

Malovich leaned down to study the sheets of paper arrayed on the table before her and then continued, "Although he wasn't carrying any identification, the man did have in his possession a bottle of whiskey--Jack Daniels I believe--to which he still had the receipt of purchase. That receipt was dated September 16, 1999. We can only surmise from this that the man himself must have come to us from that year."

While she was pausing to straighten her notes, one of her agents came in through the door, walked to the front of the room, and whispered something in her ear. As she turned once more to continue addressing those assembled before her the woman's face was alight with delectation, as if she had just been informed of the return of a long lost friend.

Clearing her throat she continued, "It seems we might have just got the break we've been needing to solve the puzzle of our mysterious visitor. The report from the FBI fingerprint data bank has returned and, apparently (today, in our present) the man is alive and well. In fact he is living in the area. My agents should have the gentleman in custody shortly."


* * *

The light in the room was beginning to come into focus.

Charlie could remember attempting to open his eyes on several occasions before this, but those times had immediately closed them as his only protection against the pain which had radiated throughout his cranium with a rapidity matching the flood of intense light pounding into the recesses of his eyes like hurricane force waves impacting a defenseless beach. This time the agony of vision was bearable.

Just.

Charlie found a small measure of grim humor in believing himself to be in a hospital. Although he was unsure of exactly what had transpired to land him in this untenable predicament--his last vivid memory being one of driving the ambulance, on his way back to the hospital with his partner--he could recall momentary flashes of scenery in which a large black sedan with darkened windows was ramming the side of the ambulance. His only other memories of the event were slices of recollected nightmare, in which the ambulance was rolling over and over as he gave up attempting to steer and merely managed to hang on to the steering wheel until the motion stopped.

Charlie tried--but found he could not--sitting up in the bed. His arms felt leaden and numb. In fact his entire body felt as if it had been subjected to a massive dose of Novocain. He succeeded in turning his head just enough to see that both wrists were being held down with heavy leather straps, in addition to having IV's protruding from the veins along the insides of both elbows. He supposed the straps were to prevent him from pulling the needles out.

Laying his head back against the pillow once more to regroup his thoughts, Charlie considered now that he might be more seriously injured than he had originally surmised.

He wondered how Pete was doing. "....ete," he said. Attempting to call for his friend, but only letting out a feeble croak. Realizing the true state of his exhaustion he tried again to call out. A bit more desperate than a few seconds ago, he gave up--for the moment--calling for his friend, simply hoping to attract the attention of anyone within earshot who might attend him.

"N...n...urse," he groaned. "Som...ody!"







CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY SEVEN -- Chicago: December, 1982




















Tommy turned his collar up, to protect his neck from the wind. Pushing open the door leading out to the boarding platform, he stepped into the chill of the early morning air and braced himself to wait until his train arrived at the station.

He had looked forward all summer to this day and, although he spent the time missing his parents (Both of whom had disapproved of his decision.) and had--every waking moment--longed for Helens company even more passionately, Tommy was still glad he had followed through on his decision to enlist in the Army. No matter that the first two months had, for a time, made it seem as if his better judgment might have been called to question. By the time Basic Training was over Tommy began to shape up physically to the point that the stress of the activities he was called upon to participate in did not debilitate him so much that all he could do at the end of each day was return to the barracks and collapse in an exhausted sleep. Which never seemed to rejuvenate him before reveille.

After completing Basic, then Advanced Infantry Training in California and, finally, going on to Jump School in Georgia Tommy was in better shape physically and mentally than at any point before in his young life. The self-confidence the experience had built into his character was well worth the time and effort needed to become the young soldier who now stood waiting to catch a train and enjoy his first leave from duty. He knew, after reading the letters his mother had sent, that things were not any better at home than when he left.

Much of his decision to enlist had been based on the families declining financial position. The company his father had worked for most of his adult life had gone under and in this time of recession. He was not the only out of work middle aged manager seeking employment. Thomas Senior had put away some money for his sons education but with the tragedies his family had faced over the recent years those funds had been gradually eroded away. His father assured Tommy that he would still help his son in any way he could, but Tommy knew it would bankrupt his father to fulfill this promise.

Faced with these challenges Tommy decided that, other than working two jobs to pay his way while at the same time attempting to study and achieve passing grades with little free time for sleep and none at all for any kind of social life, the only way he was going to get a college education was by serving a term of enlistment in the military.

The last year and a half, contrasting with the two preceding ones, had been a rather peaceful time in Tommy's life. Still. He had learned from his own past and would not ever again put the men in black--or the mysterious Mr. Powell for that matter--from his mind.

