C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Following the pointing crooked finger
On a gnarled and shaking hand
I stared across the sweeping plains
Of a barren and empty land
“See riders up there on that ridge?
Must be a dozen or so.”
The old cowman's cataract and faded eyes
Stayed my reply of, “No”
Blinking hard against the strain
My eyelids squeezed out tears
Then I saw them, not across the miles,
But there, across the years
Fearful apprehension haunted the faces of the two adult occupants of ultra sterile quarantine rooms as they paced restlessly about the brightly lit, very private, test lab. A third person, an effervescent young lady of, perhaps, sixteen, with luxurious auburn hair hanging down to her slim waist, presented a look of suppressed excitement. Her blue eyes sparkled as she alternated her gaze from her nervous senior companions to a rather large volume she scanned with apparent preoccupation. The trio wore thin synthetic one-piece white suits, which clung to their bodies like a painted veneer. Short anklet socks and gloves of the same material served as foot wear and hand protection.
Outside the chamber, separated by an imposing wall of one way plate glass, a second group of people in various stages of anxiety struggled to restore a communications link with the quarantined area. Two communications experts exchanged verbal innuendo as to who might be responsible for the glitch. The elder of the pair, a no longer pretty woman of forty-something, ranted, while her colleague, a beleaguered man perhaps half her age, frantically sorted through a black Platt laden with test equipment and tools. Meanwhile, Otto Kronburger, a slight framed balding fellow wearing heavy dark rimmed spectacles and a white lab coat, sought the source of the damage. Kronburger was aided by his younger, similarly clad assistant, Larry Doolittle. The professionals remained calm though they were under far more pressure than the quarrelling pseudo-technicians behind them.
Removed from the immediate area, a tall, distinguished gentleman with a full head of dark hair ?showing only a hint of grey? and wearing an expensive three-piece suit, conversed in low tones with the third member of the lab coat threesome. Tom O'Brien acted as liaison for this highly covert project and through him funding from government coffers had been made possible. O'Brien, now in his fifties, had spent most of his career in the federal government circle. His most recent post, prior to taking interest in this project, had been Canada's ambassador to the United States. Known and trusted by Canadians nationwide, 'Tom O'Brien' had become a household word in his homeland and, in fact, throughout the political world.
“If the comm. link is not restored in time, they know the drill, Tom,” Bill Spencer, the director in chief, spoke with unconvincing assurance. “When the green opal lights up they will move into their assigned TDSM's and the dimension shift will begin. Remember, we've done this successfully thirty-six times without failure,” he added.
Tom O'Brien glanced at the digital countdown timer stationed above the heads of the communications duo. “Seventeen minutes,” he said. “I would have liked to say one more last minute goodbye.”
“Well, you'll be able to say 'hello' in,” the scientist did a quick mental calculation, “75 minutes. That is when they return, although they'll have been gone fifteen years in shift time.”
“Fifteen years!” Tom repeated. “Shift 58 minutes and add 15 years to your life? I just cannot wrap my head around that. Indeed, a brief time in history.”
“An abstract application of what physicists refer to as the Twin Paradox. Incredible, isn't it?” the project director said.
Spencer stepped toward the quarrelling communications people.
“…You're the pathetic one, Sandy!” the young man shouted. “At least I've gotten this far without losing my pants!”
Bill Spencer intervened, “You'll have to leave this area now,” he said. “We shall proceed without the intercom link.” The woman referred to as Sandy, incapable of supplying a quick response to her colleague's verbal slap, turned a flushed and anger-distorted face on the director. A single, half-raised, eyebrow prevented comment and the pair were unceremoniously ushered toward the exit. As Spencer passed by O'Brien, he rolled his eyes by way of apology.
“Good help is hard to find,” Tom said.
Tom O'Brien moved close to the glass as Bill Spencer returned and addressed his subordinates who were still working on the communications error. “Leave it for now, we haven't enough time left to restore the link. Take your positions and prepare for the shift.” Checking the atomic clock he added, “We have nine minutes and fifty four seconds.”
While the scientists readied their computer stations, Tom O'Brien reflected upon the momentous event less than ten minutes away. He had a very personal interest in the outcome of this operation though he had made mention of such to no one other than Kronburger and Spencer. O'Brien trusted these two men implicitly.
He had to.
The former ambassador gazed at the three time travellers on the opposite side of the reflective glass. They were dear friends, far more so than they knew at this time. The experiment, this incredible time shift, had to go smoothly; not only were the lives of the quarantined trio at stake but more than forty years of Tom's past were resting on this all-or-nothing bet.
Spencer turned to O'Brien, whose paling features indicated a slight fissure forming in the diplomat's normally iron composure. “You best take a seat, too, Tom… right here.” He pulled a large swivel armchair on casters from behind a desk and parked it facing the glass wall, “front-row, centre.”
O'Brien could feel perspiration under the collar of his shirt and loosened his tie a little more. His eyes traced a nervous circuit from the digital timer, to the trio confined in the laboratory, to the technicians on his side of the glass, then back to the timer.
“The green opal is on… now,” Bill Spencer said in a controlled voice which sounded loud above the quiet hum of electronic equipment. No one else spoke.
The politician watched the white-suited individuals within the chamber gather for an affectionate group hug. As they moved toward the time shifting modules, the youngest member stalled a moment to retrieve the large volume she had laid aside when the green LED illuminated.
Spencer hit the intercom switch and said, “Leave the book, Toni!” but the girl paid no attention.
Otto Kronburger, rising from his seat said, “The intercom is dead.”
Both men pounded with their fists on the thick glass. Their attempts were in vain as the dull muffled thudding went unheard within the sealed laboratory.
“We can't stop the transfer now, she's already in the Cosmic energy field!” said Larry Doolittle, the programming engineer. “Let it go!”
The pale white figures, discernible through the translucent closures of the modules suddenly began to fade and Tom O'Brien suffered a searing pain as if the top of his head had split open. As the travellers vanished entirely, O'Brien's world went completely blank. He slumped down in his seat, unconscious….
Inside the chamber, oblivious to the proceedings a short, muted, distance away, Evan Tungstall could feel his palms sweating in the skin-tight gloves. His entire body itched from perspiration and the confinement of the undignified synthetic suit. He smiled, a nervous attempt at reassuring Analyse, his beautiful wife, as her path of pacing intercepted his. “The suit looks good on her,” he mused.
Toni Tungstall, the youngest member, was their only child and as Evan marked her keen eagerness, he asked himself how and why he had brought his family into this peril. How could a reasonably sane man recklessly jeopardize his own existence, and the lives of the two people he held dearest, only to satisfy such a daring sense of adventure? Why had he allowed Tom O'Brien to cajole and entice them? Another question remained unanswered: what impetus led the former diplomat who seemed so hell-bent, at times even desperate, to persuade Evan Tungstall and his family to enter into the nebulous and secretive Shiva program? For that matter, how did the ambassador himself ever become involved? Though the family's decision had been enthusiastically unanimous, Tungstall held himself responsible for the very real possibility of failure; a failure which meant uncertain death lost in a fourth dimensional, space-time, quantum gamble. He didn't even understand the jargon, much less the functionality of the nascent experiment. Now he and his small family were guinea pigs in an unprecedented triple human time-shift; an unfathomable transport backwards in history.
