Thunder shook the ground as the heavy electrical storm system spread out as predicted by the weather bureau. By nightfall torrential havoc would apparently have reached a radius spanning Lyon, Tarare and Villefranche-sur-Saône in neighboring France.
In the near distance two gray figures came into view from the predominantly white environment of mist and showers. They came into view as he slowly drew closer. Two traffic officers were redirecting cars into the detour set up away from the main road.
“Now? In the rain we have to take some shitty pot-hole path?” he grunted, vexed by the extra time he would have to spend on the road. His phone rang. He stopped his car. Was it Sam Cleave?
Albert placed his phone on the hands-free station and answered as he slowly pulled away from the shoulder of the road again. A scratchy sound came across the speaker, then the voice he dreaded most — his other employer, the man who paid him more than Penny did.
“Albert, you told the journalist things you shouldn’t have.”
“No. No, I told him nothing, sir. Nothing.”
“Really? Then what was he doing in the prohibited area with you?” the stern man asked, provoking a renewed panic in Tägtgren. He stopped his car again, barely 200m from the detour sign.
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he swallowed hard.
“CCTV, you blithering idiot!” his employer roared. “For an engineer you are exceedingly stupid! But worse, Albert, you are a liar.”
With that the call was cut and the engineer swore he could hear his heart clamoring in his body. His transgression was discovered. It was time to get away, go back home to his country.
Albert decided to turn up the radio to drown out the din of the downpour as he carefully navigated the rather narrow tarmac ribbon he had turned off on toward Meyrin. He reduced speed as he allowed the music to lull his sensibilities and calm his nerves, even when his hands refused to stop shaking.
He looked back to see the unfortunate officers having to stand in the rain and wait for the next cars to direct away. Albert watched the dwindling figures in his rear view mirror. But when the next cars came they had removed the detour sign. The rest of the cars passed on the highway. Completely perplexed the engineer frowned, paying too much attention to what was going on behind him to see what was coming from ahead.
Chapter 12
Lydia labored away at the programming of the so-called co-ordinates she had created for the experiment. She marked each field and measured the intensity and propulsion from each generator on the grid of the machine. Sam was busy mocking Purdue’s getup in the background while she finalized the second stage of the experiment. Healy was on stand-by to do all the heavy lifting — the levers, the multiple vacuum locks and the door, since Sam would be occupied by his filming.
“Purdue, come, let me give you these,” Lydia summoned, holding out two small gadgets. “Sam, you may film this is you wish.”
“Aye. On it,” he replied, following Purdue to record the revelation of what Lydia called ‘necessary aids for communication and safe return.’ Sam and Purdue exchanged a look. “But it is just an experiment, right?”
“Yes, Sam,” she sighed, “but if it works Purdue will need these to not get lost in the timespace continuum, see?”
“Get lost?” Purdue asked.
“Think of these two devices as the physics counterpart of a floatation kit, gentlemen,” Lydia explained. “This is a communication device of sorts, should you need to contact me from wherever you are.”
“Or whenever you are,” Sam chipped through his almost pursed lips.
“You’re so funny,” Purdue remarked, looking slightly worried at last. He saw how meticulously she handled the experiment, almost as if she had done it a hundred times before. With this level of dedication she must have been under the impression that her theory was actually plausible in a practical sense.
“This is called the BAT,” she announced.
“An abbreviation?” Sam asked.
“No, it uses luminiferous ether like a bat uses echolocation. It will allow you to leave a message in the ether, but you only have thirty seconds of every twenty four hours to do so, provided you have access to chronology, of course,” she described to Purdue, occasionally looking straight at Sam’s lens as if she wanted it recorded as instruction. Lydia gave Purdue the small box, covered in black fabric. “The mic is concealed under the material and the record button is…” she took his thumb in her hands and ran it along the one side until he felt the button, “…there.”
“Got it,” Purdue affirmed, memorizing where it was.
“Very important,” she warned loudly, “once you press that button, Purdue, you have to put the device down or it will dissolve your hand on a cellular level. POOF!”
Sam’s eyes left the view finder and he looked at Purdue. The billionaire was ashen, staring back at Sam. They shared an unspoken exclamation of alarm before Purdue frowned at Lydia, “Excuse me?”
“Oh come now, Purdue!” she said, throwing back her head.
“Why the hellish disintegration, for those of us who do not possess the aptitude for particle freakishness?” Sam jested, but under it he was quite serious.
Lydia was clearly extremely annoyed by their sudden inquisitiveness and doubt in her system. “Sam, this little box has to make a call before Purdue can talk, right?”
“Aye, that I get.”
She continued in a deliberately slow manner to patronize the journalist properly. “And to make that call it has to heat up and manipulate the sound waves in the microphone to find their way on a molecular basis… much as the particles you are made up of communicates among a vast network of nerves and cells inside the landscape that is your body. Are you with me so far?”
“Jesus.”
“Right,” she went on, “so if your molecules are in contact with an object… the little box… that heats up hotter than the sun, you will not have the ability to say shit, will you?”
Purdue’s eyes remained frozen in their cases as he glared at the floor in thought.
“She didn’t have to be so utterly condescending,” Sam mumbled to himself.
“Healy! Bring me that other velvet bag, please,” she called.
“Christ, Purdue! Are you sure you want to do this?” Sam whispered, pausing his recording.
“It’s unlikely time travel is even practically viable, Sam. Let’s just humor her,” Purdue shrugged, but Sam persisted in his urgency. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“What if nothing happens?” Purdue played devil’s advocate.
“Purdue,” Sam whispered, “what if it works?”
“Purdue,” Lydia snapped, “we are running out of time. It’s almost evening and here we are fucking about all day with petty hold-ups! This is a very important experiment, for God’s sake, so let’s make it happen.”
“And what is that?” Purdue asked quickly, distracting Lydia from a definite brewing tantrum that would soon merit another tirade. He pointed at the bag she held.
“This is your way back,” she informed him. “You have only three days before your BAT runs out of power and will not be able to accelerate enough to send you back.
“So the BAT is also my capacitor?” Purdue asked, as Sam once more moved silently around them to record the proceedings.