No one, including Tommy himself, had any idea as to the motive for the attacks on his family, let alone an idea of who the attackers might be. Tommy's father had given up on trying to elicit any information from the police. Either they were completely stupid, had been told by some higher authority to mind their own business or were indeed in on the plot themselves. The only people who showed any interest whatsoever were the FBI. At least once a month, the Wilson's received a phone call or a personal visit from one of their agents. Sometimes with an idea to share with the family but on most occasions just checking in to ask if there had been any further incidents. It seemed they had some crazy agent in the Bureau who specialized in offbeat cases like theirs, and even though the authorities had apparently given up on identifying the attackers--there was no longer any official ongoing investigation into the Wilson affair--this agent was apparently allowed to freelance whenever he felt like it. Maybe the bureau let him have his rein just to keep him from sticking his nose into other more sensitive cases where his unorthodox tactics might not be so much appreciated by the powers that be.

Whatever the reason; Tommy had taken a liking to the strange fellow and as a result of knowing him began to map out a strategy for his own future. One which might well include a decision to seek his own carrier with the FBI.








CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY EIGHT -- Peaceful Hollow: February, 1982









When Mitch arrived with the items he had removed from the trunk of the would be assassins rental car, Powell immediately directed him to take the things to the basement, where they could be studied without attracting the attention of his neighbors. Most of whom Powell had noted, other than keeping a wary eye on his activities from behind partially opened curtains, did not appear to have much interest in life outside their living rooms.

Once the items were safely inside the house, while he and Mitch were carefully sorting through them, looking for clues to the mans motives and origins, Powell noted that the man seemed prepared to operate for weeks totally independent of outside assistance. Other than several changes of clothing--all seemingly tailored to fit the same individual--most of the find consisted of different varieties of military equipment. Some of which Powell was familiar with, and some not. Finally, after having separated out everything they had deemed as being unimportant to their investigation, Powell and his assistant were left with two dissimilar pieces of equipment, which they thought might, or might not, have a bearing on the course of their investigation.

At first they were without a clue as to the function of either one. A suitcase size gray metal box, secured with combination locks on both latches, and an electronic meter whose purpose eluded explanation. For the moment Powell had given up on opening the case and was gazing at the meter with a puzzled expression written on his face.

Placing it back on the table next to the case he commented, "You know Mitch. I've seen a meter very much like that one recently. I just can't remember where it was I spotted it."

"Hell, boss," the other man replied. "It looks like all the other voltmeters I've ever seen. What's so special about it anyway?" Mitch then picked the device up and turning it over in his hands continued to speculate. "Maybe this guy you've got on ice in the other room is an electrician or something."

Powell stood in silence for a moment, then took the meter from Mitch and, once more placing it on the table, said, "I don't believe that's the explanation Mitch, and I don't think we're going to come up with the answer on empty stomachs. We've both been pushing too hard today. Lets get something to eat and then we'll come back and see if our guest will open this case for us. If he won't we'll just have to pry it open, and I really only want to do that as a last resort. It might be rigged to destroy the contents if forced and I'd like to avoid that if possible."

"Okay boss. Where do you want to eat?"

"I don't care," Powell said. "We'll think of a place on the way."

They started for the door, but before the pair was halfway up the stairs Powell smacked himself in the forehead, crying, "Of course!"

"What? What is it, boss?" Mitch questioned.

Powell laughed and, turning his friend around, to head him back down the stairs, explained. "Did you ever find yourself trying to think of some ones name Mitch. Have it right there on the tip of your tongue and not be able to remember?"

"Sure, happens all the time. That's why I carry a notepad, so I can write things like that down. Otherwise I'll find myself talking to someone and not be able to remember who they are. Usually not until about five minutes after the conversation is over that is, and by then I'm already talking to someone else or they've left and it's too late."

"Exactly. Well, when we were looking at it, I couldn't for the life of me remember where it was I'd seen a meter like the one on the table there, but as soon as we started up the stairs and I began to think about eating, it popped right into my head."

"Yea. So where is it?" Mitch ask.

"Right here in the basement with us," Powell replied with a chuckle.

Mitch looked around the room for the unseen object, finally declaring, "OK, I give up. I don't see it?"

"It's right in there with our buddy," Powell accused. As he pointed to the door of the bomb shelter. "And. I'm willing to bet he's been keeping a sharp eye on it ever since we put him in there."

Mitch, now completely at a loss, deciding he wasn't going to get any answers from his employer until the other was good and ready to give them out, said sarcastically, "Right. He's probably expecting a stray lightning bolt to come through the wall any second and want's to be alerted so he can get out of the way in time!"

Laughing good-naturedly at his friends confusion, Powell retorted, "I don't think that would be his reason Mitch." Then he clapped the other on the shoulder and concluded, "Come on. Let's open the door and bring him out here. I think he just might be willing to explain it to you himself." Once the prisoner was safely seated with his hands cuffed behind his back, in a chair positioned well away from any of the weapons Mitch had brought in from the car, Powell turned him so he could see the two pieces of equipment laying exposed on the workbench across the room.