Evan reflected, for the hundredth time, upon the fantastic sequence of events leading up to their confinement in this sterile cell of stainless steel, enamel and porcelain. Only these three organisms were permitted to exist here; there were virtually no germs, viruses or bacteria, much less another human being. The single live contact with the outside world had been through an intercom which now, at the most crucial moment, didn't work. In another room, they had been able to see through a second, transparent plate window and, via the pager system, talk with the four people who now watched from the viewing side of the one way glass. This room was sealed from, but adjacent to, the laboratory, in a section of the quarantine quarters where the Tungstall family had been confined for nearly two months. The project was so intensely guarded that only a handful of select individuals were aware of the exact nature of the experiment. Technicians periodically required, such as communications and computer personnel, along with medical and nutrition experts, were permitted in the outer chamber to perform their necessary functions but were presented a guarded and ambiguous explanation for the quarantine operation.
Twenty individuals had gone before, some of them more than once, for a total of thirty-six successful shifts into the past or laterally in the present. However, this would be the first multi-person phase departure. Bill Spencer and his head scientist, Otto Kronburger, were adamant that additional time passengers were inconsequential to the operation.
Spencer had said, “The number of people we can time shift is only restricted by the number of Telephase Dimension Shift Modules available. We have only three so far.” The, “only three so far”, comment had been a score for the scientific community against Tom O'Brien's department in the age-old funding game.
To date, the longest time shift duration had been less than a year and for that particular 'leap of faith' Otto Kronburger himself had volunteered. Tungstall doubted that the scientist, whose life and work were entirely synonymous, spent many of his waking hours actually in the present moment, or, for that matter, perhaps not always on the planet Earth either. Otto had gone back in history to the year 1986 and spent the time in his native Austria. Evan Tungstall hadn't been privy to the particulars; apparently the experiment had proven successful.
Now the Project Shiva team pursued a simultaneous triple dimension shift. The Tungstalls were to be the lab mice.
Until six months ago, Evan Tungstall led what he considered a fairly normal life. He was a successful livestock grower, breeding a quality herd of cattle on a large scale operation in the beautiful Rocky Mountain foothills. He held a degree in Agriculture with a major in animal husbandry and had kept in close communication with several universities since his graduation twenty years previous. His experience, success and education were the assets which the organizers of the time project, 'Shiva,' claimed to be seeking when, nearly half a year ago, Tom O'Brien had paid an unannounced visit to the Tungstall ranch…
Though the sun had passed its zenith an hour ago, the hottest part of the day had just arrived as Evan Tungstall strode across his lush green, but wilting, yard. He was seeking a cold refreshment in the cool confines of the cedar-log ranch house, but was interrupted by the distant sound of a vehicle slowing down on the main road and making the turn into the drive. The rancher checked his pace to await the new arrival. The car, an ordinary looking sedan, contained one occupant whom the cattleman did not, at first glance, recognize. He did, however, note the white license plate with black lettering: “Federal Government,” he said.
The G-plated unit coasted quietly to a stop near the cattleman and he watched as a tall, well-dressed man, whom Evan estimated to be fifty, lithely extracted himself from the vehicle. The fellow had an almost wistful smile and seemed vaguely familiar. Offering his hand the stranger said, “Tom O'Brien.”
The rancher shook the hand, noting the firm grip as he said, “Evan Tungstall.”
“Yes, I know your name,” the government man said, his smile widening to expose a perfect set of white teeth.
Recognition dawned on Tungstall, “Of course! Tom O'Brien! It is an honour to have you here and, since you know my name, I presume you aren't lost. What's the occasion? We don't have a lot of ambassadors visit our ranch.”
O'Brien chuckled. “Well, my diplomatic relations days have come to an end, I've taken up a different job ?still with the government? it's…it is quite removed from my previous post.”
“Come on into the house,” Evan said, “I was just on my way for a glass of lemonade.”
“Ah, it's been a long time…” O'Brien paused, then went on, “I'd like a glass of lemonade. I hadn't noticed this heat with the air conditioning in the car.”
Evan Tungstall's wife met the men at the doorway. Mrs. Tungstall was unable to mask her astonishment as she recognized Tom O'Brien.
“To what do we owe this honour?” she echoed her husband's word after the government official had been formally introduced.
“The honour, I assure you, is all mine.”
O'Brien was led into the spacious kitchen and offered a chair at a massive maple wood table. Analyse brought out a pitcher of lemonade and poured three glasses. The platitudes of weather and cattle business were discussed at length before Tom O'Brien casually switched the conversation to the reason for this visit, so far from the nation's capital.
“I opted to drive west so as to have a relaxing trip and to give myself time to come up with a convincing proposal.
“You may or may not be aware that the federal government, particularly individuals within the agriculture department, are quite familiar with your successful cattle operation out here, Evan. Through the University of Guelph, Ontario, we have monitored and admired your dedication to improvement in the industry. There are those of us who wish we had had your perspicacity forty or fifty years ago.”
The politician delayed, considering the incongruity of the presentation he had rehearsed so many times. Now it all seemed laboured and minuscule as he faced Evan Tungstall.
The Tungstalls were riveted to the speaker and remained expectantly silent as O'Brien paused and helped himself to a refill of lemonade. Fixing the couple with an expression of grim determination, he said, “It is not too late to do that.”
“It's not too late to improve the cattle industry's position fifty years ago?” Evan Tungstall asked, doubting his own hearing.
“Well, let's say forty-five years. In the early 1960's, the University of Guelph was developing an artificial insemination program that would enable cattle breeders of dairy and beef operations to have access to the finest breeding bulls in the world. As you know, AI is popular in the business today but in its nascent state, it was quite slow to catch on. An estimated fifteen to twenty years passed before the program was accepted on a large scale. Our beef and dairy prominence in the world market was slow to emerge and we continued to play catch-up hockey for years after that.”
The rancher said, “What's done is done, we can only go forward, not retrace our steps….”
O'Brien cut in, “That has been the case until very recently. What I have to say is so unbelievable, so far fetched, that you may think I should be committed to a lunatic asylum.” He flashed a rueful smile. “Maybe I should be, but I swear upon my honour that what I have to say is entirely truthful. Furthermore, it is paramount that not a word of this conversation is repeated. The information is of the strictest confidentiality; even my own office has no solid cognizance of the operation.”
“What is this operation, exactly?” Analyse Tungstall asked.
Evan said, “You have our oath of confidentiality.”
O'Brien took the plunge. “There is a cabal of scientists, who have developed a system for time shifting. It is possible to transport people back in time and retrieve them to the present.”
Shocked silence.
Mrs. Tungstall was the first to recover. “That is far fetched!”
“Hold on a minute, Analyse,” Evan said. “If what you say is true, Tom, and frankly I am having a very tough time chewing such a wad, why are you telling us? Where do we fit in?”
Through the open window, the sound of an approaching vehicle interrupted the conversation. Analyse Tungstall glanced up at the kitchen clock. “The school bus,” she said, “Toni's home.”
As the sound of the departing bus diminished, quick footsteps could be heard crossing the wooden deck. The screened entrance door opened and abruptly banged closed. An attractive teenage girl with long auburn hair strode into the room, carrying a lunch bucket and an armload of school books. She read the distraught look on her parents' faces, and after politely acknowledging the stranger, asked, “What's wrong?”
Failing to hide the quaver in her voice, Mrs. Tungstall said, “This is Mr. O'Brien, from Ottawa, honey.”
Tom O'Brien stood and took the offered hand but instead of shaking it, he held on tenderly and, in a low voice, said, “Milt Milto.”