"Care to talk now?" he ask, "Or are you still collecting information?"

Looking from Powell to Mitch and back again, as if gauging his chances against two opponents the other replied, "Oh. I think I've found out about all I'm going to under these conditions."

"Given up on any of your friends coming to the rescue, have you?"

"That was never a consideration. I was just hoping that maybe they might find you and save me the trouble of killing you myself."

Mitch took the three steps needed to reach him and backhanded the confined man. "If there's any killin' to be done here tonight pal...I'll be the one doin' it. And you'll be the corpse when it's over!"

Looking up from his inferior position in the chair, the captive sardonically replied, "You two guys are pretty good at beating up on someone while their hands are tied behind their backs." Then, in a tone which contained more of an acid threat behind the words, offered, "Care to take these cuffs off of me and try that again chum?"

"Leave the pretty snake alone Mitch. It's apt to have poison in it's fangs," Powell said, turning back from taking the meter off the table and walking toward them with it held out before him. As if bringing a peace offering, to stop a dispute between a pair of old friends, whom he did not wish to see at each others throats.

"Okay boss," Mitch acceded reluctantly, and moved away from his victim. "But I still think you should just let me put the bum out of his misery and save us both the trouble."

Powell stopped in front of the seated man and pointing to the meter in his hand said, "All right. I know what this is for. You've been watching the one in the other room since I put you in there. When I spotted you glancing at it the other day I thought you were just looking at the clock and put it from my mind. At the time, I couldn't think of any reason for you to be interested in anything else on that wall. But after seeing this one in among your things it came to me that you weren't checking the time at all. No indeed. You were watching the gauge hanging right under the clock, and since I know what that particular device is for it's simple addition to figure out what the one we found in your car does.

Smirking the while, his prisoner replied, "Okay wise guy. If you really do know you might as well tell me. Because you're not going to trick it out of me; if that's what you think." Powell returned the meter to its place on the table. Then walked to stand on the other side with the metal case positioned between him and the man he was attempting to question.

"Oh I know all right," he confirmed. "This device is designed to detect magnetic pulses. The builder of this house incorporated one into the design of his shelter so he could tell when the bombs stopped falling. You see, a nuclear explosion produces one hell of a magnetic pulse which can be detected from thousands of miles away. A sensitive enough detector would pick up a detonation anywhere in the United States. Now I don't think you're expecting them to nuke my house so I can only assume that your time machine must produce a sizable magnetic field when it operates and, from there, conclude that you were watching for the arrival of your friends. Correct me when I get too far out in left field," he gloated.

The man in the chair nodded. He knew the chances of his escaping from his captor were few. The man and whatever organization was backing him had successfully thwarted all of the Committees efforts to eliminate the boy and the unknown threat he posed to the operation. Since awakening securely confined inside the virtually impenetrable walls of the bomb-shelter he had concluded that the very best he could hope for was to find out where his enemy was head-quartered, then somehow get a message back to his comrades. So they could take over where he had failed. Once they took out this opposition the boy would be easy pickings. Now, confronted with the gray case sitting on the table right there in front of him his hopes of escape suddenly soared. But he would have to get his hands free before he could do anything. Still following the only plan he had been able to come up with when his chances of actually laying his hands on the gray case containing the bomb had been close to zero the captive made a desperate effort to throw Powell far enough off balance that his thinking might deteriorate to the point he allowed that to happen.

He said, "So far so good. Although I do think you are severely underestimating my colleagues. They might just use an atom bomb on you if it comes to that. They could decide a city isn't all that much to loose if it ensured they had disposed of you and the boy in the process. So why don't you just kill yourself now and let me take your body back as proof.... Save Chicago while you can."

Powell paused to consider the extreme implications of that proposition. Not only the declaration that these people would actually consider destroying a city filled with millions of people but, including the--unintended he was sure--allusion his prisoner had made to, in fact, having a means of getting home again. He knew he had to gain control of that device.

Before Powell could make a reply to the other mans threat, Mitch burst out, "Boss what the hell are you two talking about, A time machine for Petes sake! This guy's some kind of Mafia hit man or something. That's all."

"Mitch," Powell said, the regret showing in his tone. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to bring you in on this. The less people know about it the better. But now you know so I might as well explain it to you. This hit man, as you termed him--which is likely a fairly apt description--came to us from sometime before the year nineteen-eighty. I know this to be fact, because on the night of September seventeenth nineteen-seventy-nine his time machine exploded. So unless he's built another one in the interim (which I've found no evidence of) he had to come from before the explosion."

Mitch looked about the room until he spotted a folding chair leaning against the wall. He carried it over to where his companion was standing, opened it and, rather abruptly sat down. "How do you know all this boss?" he ask, in a voice which had now lost some of its bluster as his confidence in the mental stability of his employer, the physical certainty of his whole world, or maybe both began to falter.

Powell circled the table once again and stood towering menacingly over his prisoner. "I was there to witness the event," he stated. "From the size of the hole in the ground no one who was inside that building survived the night. I barely got out in time to escape myself."

"Yea and we're still trying to figure what the hell you were doing there in the first place!" the man in the chair erupted. "Who the fuck are you? Why would you want to blow up the lab? We haven't done anything to you."

Turning to glare at the other with a threatening look, one which spoke of a deep hidden anger, carefully subdued so far, but now ready to break free of the will holding it in check and unleash a deadly fury upon the man, Powell replied softly, "Oh, but you have my friend. You just don't know."

Doing exactly what he had only moments before chided Mitch for doing, Powell lashed out in an unplanned rage. Grabbing the restrained man by the throat with his left hand, he pulled his service revolver from the holster beneath his jacket and Jammed it viciously against his captives temple.

In a voice which had suddenly taken on the quiet icy calm of an arctic glacier, Powell said, "You are a dead man. I want you to understand that completely. I want you to believe! If I have to live a hundred lifetimes filled with nothing but killing the likes of you...." Just as suddenly as he had grabbed him, Powell released the man and moved to stand once more next to the table in the center of the room. For a moment he made no further comment.

Then, in the same quiet voice, this time touched with sadness rather than threat he said, "You people are all dead already. Why don't you just crawl back into your graves and leave the boy alone?"

The captive sat attempting to regain enough breath to speak. Wishing he could rub the place where Powell had gripped his neck with a crushing force which, if left applied a few moments longer, would have rendered him unconscious. He realized that he might not have another opportunity to act on his plan, and whether he lived or not, he had to get a message through.

As calmly as he could under the circumstances he ask, "Would you like me to open the case for you?"









CHAPTER INDEX


TWENTY NINE -- Illinois: September, 1978














Peggy found Marcus in his office. Despite the risk of defying her wrath, he had stormed from the room after being verbally battered by Malovich.

Peggy had wanted to follow immediately in his path but decided not to push the issue and waited until being dismissed before going to look for him. Knocking lightly on the door, she opened it and entered without waiting for a reply. He was standing before the tripod mounted chalk board, which he kept in the corner of his office; behind and to the left of his desk. Holding a notepad in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other. He had apparently been transcribing equations from the pad onto the board.

"What are you doing?" Peggy ask, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.

Turning, as if just now noticing her presence in the room, Marcus tossed the chalk on the tray at the bottom of the board and moved over to assume a position next to her on the desk top. "That?" he ask. Pointing at the chalk figures splayed in seeming random order across the slate. "Just some calculations on the power levels the field would have to reach to send the vortex twenty years into the future. Basically confirming what I had already approximated in my head. Mostly, I was just doing something to occupy my hands while I thought about the implications of all that has happened in the last few weeks."

"Yea," Peggy commented. "We've had a pretty rough time of it since they came."

"Actually that wasn't what I meant," he clarified. "Although it is rather difficult to avoid dwelling on it. My thoughts weren't there at the moment. I was thinking about what has happened with the vortex generator."

"Has something happened to your machine?" she ask. "How come I didn't know about it?"

Without thinking, it having become an automatic reaction by this time for them to comfort one another, he took her hand in his before clarifying his thoughts aloud. "No, no," he hurriedly explained. "Nothing has happened now. But. Something is going to happen. Not for at least a year. But sometime in the near future. Something drastic."

Still holding her hand in his, Marcus slid down from his position on the edge of the desk and, leading her to the blackboard, picked up the eraser with his free hand and removed the equations he had written there. "Here. Let me show you," he invited.

Releasing his grip on her hand he picked up the chalk and rapidly graphed a sequence of dates and events on the board:


    (event)-----(time now)-----(result)---------(time then)-
    Test #1-----June, 1978-----Dog comes back----Sept, 1979?
    ------------------------------through vortex------------
    ---------------------------------Unharmed---------------
    Test #2-----Aug, 1978------Film of trees-----date unknown
    Test #3-----Sept, 1978-----Agents sent--------Sept, 1999--
    -------------------------------forward/-------------------
    ---------------------------------stranger comes-----------
    --------------------------------through (dead)------------

"Now, look at these events and the dates on which they occurred," he encouraged her. "What do you see?"

Peggy studied the board for a moment before answering. "Well Mark," she stated. "As far as I can tell, the first two tests proceeded without any untoward side-effects. But on the third trial something went wrong. Something that caused the failure of Malovich's agents to return while, at the same time, allowing the other man back through the vortex and killing him in the process. Did I miss anything?"

"No," he said. "That's exactly what I wanted you to see."