Evan Tungstall took offence at the over familiarity. He quickly rose to his full height, a couple inches over six feet. “Mr. O'Brien, you have a very short time to explain your actions. My patience is running thin and I don't care what your political history may be.”
“My… history?” The term seemed to have him stalled but the former ambassador quickly regained his composure and spoke in the controlled voice of a veteran diplomat. “I apologize, my history of being a figure, perhaps of some import in the international political arena, has not adequately prepared me for the presentation of this seemingly outrageous scientific program. I'm not about to deceive you people, I do have a personal stake in the outcome. I have solicited funding from our government coffers to provide for experimentation and testing and it has been an enormously expensive project. For its success or failure I must accept personal responsibility.” His tone shifted to apologetic. “Please allow me to explain further.”
His gaze turned to Toni who had taken a chair at the table beside her mother. The girl had a confused, almost hostile expression. Evan Tungstall grudgingly resumed his seat and indicated that O'Brien follow suit.
The rancher said, “Continue; Toni is to be trusted if her mother and I are.”
“Of course,” O'Brien agreed.
His voice strengthened and the smile warmed upon returning to the topic. “We, that is, the Federal Department Of Agriculture, the Project Shiva people and indeed, myself, would like you to consider becoming a part of the dimension shift program. We are asking you to volunteer to travel back in time.”
“What is he talking about, Mom?” Toni asked.
“Perhaps you can enlighten your daughter with the sketchy information I have provided so far, while I retrieve further documentation from my vehicle,” Tom O'Brien said.
“It's sketchy, that's a fact,” Tungstall said. “If you were any other politician, including a few prime ministers I could name, I'd have had you off this ranch half an hour ago.”
“Well, I'll take that as encouragement,” the ambassador said as he rose and left the room.
Toni's defiant mien had turned to bewilderment by the time O'Brien returned with a rather bulky leather briefcase in his left hand and a huge book tucked under his right arm.
“None of the documentation contained here has blatant, direct reference to the actual dimension time shift program. The information is far too critical to be allowed beyond the experimental station but, between the lines, the entire study can be deciphered. You just need the initial key which I have presented verbally to realize the content.”
He placed the volume on the table and, as Analyse Tungstall cleared away the lemonade pitcher and glasses, he set the briefcase down and extracted a sheaf of papers and a CD-ROM from it.
“This disc is yours to keep, please guard it with utmost care. As I mentioned, this layout is a red herring, ostensibly pertaining to experimental testing in our space program.”
“We have a space program?” Evan Tungstall asked.
“Oh yes, not as glamorous and candid as our American neighbours but we do research and testing here on a smaller scale. In fact, a lot of Canada's space related work is in conjunction with NASA. CSA, the Canadian Space Agency was inaugurated in 1989. ”
“Are other countries involved in the project you are proposing?” Analyse asked.
“Not specifically, not in our program but we have reason to believe that there are certain parallel experiments in progress. None are so advanced, nor as functional, as ours.”
Evan Tungstall had been leafing through a folder. He now slid the paper over to his wife, “Mr. O'Brien, this material seems quite incomplete and vague at best.”
“That's right, Evan, the real proof will be realized when you come with me to project headquarters. You will see our lab, meet my associates and, perhaps, even, a demonstration can be made possible.”
Analyse asked, “When would that take place?”
“Analyse, we can be there and back tomorrow, if you like. I'll have a government jet pick us up and return us– same day service.”
This announcement provided the desired effect of incorporating a more stern fabric into the previously flimsy fairytale. When someone is willing to spend money, albeit tax payers' dollars, to establish a point, tangibility becomes more concrete. Tom O'Brien was extremely well versed in the technique.
As the Tungstalls digested this more plausible proposal, O'Brien continued his pitch. “Though the finer details are not hammered out as yet; that depends upon your final decision; I ought to point out the benefits for you: The federal government is sponsoring the entire program, although they do not know where or how the money is being spent; a common occurrence. You will be compensated financially for your participation. But, the opportunity for you is unimaginable. You will have a fifteen year holiday, a working vacation so to speak, running a huge ranch starting in the year 1963.” Tom's voice rose with excitement as he made the final delivery.
“Fifteen years in dimensionally shifted time, but actually only a matter of hours in the time we consider the present.”
The former ambassador could not suppress a chuckle as the three gobsmacked individuals stared at him in disbelief.
Toni Tungstall was the first to respond, “But I'll be over thirty in one afternoon,” she groaned.
The comment eased the tension. “No,” O'Brien said, “that is the fantastic perquisite, Toni. None of you will age at all. However, the people of the period, with whom you will necessarily associate, shall continue living a normal existence.
“I must point out too, it is vital that the strictest confidentiality be maintained with that population as well. You must not interfere or alter history in any way.”
Evan Tungstall said dryly, “Except to improve the cattle industry.”
“Yes, we're hoping you can bolster the quality of the national herd by demonstrating the obvious advantages of artificial breeding.”
Doubt clouded the rancher's thinking. The entire presentation seemed an absurd dream or perhaps the first episode of a recurrent nightmare. He reached across the table and squeezed his wife's hand in an effort to reassure them both. A trace of humour shone in his grey eyes as he turned to the visitor, “What makes you assume another fifteen years of ranching tacked on to my life is a benefit?”
Analyse Tungstall smiled at her husband. “Evan, you will still be feeding cows when you are a hundred. What difference is a hundred and fifteen!”
Evan said, “You haven't sold me on this scheme but I must admit it sounds like a tremendous opportunity for our family. I appreciate the fact that we have been selected for such a… well, unbelievable, adventure.” He paused, his grey eyes riveting the corresponding blue gaze of his guest, “To my way of thinking, a former U.S. Ambassador is not likely to be concerned with the beef industry; not fifty years ago, not even today. You mentioned a personal interest?”
Tom maintained unblinking eye contact as he said, “It means everything to me, Evan.”
“So, if we refuse this offer, your future is in jeopardy?” the rancher said. “I find that hard to believe. Tom O'Brien is the complete envy of every elected official in the country, past, present and, probably future. Your name is internationally renowned….”
O'Brien broke in, “It is not the future that is my concern, it is my past.”
The Tungstalls agreed to fly to Ottawa the next morning and in turn invited Tom to spend the night at their ranch.
The government aircraft, a recent Bombardier Challenger 300, complete with stewardess and two pilots, sat parked on the apron, cargo and passenger doors yawning open as Tom O'Brien and the Tungstalls emerged from the airport terminal. In minutes they were airborne and four hours later, the pilot announced final descent into Ottawa's McDonald-Cartier International Airport.
The Challenger touched down with a faint squeak of rubber striking asphalt and the jet was guided to a parking area by a marshal dressed in phosphorescent lime, and waving a bright orange baton in each hand.
“Welcome to Ottawa,” Tom announced as the westerners stepped onto the tarmac.
O'Brien didn't have a chauffeur driven limo waiting at the terminal, but he did hire one of the stretched units waiting in the busy taxi stand. Evan and Analyse had been to Ottawa on several occasions in the past but the city, and the province, were new to their daughter. She had a torrent of questions; Tom O'Brien handled tour guide duties for the excited teenager.