Then, as if she had suddenly connected all the dots in her mind, Peggy began firing questions at him one after the other. "Why would the dog come to us from Nineteen-seventy-nine and survive the journey while the man, who apparently came from nineteen-ninety-nine, died in the process? Why, for that matter, would the vortex go twenty years farther into the future this last time, when we were actually applying less power to the field? Where did the additional power needed for this to happen come from? That's not all. What about the agents Malovich sent through? The man who came back through the vortex was still alive when he arrived, just barely, but still. Why didn't the agents simply turn around and come back through the vortex before becoming incapacitated? What killed the man...?"

"Hold it!" he pleaded. Throwing up his hands as if to defend himself from the impact of her verbal barrage. "Those are the very questions I've been pondering. The questions we have to find answers to before we can expect to send anyone through the vortex and have them return again unharmed."

Getting into the spirit of things, Peggy snatched the chalk from his hand and before Marcus could object began writing a list of questions on the board.

    A: What killed the man who came through the vortex?
    B: Why didn't the agents return?
    C: Where did the extra power come from?

Marcus read the list and said, "I think you've summed it up rather succinctly my dear. Now. If we can figure out the first riddle that might well give us the clues to answer the second two. And. If we can do that we just might be able to take a peek at tomorrow."

As she placed the chalk back in its tray, Peggy ask him, "Are you certain you want to see Mark?"

Once again he took her hand, this time holding hers in his own open palm and patting the top of it with his other hand. "I don't think we really have any choice Peggy. I'm very much afraid our Ms. Malovich is going to proceed whether we concur or not. The best we can hope for is to try and see to it she doesn't kill any more people in the process."

"Okay," Peggy conceded. "So where do we begin?"

"We need to see the autopsy report on the dead man. Until we know what killed him we're stuck on square one."

* * *

The pair spent much of the evening studying the information gathered from the physical investigation of the unexpected arrivals corpse. Throughout what was left of the night, Marcus and Peggy reviewed the readings taken from the test sled during the previous trial. By the next morning they had come up with a workable theory concerning what need be done in order to survive a trip through the vortex.

Before collapsing on the cot he had erected in the corner of his office opposite where the blackboard stood, Marcus tore a page from his note pad, wrote a short list of items to be requisitioned from their new masters and left it secured under a paperweight on the desk top.

He watched from the cot as Peggy read the list and then ask, "What are we going to do now Mark?"

Smiling, he held out his arms for her to come to him and replied, "Right this minute I want you to lay down with me and get some much needed sleep. If we snuggle real close I think we can both fit on this cot."

After she was situated next to him with her head resting on his shoulder Peggy said, "You still didn't answer my question."

"We wait until Malovich gives up. When she's desperate enough, she'll come to us," he mumbled as he truly realized for the first time that he was holding his love in his arms and (for this moment) contented just with that, surrendered himself to sleep.




CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTY -- Chicago: August, 1986



















Four years passed and Tommy's life began to once again run along a track which seemed to be laid out without any switch backs or unexpected sidings. The gentle click and hum of a life who's wheels are running smoothly along an uncontested right of way could have easily lulled him into the same deadly complacency that had--together with the powerlessness of youth--left him ill equipped to properly deal with the unexpected attacks against his family four years before.

Although he refused to dwell upon them or let the events of that recent past dominate his life, Tommy was steadfast in his determination to never allow these memories to fade. He would not forget that--for whatever unknown reasons--these people had attempted to kill him, and anyone else who happened to be in the way of that ghastly goal. Nor would he let fade the foreboding that, even though these years had passed with no return of the men in black, he could expect them at any moment.

During his tour of active duty the Army, Tommy had begun taking college courses at night. When his term of enlistment was over and he was once again a civilian he had only to complete one more year of school as a full time student before receiving his Bachelors Degree. While still at university, Tommy applied for an appointment and was accepted into the FBI training academy. After college he spent the summer with Helen and his family. Tommy was now scheduled to leave for the training academy at Quantico, Virginia in September. Less than a month away.

He and Helen planned to be married. Hoping to find a place close to the academy where they could set up housekeeping while he underwent his training. His bride to be did not approve of his desire to become an FBI agent, any more than she had of his decision three years earlier to enlist in the Army. Still, Helen knew that even though Tommy would be spending much of his time away from home, at least now they would both be in the same country and able to be together on weekends most of the time. Tommy would probably even manage to spend some of his nights at home with her during the week.

On several occasions, Tommy had attempted to explain to Helen the events which had occurred before he met her. All she had to go on was the single incident when they had been attacked in the apartment in Chicago. Of the enigmatic Mr. Powell: Tommy had little to tell. He knew nothing about the man other than the fact that he had appeared on several occasions to save his family from attackers who themselves came as mysteriously as Powell and vanished just as quickly. With nary a trace of evidence ever left behind which might be used to track them down.

The girl later convinced herself that believing the story put together by the police was the simplest way to achieve peace of mind: That the apartment building had been victimized by burglars; intent on robbing the valuables certain to be found within the confines of such well to do places; that the operation had gone tragically awry and the robbers had fled after having a falling out among themselves, killing the guard and terrorizing the children. Perhaps, they surmised, Powell had been one of the robbers himself and did not want to go so far as taking the lives of children. Instead, taking them to the restaurant where Tommy admitted he knew his parents were likely to be eating and dropping them off as a ploy to get them out of the way of his partners or convince the authorities of his innocence; were he to be apprehended.

The police suggested that Tommy must have connected this event with the earlier ones in his life in an attempt himself to come to terms with those incidents, which had obviously traumatized the boys entire family to an extent not readily obvious at a casual glance.

Since meeting him on the bus at the age of sixteen, Helen had come to share a deep and abiding love with Tommy. Out of this love came her decision to encourage him in dealing with these things and, her eventual acceptance of his career choice. Against, what she would later look upon as, her better judgment.

Ten years had passed since he first heard noises emanating through the darkness, from the other side of the woods behind his parents house in Hills Lake, Illinois. Tommy was no longer the fourteen year old boy who had begun his investigation of the mysterious gray building only to find himself confronting the dark strangers in the terror of the night blackened woods. Who would surely have perished without the assistance of the mysterious Mr. Powell.

At twenty-four years old, Tommy was far better equipped to deal with all of life's vicissitudes. As a result of those earlier times, and the course his life had later taken, he could likely master most able-bodied men in single handed combat; if the need arose.




CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTY ONE -- Illinois: September, 1978













Agent Sam Perkins was filled with an unknown form of terror. Terror which suffused his form with a degree of apprehension he had never experienced before, not even during the darkest nights he had spent shivering with adrenaline energy as he lay plastered into the mud beneath the canopy of Viet Nams deadly jungles. With the fatal rush of enemy gunfire hissing through the trees above him and mortar shells landing all around his platoon. The silences between the whumps of those explosions punctuated by the lessor cacophony of screams coming from the wounded and the dying. Sam had been just as defenseless then as he was now. The difference being: in the jungle he had carried weapons with which to inflict a sympathetic response in kind upon the enemy. Here there was no target to attack. Seen or unseen.

He was not afraid to face death. Sam knew that sooner or later he was destined to meet an enemy who would best him and then it would be his time to be killed. Accepting that as just reward for all the lives he had taken; the prospect brought him little dread. But he was afraid. He was afraid of not knowing. Of dying without first facing the adversary who would take his life.

In this instance there was no one to confront. Only a wall of light. And on the other side of that wall: The unknown.

He turned and secured the airtight door, sealing off his only exit from the chamber, outwardly displaying none of the fear which pervaded his being, knowing that his comrades were looking in from the other side of the plate-glass window through which he could not see out at all; for the reflected glare of hellish blue/green brilliance beaming outward in all directions from the cylinder of nothing standing before him in the center of the room. Men who would soon follow him into oblivion, should Sam not return. Men who--like Sam himself--embodied an ultimate form of courage. Who would die for a cause, while knowing they would never learn if their death was the one which made the difference. Or was just another wasted life. Facing his destiny squarely on, standing tall so as to gaze eye to eye with whatever awaited him on the other side, he strode into the light.

The glow enveloped his form. At the same time he felt the prick of a million needles upon his skin and saw a rainbow array of flashes in the void about him. Then, for a seeming timeless moment he was left without indication that the universe still existed around his isolated form.

No light.

No sound.

He could not feel the floor beneath his feet; he could not tell if he had feet.

Out of that nothing he emerged into something. Something which embraced him in an omnipresent grip. A massive pressure which was being applied against his body equally the same from all directions. Embraced him hard, crushing the air from his lungs and squeezing his cranium until he felt his head was about to implode. His body was engulfed in a wash of tremendous heat. There was an actiniform flash of purple brilliance, followed by a sonic boom compression of whatever the medium he was seemingly suspended within (the wave felt as much as heard) and the external pressure was gone as suddenly as it had come. No. More than gone, it had moved inside and reversed, turning its forces outward. Just for that instant, Sam felt as if he had stepped into a vacuum as each cell in his body literally attempted to explode away from every other.

The world (some world) zapped into existence all around him. He was standing on the curb in what appeared to be a residential street in one of that worlds major cities. In the distance he spotted the towers of the foreign metropolis's skyscrapers dappling the horizon. Pain was added to his confusion as Sam was racked by a sudden fit of coughing. He stumbled and dropped to his knees, the searing agony of what felt like a thousand piercing knife wounds suddenly peppering his internal organs.