The limousine pulled into a short lot in front of a two story edifice with a pair of large plate glass doors. A tall, carefully manicured hedge obscured most of the face of the structure. An unimposing commercial sign entitled C R Laboratories adorned the exposed view of the grey green building. It appeared to be a recent addition in the area. Two vehicles, a vintage Thunderbird, and a shiny red sports car, were parked side by side at the extreme left of the lot; a wide tired mountain bike was chained to a lamp post beside the T-Bird.
O'Brien paid the driver and led the apprehensive family along a wide cement sidewalk to the building's entrance. “C R Laboratories is the cover name we use for the program,” he said. Cosmetology Research Labs is a red herring; to those who know, the 'C' actually stands for 'Cosmology'. We keep a low profile but require a moniker for deliveries and other necessary day to day interactions.”
Tom pressed the thumb of his right hand against a security scanner embedded in the wall. An electronic latch buzzed and the door opened, revealing a small foyer. A security man wearing an officer's cap and dark uniform greeted Tom. “Hello, Mr. O'Brien, haven't seen you for a while.”
“Hi Stan. I've been travelling out West on business. These are my friends, the Tungstalls. They will be taking a tour of the premises with me this afternoon.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. O'Brien. Anyone else coming today?”
“Not that I am aware of….”
Toni read the security guard's name tag, Stan LaFond, as he punched in a code on his keyboard. A door to his right silently slid open.
“Stan doesn't have much company in this building,” Tom O'Brien said, “and nobody enters this area without an escort.”
The area Tom referred to was a complex monitoring centre. A tall bank of metal cabinets lined the entire wall on the left side. Multi coloured lights flickered constantly amid a fantastic assortment of switches, dials, buttons and stamped metal labels. Across the room, a plate glass window gave full view of a brightly lit area so pristine and sterile that it hurt the unaccustomed eye. The mid-to-right hand portion of the room, contained four steel office desks with an LCD display on each and a swivel chair behind. A second door, near the wall of glass, stood slightly ajar. The air conditioned room felt cooler than the outer office and a low hum from the electronics filled the background.
Three lab coated workers, clustered around a computer screen on the near desk, looked up in surprise at the intrusion. “Interoffice joke on the email, Bill?” Tom O'Brien asked.
The man O'Brien had addressed rounded the desk, right hand extended to Evan Tungstall. “Bill Spencer,” he said. “You folks are the Tungstalls, of course.”
Tom O'Brien presented the introductions with a dignitary's flair, “Analyse, Evan and Toni Tungstall. These are my associates here at C R Labs: our chief administrator, Dr. Bill Spencer, Otto Kronburger, PhD, head of research and operations, and Larry Doolittle, Master of Science in Computer Science. He acts as programmer and Dr. Kronburger's worthy assistant.
Kronburger shook the ladies' proffered hands, “We dispense with the 'doctor' formality except for Mr. Doolittle. We call him Doc, although he doesn't usually talk to animals.”
After a brief flurry of small talk, Spencer, apologizing in advance for the crowded quarters, invited all into an adjoining room which doubled as a staff kitchen and passageway. They crossed to a door bearing a label in brilliant red on white lettering: Quarantine Zone: No Admittance. An austere kitchenette, in need of a thorough cleaning, attested to a meagre existence for Shiva employees working extended hours.
Soon Otto Kronburger and Doc Doolittle withdrew to their workplace. The three Tungstall's squeezed onto a small tweed couch while the former ambassador and the project director sat opposite them in a pair of thin cushioned arm chairs that only nearly matched the couch. The Shiva Project budget did not permit extravagance in office furniture. The visitors declined an offer of beverages.
“What is the Quarantine Zone?” Toni asked as she surveyed the room.
“That door,” Spencer indicated with a nod, “is the entrance to the living quarters and transport equipment room. You may have seen the latter through that glass wall in the control centre you just came through. Actually, the entrance to the quarantined area proper is one more room beyond this one. We call it the intermediate quarantine zone. It serves the dual purpose of visual and audio communication and decontamination area.”
Tom O'Brien said, “Bill, I've given the Tungstalls no information regarding C R Labs at all. We have so far discussed only the 'adventure', if I may use the term, not the actual trip and preliminaries.”
“So, Tom has offered you the sales pitch and I am left to deliver the catch. Obviously you have a general idea of the phase program and I can expand on the intricacies of functionality if you so desire. However, we best confirm your dedication beforehand and it is only fair to submit the cons along with the benefits of the adventure,” he winked, “if I may also use the term.
“To travel back in time, there are many obstacles to surmount prior to departure. We will not risk the consequences of a latter day disease or infection among our historic population. Imagine the turmoil in the present if an outbreak of SARS or the Avian Flu suddenly cropped up somewhere in the past. Toward this end we ensure that tentative transport personnel are unquestionably 'clear'. 'Clear' is our term for uncontaminated.
“Decontamination requires a quarantine period of sixty days…” Spencer paused, hearing Evan Tungstall's quick intake of breath. However, he cattleman did not interrupt.
“From the time you people enter the intermediate zone and then on to the final stage, quarantine will be a full two months. That is a long time to spend in a not-so-spacious living quarters with no access to the outdoors, no ordinary food and only distilled beverages. We have a two person medical team to monitor your metabolism and keep you healthy via remote. There is live communication but only with the project team. Your commitment must be unwavering. We want you to be unequivocally certain before we proceed.”
Spencer paused to take a sip from a mug of coffee, which had grown cold. O'Brien said, “That is not to say you must decide right now, not at this moment.”
“No, no,” the director agreed, “I mean after you've had some time…”
“I'd need a lot of time, especially time to prepare for our absence if we were to leave the ranch for two months,” Tungstall said. “And what are the risks? What are our odds of actually surviving this experiment?”
Spencer shifted in his chair, “There can be no absolute guarantees. There is a remote possibility the dimension shift could go wrong: One, two or all of the modules may malfunction during the cosmic energy agitation or dissolution; Doc's programming could be errant; you might miss your appointed energy collapse instant; there is always a possibility of something running amok, the 'unknown factor'. We have accomplished thirty-six attempts to date with no errors, glitches or even side effects. Still… it is a gamble.”
Tom O'Brien said, “Speaking of side effects, a fifteen year absence to an historic period of four decades previous will definitely have an emotional impact upon all of you.”
“Of course,” Spencer said, “your situation will have minimal return phase time effect; however, a decade and a half of what could be termed 'cosmic jet lag' may leave you in turmoil for some time.”
“Possibly we should arrange a real vacation to… say, the Caribbean for a few weeks upon your return. That may help mitigate the shock of an abrupt transition from one life of ranching in the late seventies to your present day operation.” said O'Brien.
Evan Tungstall said, “The idea has merit. During the last weeks at Stockton we could convince ourselves we are heading to the Bahamas, transport back into the present, take the trip, then try to slip back into ranching in 2005. However, it would mean even more time away from our current operation and I'm not certain any of us need that.”
“In any event,” Spencer said, “upon your return we shall require at least two more days of your time for medical examination and completion of a full report by Project Shiva staff. So, you may have to calculate, including quarantine, travel arrangements to and from your home, and the debriefing period, a minimum absence of sixty-five days.”
“Is that at all feasible?” O'Brien asked.
Evan Tungstall shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, of course it is feasible. However, at the moment our optimism is running on steroids. Tom, we all have reservations, but the trade-off is disparate. How can we rate a decade and a half of extra living, in the prime of our lives, against sixty or sixty-five days of limited freedom?”