Feeling something warm running down his chin, Sam reached to wipe himself with his hand and realized the wet warmth was his own blood escaping his wounded body. At the same time, he knew also that he was not to die a heroes death in battle. Nothing nearly so noble. His end was coming to him ignominiously as he fell and lay helpless in the street, curling around his sudden anguish. Whimpering like some wounded dog stricken by a car. Without the faintest understanding of what had happened.

Not comprehending the enemy.

Realizing only the pain.




CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTY TWO -- Peaceful Hollow: February, 1982















He stood before his prisoner for a moment, weighing options, trying to decide if he wanted to accept his enemies offer of untrustworthy assistance, or proceed on his own. Powell knew he could himself eventually open the metal case laying on the table across the room, or find someone who could. He was concerned that he might not have that time to spare.

Making up his mind Powell replied to his prisoners offer of assistance, "Certainly. I'd like nothing more than to have you open that case for me. I'd like just as much to know first that there might not be more danger in having it open than in just leaving it alone."

"Only one way you'll ever know for sure," the other pointed out, delighted at having this small leverage to use against his opponent in their verbal battle.

Mitch, who had for the last few minutes been standing to one side contemplating the revelations he had just received and wondering exactly how to adjust his world picture to fit these new data, now interrupted to voice his opinion:

"You're absolutely right boss; this guy is a snake and I don't trust him a little bit."

"Glad you're back Pal," Powell said humorlessly. "We don't have to trust him. We'll just stand back out of the way and if he acts up in the least...then you can shoot him!"

"Let's just shoot him now."

"No," Powell vetoed. "I don't think so. "I'm not finished with him yet." He turned then to face his friend and employee, "Come over here and hold your gun on him while I let him out of the chair and remove these handcuffs so he can use his hands. We're going to find out what is inside that case."

Mitch did as instructed and cautiously moved to stand behind their prisoner, his hand poised next to the automatic pistol he kept at the ready in his shoulder holster. Of a sudden, he had decided to take no chances with this increasingly baffling man. It seemed to Mitch that someone in his position should not remain so cocky. This fellow had been taken prisoner by two strangers, locked in a small room and kept isolated from all human contact for weeks. He should be babbling. Yet here he was, acting as if he were the one in control.

Making sure to keep an open line of fire, not allowing the other any opportunity to place Powell between the two of them, Mitch oversaw the operation as his employer released the restraints binding the captive to the chair and then had him hold his hands in front of himself and carefully cuffed them together again before starting to lead him toward the table at the other side of the room.

"What's so important about that case Boss?" Mitch inquired, concerned. "Why not just burn the damn thing and be done with it?"

"I would Mitch, if I thought it was more important to our friend here than it is to us. But I'm afraid we might need the contents of that container as much as he does."

"Why is that?"

"Because (unless I'm completely mistaken) inside that case is our buddy's communication device. His means of calling for a ride home," Powell explained.

"You might just be a little more on the ball than I've been giving you credit for," his prisoner declared. Still calmly walking toward the table as he spoke. "I didn't think you had a clue."

"I didn't really, until I caught you looking at the gauges in the shelter," Powell admitted. "At first I thought you were watching the clock. Then I realized it had to be more than that and figured since you likely weren't watching the Geiger counter, the thermometer or the barometer, you must be watching for magnetic pulses. That's when it all clicked in my head. If you were watching for magnetic pulses then you surely must have some method of sending one in return. If for no other reason than to acknowledge the signal. But since you guys have always been able to vanish from the scene of the crime--so to speak--without leaving a single trace behind I figure the case must contain a device which lets you signal for pick up.

"How am I doing?" he concluded.

"So far, so good," his captive answered. "So why, if that's what you think, do you want me to open the case? Aren't you afraid I'll call for help?"

Powell stopped the man in mid-stride. "I'm kind of hoping you'll do just that," he said in a tone which, despite his resolution to carry on with his mission, at the cost of his own life if need be, sent a chill down the other mans spine. "I might just step through the doorway and invite myself into your parlor for a look-see."

"You wouldn't like it," the other replied, attempting to regain his composure. "It's a dark and dismal place."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least," Powell declared. "Had I thought it through I would have figured as much." Then he continued leading the other toward the table where the case lay waiting in closed invitation. "All right then. Let's just, very carefully, open this thing and find out how it works."

Mitch, cautiously remaining out of arms reach, paced them as his employer, the prisoner in tow, approached the table. When he noticed an object in protruding from beneath the captives shirt, he started to intervene, but refrained when he saw that it was only a rolled up magazine he had stuck in his back pants pocket. He kept a wary eye, but did not draw his gun as the man spun the dials on the case, working the combination which would open the latches.

The lid flipped over and clacked against the table as their captive turned suddenly and ran towards the door leading up from the basement. Not knowing exactly what it was that directed his moves, acting more out of an instinct honed by years of experience in the field than any conscious awareness of something amiss, Mitch suddenly rushed toward his employer and, scooping Powell up in his charge, propelled him across the room and through the door leading into the bomb shelter just as the case let out an ominous click, followed by the low humming of some electronic device contained within beginning to charge itself in preparation for some yet to be revealed action.