Though Bill Spencer had offered to explain the theory behind time shift operation, it was Otto Kronburger who later delivered the 'lecture.' Tungstall likened Kronburger to a subject saturated chemistry professor he had known in his College of Agriculture days. No world existed for Kronburger beyond his capsule of expertise. His voice assumed a dull monotone and the theory went deeper than the Tungstalls' comprehension. Evan periodically tuned out then back in:
“…So, we literally turn the participant into contained energy which is coupled with a second simultaneous facet of our operation: the shift to the dimension plane and then 'ported' or 'gated', if you will ?we use the term ported? at a predetermined destination. Because energy prefers to be at its lowest state, the particle component is resumed and 'voilà!'” Kronburger smiled and spread his arms, “the subject reappears at his or her predetermined location.”
After a confused silence, Analyse said, “Through the looking glass?”
Otto Kronburger said, “The Dance of Shiva.”
Evan, feeling he should say something, asked, “Dimension plane? What is that?”
“The fourth dimension; a purely mathematical construct most individuals are unable to conceive because such a space/time concept is obfuscated by our three dimensional interpretation of reality. Allow me a quote from a great man whose intuition approximately one hundred and thirty years ago has been a major catalyst in propelling the campaign that has led us to this moment in Phase-time Dimension Shifting; Edward Carpenter wrote:
“Space itself, as we know it, may be practically annihilated in the consciousness of a larger space of which it is but the superficies; and a person living in London may not unlikely find that he has a back door opening quite simply and unceremoniously out in Bombay.”
Bill Spencer said, “Otto has a photographic memory; he doesn't forget many notes that pique his interest,”
Though he knew the answer, Tom O'Brien asked, “We have made no forays into the future as yet, have we, Bill? Otto?”
Kronburger took this question. “The future may hold problems the lab is not capable of dealing with. In the same way we are so cautious about a present day virus contaminating ancestors, we must be even more tactful in avoiding a possible 'plague', if you will, from tomorrow breaking out today. For that reason, we have not yet tested the opportunity for advancing into the future.”
Larry Doolittle came in from the control room as Bill Spencer resumed Kronburger's topic. The director said, “In the beginning, or at least at the commencement of C R Lab's testing, we initially experimented with fourth dimension travel in the present. Our first transfer occurred more or less by accident. Doc hadn't joined our group at that time; it was just Otto and I; Tom was off begging alms from his peers.”
“We were trying to open a passage in the fourth plane when suddenly Otto disappeared! He had stepped into the transport modules…”
“I do that occasionally,” Otto interrupted. “It gives me a bit of a… er, buzz, if you will.”
“When he didn't come back, I became frantic. Try explaining this to the authorities. Lucky for me, Otto doesn't have a wife! Turns out, after about half an hour of sheer terror, the telephone in the lab started ringing and, as only a few restricted numbers can contact this location, I knew it had to be either Tom's or Otto's cell phone incoming. I picked up the receiver and shouted 'Where the hell are you?' and Otto said as casually as if he were in the coffee shop down the street, 'I think it's Tokyo.'”
Spencer's audience laughed and Otto said, “I was! I was in Tokyo! No money, no credit cards, not even proper identification. I'd left everything in my sport jacket, here in the lab. And I didn't know how to shift back. Fortunately, my cell phone had been in my lab coat and survived the transfer with a battery that was fully charged. It took a lot of calls before Bill could arrange transport home.”
Spencer said, “Tom's ambassadorship came in handy on that occasion. He was able to contact the Canadian Embassy in Tokyo to have Otto picked up and sent home.”
“It wasn't easy, calling in that mark,” O'Brien said. “Especially because I couldn't offer an explanation as to why this 'mad scientist,' if you will, had suddenly appeared wearing a lab coat on a busy street in Japan's largest city.”
Spencer said, “It was a lucky break he reappeared somewhere with cell coverage.”
“Yeah, Otto, you could have been out in the Sahara Desert or maybe the South Pole,” said Doc, “in the 12th century.”
Tom said “I have participated in lateral same-time shifts, but Doc Doolittle, here, was the daring initiate to historical travel when his computer program first established co-ordinates for a shift.”
“How far back and where did you travel to, Mr. Doolittle,” Analyse asked.
Doc said, “I only went back a week in time and I reappeared right here in the lab. These three,” Larry nodded at his colleagues, “were watching from outside the Quarantine Room. It's still a bit hazy from my point of view. I went back in time and didn't know it. These guys were back in time and didn't know I had transferred back. I don't where the other me was at either end. Tom, you tell them what happened here.”
Tom laughed and said, “At that point the Quarantine Room had not been used, having only recently been constructed, but the single pod had been relocated there and Larry vanished in the same way as our lateral transfer subjects. While we were waiting for Doc to come back, he was telling us, at the same time to him, but a week previous to us, that the transfer had been a failure. What a confusion! Only when he became aware of the current date did he twig upon the fact that he was indeed back in history. Then, when he reappeared, we had a time convincing him that he had actually returned to the present.”
Tom O'Brien's government plated vehicle traversed the great distance from the Rocky Mountain foothills to the nation's capital at widely varying speeds according to the driver's fluctuating moods: sometimes the former ambassador motored along at normal posted limits, his thoughts clear and outlook bright; occasionally a passionate burst would have him racing madly down the pavement in a fury to reach his destination; once, O'Brien found himself parked at a roadside rest stop with no memory of having pulled over.
Tom O'Brien was more than distracted. In all his years of being a diplomat he had never faced a greater personal challenge. On their return flight from Ottawa he felt the Tungstalls were convinced; they were ready to make the journey back in time. Next morning, the day he left the ranch, O'Brien knew the family was having second thoughts about the Shiva project.
In his opinion they could not refuse.
But his opinion was not necessarily their opinion.
This turmoil, the root of O'Brien's suffering, had started about twenty-five months ago.
A newspaper, carelessly tossed on the desk of an associate, changed the course of Tom O'Brien's life. It caused him to retire from the ambassadorship, return to Canada and pursue, full time, a position as liaison for an obscure government branch quietly involved in an arcane scientific research project.
O'Brien had arrived that day at a colleague's office, having previously planned a luncheon and, while waiting for a telephone conversation to conclude, noticed a photograph on the half open page of the Herald. A clear black and white image of a western family receiving an agricultural award for 'outstanding achievement' in the industry left no doubt in the ambassador's mind as to who the people were, though the caption below the picture listed the three individuals with unfamiliar names: “Evan, Analyse, and daughter, Toni Tungstall.” Scarcely able to contain his excitement, O'Brien begged the paper from his mystified friend. “Help yourself, it's a week old rag from home: Calgary.”
Tom stopped at a pharmacy on his way back to his hotel room to purchase a magnifying glass. He feverishly studied the photo in minute detail. Additional information along with several more digital pictures appeared when the temporary sleuth searched the Internet with his laptop. The images here were far more convincing, though further conviction was not necessary. Tom found he could enlarge a few of the coloured shots so as to identify more personal characteristics of the individuals such as eye colour and freckles.
The people on the page were positively the same family O'Brien had met on a ranch in the Great Sandhills region of Western Canada.
In 1968.
When Tom was seventeen years old.
How could the Tungstall family so closely match the Miltos of so long ago? There could be no mistake, no possibility of a triple 'everybody has a double' scenario; or could there? O'Brien had to find out.
He hired a private detective to carry out quiet 'research' (Tom didn't like the term 'spy'). Entirely efficient, the detective supplied many more digital photographs, copies of credentials, video footage and even audio of the family in conversation. This sound tracking eliminated the last shadows of doubt. In Tom's mind the families were positively identical.
But… How?
The ambassador couldn't possibly confide in anyone, for the absurdity of the abstract notion, he felt, would place his sanity in question. And, in the days to come, when frustrated by still another trail to a dead end, he wondered about that himself.
A break finally appeared at a moment when O'Brien, nearing wits end, had almost given up. While riding an elevator in a Washington, D.C. high rise with a remarkably pretty lady, he stooped to pick up a brochure that had fallen from a loose bundle she carried. Upon returning the paper to the woman, she at first accepted it, then handed it back to him when the elevator stopped and Tom stepped out. With a friendly smile she said, “Read it over, perhaps you will find something of interest…”
The little brochure eventually led Tom a circuitous route through Berkeley, California that introduced him to Otto Kronburger and Bill Spencer and, ultimately, back to Ottawa, Kanata, and CR Labs.
A few weeks following the family's unexpected trip to Ottawa, the phone in the ranch house kitchen startled Evan Tungstall while he was preparing a pot of coffee to kick start the morning. He lifted the receiver on the first ring, hoping the disturbance hadn't awakened his wife and daughter.
“You're in the house this morning?” Tom O'Brien stated the question upon hearing the rancher's distant “Hello?”
“Well, it's 6:30 here,” Evan said.
“Oh, yes, there's a two hour time difference between us, isn't there?” O'Brien didn't mince words. “Our little cabal here at C R Labs thought we should check in on you folks. Have you come to any conclusions as to the holiday plan?”
“Well, Tom, we have given the decision our attention nearly exclusively since our return from Ottawa. Everything else has been on auto pilot and it appears unanimous; we accept your offer.”
Evan Tungstall's integrity had never been compromised and everyone who dealt with him in business or friendship accepted his word, often more so than a signature or a handshake from most others. Tom O'Brien knew this and exuded smug confidence when reporting to his colleagues that the Tungstall's dimension transfer ?which necessarily included advancement of Shiva's triple phase-shift experiment? was a sure thing.
The rancher, however, still held reservations.
As the fresh brew filled a large mug, Evan Tungstall's thoughts riveted on the subject dominating his world. The decision had been made and the family were eager to take part in Tom O'Brien's impossibly far fetched expedition, but the risks were enormous and the consequences of failure… Well, just what would happen in the event the project went awry?
Tungstall had not exaggerated when informing O'Brien that the ranch had operated on auto pilot the past fortnight. The whole family seemed to be functioning like preprogrammed robots while their every waking thought and even the dreams and nightmares which filled their heads while sleeping, centred around the time experiment. Over and over again in his mind's eye, Evan reviewed the developments following the former ambassador's appearance at the ranch: the unfathomable proposal, the extravagant trip to Ottawa in the luxurious government aircraft and the clandestine visit to the restricted C R Laboratories.
The untouched coffee grew cold in its cup as the rancher pondered. What about that one way plate glass? Why was it necessary to have the participants' view screened while they themselves were on open display under the glare of the laboratory's brilliant lighting? He imagined a feeling of the 'bug in a jar' when the time came that the family would actually live on the opposite side, like lab mice.
Tungstall was jolted from his reverie by the warm touch of his wife's hand on his shoulder. “Your coffee is cold, sweetheart,” Analyse said.
Evan looked up into the loving eyes of his beautiful bride. She too showed the haggard signs of too little sleep. The rancher rose from his chair, took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. In a voice husky with emotion, he said, “O'Brien called this morning… I told him we would accept the offer.”
“I'm glad,” Analyse sighed. “Worried, but glad. At least now we have made our decision.”
“Let's hope it's the right one. I've got a month of haying in front of me so I'll just have to sideline this excursion and concentrate on the work at hand. Our cows will want to eat next winter and I hope I'm the one feeding them.”
And though the experiment, excursion, or adventure, depending from who's point of view one chose to observe, remained foremost in the Tungstall family's conscience, they gradually progressed from a state of reserved apprehension to keen enthusiasm. What an enviable opportunity! A paid fifteen year holiday without taxing one's longevity.
Toward the end of a near perfect haying season, in which the weather had co-operated exceptionally, Tom O'Brien returned to the Tungstall ranch for a visit and stayed with the family for a week. He pitched in with the task of bale hauling and stacking. There were a few hundred square bales destined for the loft of the hip roof barn and the easterner considered it his good fortune to suffer the stiff and sore muscles of manual labour. The unpaid citified hired hand adapted to the ranch work with a whole hearted enthusiasm that caused Evan Tungstall to shake his head in disbelief. He said to his wife, “You'd swear the man was in his second childhood. If he wants to help put up hay for no wages, he'll be welcome around here every summer.”
The short evenings between a late supper and early bedtime were passed in conversation predominantly geared toward the time phase experiment.
“What if we fail to meet the deadline?” Evan Tungstall asked.
“Don't let that happen,” O'Brien said, “and do not send someone in your place!
“Incidentally, Bill Spencer is in quarantine at this very moment. Doc's programming wizardry unearthed the perfect thirty day time slot for our project director to shift back to the year 1962. Bill has a relative back then whom we believe will help coordinate the Tungstall/Milto time shift. No doubt there will be an enormous amount of collaboration required. We must ensure a seamless transition for you people to move to the ranch at Stockton after the first half of the dimension shift has transpired.”
The Tungstall's grew quite fond of O'Brien. His tales of world travel, a welcome diversion from the consuming time program topic, enthralled the western family. It seemed Tom had been everywhere and he had contributed much to his country as a negotiator, liaison, member of the United Nations Council and, of course, Ambassador to the United States.
The witty, charismatic diplomat had lived a bachelor's life and Analyse Tungstall thought this very peculiar. At the risk of being intrusive she asked, “You've never had a wife?”
Tom said, “Well, I never married, that is true… I was very much in love once… back in my younger days.”
He offered no further explanation.
Evan Tungstall wondered, but did not ask, how the man came to be involved in the Shiva project, for the illustrious career of Tom O'Brien shared little in common with the confined laboratory existence of his white-coated colleagues.
One evening during his visit Tom had gone for a stroll and returned to the ranch house, his face beaming with excitement. “I've found the perfect location for my retirement home!” He went on to describe the spot chosen, quite unmindful of the fact the 'perfect location' was on land belonging to his hosts.
When Tom took his leave, the Tungstalls gathered in the driveway very close to the spot where, just a few weeks earlier, the rancher was first introduced to the federal man. It was a sad parting and the family remained in place as Tom's rented car disappeared down the lane and the sound of tires on gravel diminished to be replaced by the more distant smooth acceleration of the vehicle on the main road.
“What a remarkable individual he is,” Analyse said.
“Sometimes he seems… so lonely,” Toni said, “I mean, he never had a wife or kids of his own. He has millions of friends but no family. What does he do for Christmas?”
Evan said, “There is something more to Tom O'Brien than meets the eye.
“I have to check on the silos and park haying equipment in the shed. After that, what say we all go for a ride?”
“Oh, yes!” Toni cried, “I'll go catch Clover and bring in your horses right now.” She dashed off toward the corrals.
Analyse laughed, watching her retreating daughter, auburn hair streaming behind her. “It appears I am volunteered too.”