They were barely through the door when there came a massive ka-rumph of sound, follow by the blast wave from the explosive package which had been concealed within the case. Mitch, propelled by the force of the concussion which hit him from behind, slammed into Powell and as the two of them impacted the back wall of the shelter. Although Mitch was protecting his employer with his body the double blow still crushed the wind from Powell's lungs and left both of them dazed for a moment.

Mitch, although himself shaken by the concussion, was still able to breath and in control of his movements. He turned to glance back through the entrance in time to see a cylinder of brilliant blue/green light form in the air above the wreckage of the table. As he watched, their prisoner rose from against the stairs where he had been thrown by the explosion and tossed something into the tube of light. Seconds after the object vanished into the glow so too did the radiance. As the man attempted to turn and flee up the stairs Mitch, his pistol already drawn, took aim and shot the retreating figure twice in the back. His target fell against the stair rail, slid down and rolled over face up on the concrete floor of the basement. No longer moving of his own accord.

Satisfied that the man was indeed dead, Mitch turned to attend to his injured friend.




CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTY THREE -- Illnois: September, 1978























Malovich paced impatiently back and forth before the massive plate glass window mounted between this room and the one containing the torus, from which the latest group of her agents had just vanished into the blue/green glare of the vortex.

Turning to glare at the people who were operating the machine she vented her rage on the only available victims. "What the hell are you people doing wrong?" She demanded. "Why the fuck can't you figure out what the problem is?"

Mike, the young agent who had become Doris's unwilling lieutenant since the mysterious disappearance of Ted Preston, moved to intercede on behalf of the helpless technicians. They could ill afford anymore tension than was already present in the control room.

"Ms. Malovich...," he began.

"What?" She yelled, turning her wrath upon him.

Stamering at first, almost wishing to himself that he had not spoken out, Mike urged, "Please...Uh...Why don't we walk out into the hallway and get some air, Ms. Malovich. It's awful stuffy in here right now."

Looking for a moment as if she would lash out at him, she instead silently consented to Mikes request and without another word strode the length of the room and exited into the corridor. Her lieutenant rapidly chasing after her.

As the control room door swung shut behind them, Mike lit two cigarettes and the two of them leaned against the wall and smoked in silence for a moment.

Malovich waited until two technicians, dressed in white lab coats walked past and out of earshot before speaking.

"What are we going to do Mike? The committee is on my ass about this entire project. They want to know where Ted is and they want to know why we haven't shut this place down yet. They want to know why I requsitioned extra people to sdoff duMalovi as outside the cross the roome



CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTY FOUR -- Illinois: October, 1978
















Marcus and Peggy were seated next to each other at his desk, rechecking the latest calculations the pair had been preparing in the event they would be called upon to construct the shielding device Powell had determined would be needed to insure a safe passage through the singularity and on into the future which awaited at the other side of the vortex.

He heard them coming down the hallway long before the agents reached the door leading into his office. As Peggy looked up apprehensively in response to the approaching footsteps, Marcus motioned for her to remain seated where she was.

He imagined, just as he had surmised they would, that things must have become pretty tense in the command center of the lab by now. From the way the agents entered the room, his speculation became a certainty. They did not bother to knock or, for that matter, even pound on the door first. The three men sent for them simply kicked the door open then, without bothering to enter afterwards, let it fly against the wall with a resounding crash.

"All right you two!" one of them yelled through the opening. "Drop whatever it is you're doing and come with us. The boss wants to see the both of you right now!"

Taking his time, Marcus gathered up his notes. Winking at Peggy as he did so, outwardly gloating, he said, "Come my dear. We're being summoned. I imagine our toy has too many buttons for her highnesses goons to figure out how to work it."




CHAPTER INDEX


THIRTY FIVE --??

















One of the thing that Marcus hated most about their captivity was the fact that he and Peggy had very little privacy in which to conduct the blossoming romance which had begun to grow between them shortly after the invasion of his laboratory...





Coming soon...the complete VORTEX!



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(I'm writing as fast as I can....this is not only my longest work to date but also the most involved and technically difficult....I'm still a rookie!)

In the mean time, here are some reviews, written by those who have read the first half of the novel....

    Reader Comments:

      Your book is off to a great start, Doug!

      Your descriptions of Chicago, and the streetwalkers, put the wind in my ears and the chill in my bones.

      Moves right along, with social commentary sprinkled in for good measure. Now, to discover what the vortex is, and why it leaves such ghastly results.

      Excellent! Looking forward to reading the rest...keep writing

        -- Michael McNamara

      This is terrific!

        --Lisa









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    Thank you for keeping my thoughts alive.

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