Summer flew by at the Tungstall ranch where cattle and horses thrived on the lush grass, growing all the more green for the frequent rain showers which seemed to call by night and vanish by morning; their nocturnal visitations permitted the brilliant sunshine of each new day an unobstructed view of dew drenched foothills.
In a similar fashion, excitement allayed angst among the Tungstalls as the clouds of apprehension and fear that gathered in darkness were driven to light's most remote recesses when dawn's first rays ushered in tomorrow. Father, mother and daughter frequently discussed the opportunity in private, being careful to avoid the topic if a neighbour or other company should visit the ranch. The trio had reviewed the data left with them by Tom O'Brien on his first visit. However, that documentation, so vague and purposely misleading to distract an unauthorized observer, failed to provide sufficient usable information for the family.
The history book he had also left behind encouraged Toni's growing enthusiasm. The teenager enjoyed poring over the information, particularly that era between 1960 and 1980, in an effort to glean some understanding of the population she would soon be living among. Curiously, she had not found any mention of a Milto family, but the volume was huge, iterating the life and times of hundreds of prairie folk.
One evening while Evan was relaxing in his chair, flipping through the pages of a car magazine, he paused a moment, flipped back a page, and turned to his wife. His eyes sparkled like a kid under a Christmas tree.
“In mid 1968, Ford introduced the GT500KR Shelby Mustang; the famous 68 ½ Shelby with a 428 cobra-jet engine; the hottest machine of the decade.”
Analyse smiled, “That's rather old news, Evan.”
“I know Dear, but… when we go back in history, we can buy a brand new, out-of-the-factory Shelby, and they only cost four thousand dollars!”
A few days after the Labour Day weekend, when Toni returned to the tedium of school and the daily monotony of the bus ride, Tom O'Brien called from Ottawa to request another visit to the ranch. He hoped that Bill Spencer might be permitted to share in the Tungstall's western hospitality. Analyse, who had answered the ring, assured the former ambassador both he and his associate would be welcome. Upon hearing Tom's calculated time of arrival, Mrs. Tungstall said, “I'll have a late supper set for you tomorrow evening and we'll have 'your' room and one for Bill ready.” Though Tom O'Brien had planned to stay in a motel and travel to the ranch by rental car the morning after arriving out west, he knew better than to refuse the invitation.
All three Tungstalls were there to greet the easterners when they arrived. Immediately, Bill Spencer was inundated with a salvo of questions regarding his 'recent' trip to Stockton, 1962. Analyse called a halt to the inquisition insisting that the guests be 'fed, watered and given a chance to wind down' after their long journey.
After supper the group moved outdoors and took up seats on the raised, split-log veranda that ran the length of the ranch house. The easterners were speechless as they watched the last rays of sun vanish in the inevitably darkening shades of colour above the distant peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Darkness rolled down the eastern slopes, paused briefly in the foothills, then swept away across the plains. Evan Tungstall switched on several lights embedded in the floor of the deck and turned thoughtfully to Spencer who was lighting a rather large Cuban cigar.
“Bill, this ranch at Stockton….does it have electricity?”
The project director blew out a blue cloud of smoke and sighed contentedly as he placed the dead match in an ashtray Toni had given him. “I don't smoke often,” he said, “in fact the cigar ritual is something I resumed only recently… in 1962, and after a fine meal like that, Mrs. Tungstall, I would be remiss to let the opportunity pass.
“Yes, Evan, the ranch house is quite modern, given the era: Running hot and cold water, electricity, central heat from a stove oil furnace. It could use a paint job on the exterior as could all the outbuildings and, no doubt, you'll will want to redecorate inside. Of course, there isn't a microwave oven in the kitchen. There is a bunkhouse complete with a Norwegian chap who apparently goes with the ranch. He has been a hired hand there for ages.”
He studied the red glow of the Cuban, savouring the cigar and the expectant faces of his companions.
Tom O'Brien urged, “Well, come on, let's have the story.”
Spencer took another long draught, exhaled and said, “Okay, I'll start at the beginning…”
Turns out, the sixty day quarantine didn't seem that long for me as I had communication with Doc and Otto and my work continued from inside the lab, much the same as though I were on the other side of the plate glass. The departure date arrived and at the appointed time I locked myself in a shift module. After several anxious moments I felt an energy buzz… Next instant I found myself in a musty, dingy little garage. By the light in the window, I guessed the time to be late evening or early morning; Doc neglected to mention that when he told me my time and co-ordinates for departure so I only knew it to be the first of April, 1962: April Fool's Day.
Great Uncle Charles must have been alerted by the commotion when I lost my balance and knocked over a wheel barrow loaded with garden tools on my reappearing (equilibrium suffers a momentary lapse during the shift). He stormed into the shed cussing a streak directed at the neighbour and his cat. He wore a two-piece suit that looked new, but it was either just coming into style or was decades out. When I saw his striped tie with a shiny jewelled clip holding it in place, I knew that I had landed back in time somewhere. He appeared a healthy fortyish, though I knew him to be into his fifties. Well, I hadn't rehearsed for this meeting. I just blurted, “Hello, Great Uncle Charles!”
I thought his eyes would pop completely out of their sockets, but he's a politician, so he couldn't be stuck for words very long.
“'Great Uncle Charles? Try my Aunt Fanny! Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my shop wearing those… those tights?” he sputtered.
Well, it turned out the time of day was 7 AM and Uncle Charles had been about to leave for his office though it was a Sunday (he's an MP; he even had a portfolio, Minister of Transport). I convinced him that I wasn't a cat burglar with a penchant for garden tools and he allowed me into his home where he led a bachelor's life. Eventually, I managed to beg an out of date shirt, jacket and dress pants from Uncle Charles. I couldn't really complain, as all his apparel was nearing fifty years behind times anyway. The suit fit me rather well.
I heard my uncle telephoning someone from a den off the living room to cancel an appointment. When he came back into the room where I was admiring myself in the new clothes, he still appeared sceptical, but his eyes held a glint of amusement, maybe curiosity. Either way, I felt that he wouldn't bring down the police department for the time being.
He sized me up and said something about the clothes being a good fit. Then we had a little chat that went something like this: He said, “Correct me if I am wrong: Though you appear ten years my senior you are my great nephew, the ?what is he, twelve?? twelve year old son of my nephew, Dave Spencer and his wife, Brenda? And you have come here to my work shop in Ottawa, today, April 1, 1962, from Ottawa, in the year 2005?'
“Sorry for looking ten years older than you. We are about the same age at the moment; must be a trait on my mother's side of the family.”
Then I went on to tell him that I actually came from Kanata, which, in 2005, has become a part of Ottawa. As an incidental I said that metropolitan Toronto now, or perhaps then, depending on how you look at it, has a population of nearly six million and Canada has more than 33 million citizens within her borders.
But Uncle Charles wasn't buying that malarkey. He grunted and said, “Those figures could have come out of a hat and you know it. Tell me something imminent so I don't have to wait forty years for proof.”
I think Uncle Charles wanted to believe me but he needed more convincing; a lot more convincing.
So I said, “In three weeks time, April 22 to be exact, Dick Duff will score the game and Stanley Cup winning goal for Toronto over Chicago, game six. You can bet on it.” As expected, the word bet grabbed his attention. “This afternoon at the Atlantic Rural Fairground, Richmond, Virginia, the tenth race of the Grand National is being run. Rex White will win, driving his '61 Chevrolet. The race, intended to be 250 laps will be cut to 180, due to darkness. You can check that out on the late news this evening. And, I have brought with me a few results for Woodbine this afternoon…”
It was paramount that I shouldn't relate any specific news items, other than the sports scores, that might allow my uncle to alter history, however unintentionally; for example, the overdose of Marilyn Monroe, in August of that year, Diefenbaker's impending election defeat, Kennedy assassinations and so on up to the present. Human nature is difficult to restrain, regardless of will power.
My stomach started to growl, so I cajoled my uncle into feeding me something solid to eat. I had just spent sixty days living on a squeeze-from-a-tube menu so you can imagine my overpowering desire for real food.
The indelible ink scribblings on the inside of my synthetic suit were still reasonably legible. We copied them onto small pieces of note paper and drove Great Uncle Charlie's ?he told me to call him Charlie, for now we were becoming close pals, especially with him anticipating the betting action? so we drove Great Uncle Charlie's three year old Thunderbird down to Toronto for the day. The drive in that T-bird was a real treat for me; I bought it from Uncle Charles when I first passed my driver's test and I still have the car today.
Turns out, my horse race information proved to be accurate, though we started tentatively (especially me; I had no money at all). Soon, Charlie warmed up to the betting and he aced a win, place and show combination. He was as excited as a school kid at the fair and insisted on buying us some cigars, They were good ones and the habit still has me hooked forty-three years (or two weeks) later. We were careful to avoid attracting undue attention and didn't break the house, but we walked away with a lot of cash and my Great Uncle was completely and totally convinced of my authenticity. Not far into the winning streak he found a public phone and called a 'friend' in Las Vegas who placed some coin on the Grand National race I had mentioned; turns out, he pocketed some really big dollars, by 1962 standards, from that action.
Well, we had a night on the town and stayed in Toronto celebrating our 'day at the races'. Uncle Charlie called his office next morning to cancel his schedule for that day too and we eventually arrived back at his place late in the evening. I took time to buy clothes and personal effects with my winnings, after reimbursing my benefactor for the initial loan. I certainly was pleasantly surprised by the prices in those times!
I'll never forget that first morning waking up in the hotel room in Toronto. I looked over at Great Uncle Charlie sitting bolt upright in his bed. He was rubbing his eyes with both fists, periodically stopping to stare at me with the oddest mask of disbelief I have ever seen. Finally he blurted, “So it must be true, because you're still here!”
During breakfast at the hotel I proceeded to tell him the reason for my visit. It seemed a tall order from my perspective, but he didn't appear to think so. He offered to pull a few strings and call in several marks to promote the sale of Stockton ranch, delaying the Federal Government take over for fifteen years. He assured me it would take some time but felt comfortable that it could be done.
By the end of my third week, everything was ready; I acted as Robert Milto's lawyer and the deeds are in Great Uncle Charlie's safe, at his home in Ottawa in 1962. Possession date is December 15 of that year.
It seems there were government loans available for certain, special projects and that included the purchase of the Stockton Ranch and a healthy sum for operating capital as well. Though Canada was in a trough, economically, in 1962, we really weren't talking about a significant impact on the national debt. Land and cattle were very cheap in those days.
So we bought the place, lock, stock and barrel. I mean stock too, for the cattle, about 300 head, came with it. The place will handle triple that number but Robert Milto is required to start up a purebred operation with an extensive artificial insemination program in conjunction with the University of Guelph and the Federal Government. That is the angle my Great Uncle used to make it happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself though. The third day, Uncle Charlie took me to the Parliament Buildings, which really weren't a great deal different from today, but I saw Prime Minister Diefenbaker! That was eerie, watching someone who you know to have been dead for twenty five years. But after the initial shock, I got over it and quite enjoyed the day. Then my uncle arranged a venture west for him and me plus two other gentlemen: one from the Federal Department of Agriculture and the other from the Veterinary Medicine college at Guelph University. We had a wonderful trip; of course Uncle Charlie and I kept quiet about my being a time transplant. He, that is, Uncle Charlie, won a few dollars from the Doctor of Veterinary Medicine by betting on the Phillies the day of the season opener. Frankly, I think he also called Las Vegas to place bets on the outcome of those games too.
But you know, he never asked me any questions other than the sports information. I had explained the danger of knowing too much about the future, and he let it go at that. One evening I did tell him we had met at my mother's place, she is his niece, for Christmas dinner 2004, and he was delighted to have that tidbit. I told him he looked remarkably well for a ninety year old.
And, we visited the Stockton Ranch. The owner took us on an interesting tour. It is wonderful country, not as much greenery, especially in April, and perhaps not as scenic as the foothills, but it will grow on a person. The Miltos will enjoy living there, I am certain.
The actual purchase of the ranch from the retiring couple took several days of negotiating. In the meantime, we easterners bunked in at the sixty year old Stockton Hotel. There were plenty of cowboys in that era and area; my room was situated right over the bar and two out of the three nights a fist fight broke out below me.
Too soon our entourage returned to the Capital and my companions turned to their respective duties. Great Uncle Charlie had pressing matters to attend to as he had taxed his staff quite heavily by taking the impromptu trip west. So, while he spent the next few days in Parliament, I wandered about the city. Ottawa was much smaller and less hurried than today and I strolled the quiet streets and avenues with renewed interest. One thing that really made me stop and stare was the fantastic display of 'new' old cars. People must have thought me an auto thief or similar, for I often caught myself gazing in total amazement at a show-room pristine vintage vehicle. One evening I told Uncle Charlie; he always met up with me somewhere after his workday. I said to him, “Ford is designing a car called the Mustang to be released in April 1964. I strongly advise you to buy one, clean out the garden shed and park the car in there for thirty years!”
Well, it turns out, the day we locked the deeds away in Great Uncle Charlie's safe was also game six of the Stanley Cup playoffs; you may have deduced that my uncle was, ?in fact, still is? an avid sports fan so the NHL finals were a priority for him. He chided me for not remembering more statistics in the series but he made bets with everyone who would oblige him on the outcome of that game, including the chap down in Las Vegas, who must have been growing suspicious of Charlie's luck. He cleaned up; I don't know what odds he had in Vegas but I'm sure he made his retirement money right then. So, we celebrated… again.
There were plenty of loose ends left to bring together and we worked on those when Great Uncle Charlie could pry himself away from the office and parliament. It was necessary to procure proper identification for the Milto family and make arrangements for my uncle to receive the next time travellers. We even bought clothes; turns out, Uncle Charles has a lady friend who did the shopping for the ladies. There is ample cash deposited in Robert Milto's bank account in Ottawa, and it is transferable to the bank in Stockton. I think the transition will go off without a glitch.
When the time came to enter into the collapsing energy field, Great Uncle Charles followed me to his garden shed to witness my disappearing act. We had a few minutes to say our farewells and then I positioned myself in the exact spot of my materialization thirty days previous; we had moved the wheel barrow. He stood back a safe distance near the doorway. “I'll see you at Mother's for Christmas dinner, 2005, Charlie.” Then, just as I felt the first faint tingles of Cosmic energy, I said, “Next Saturday; the Kentucky Derby; Bill Hartack will ride a horse named Decidedly; bet on him to win!”
“Great Uncle Charles has the exact timing and co-ordinates of your arrival and will be on hand to greet you and supply the materials I've mentioned.
Analyse asked, “Where do we appear? In the garden shed?”
“No,” Spencer laughed, “Doc found a more suitable location for your arrival; a nice hotel room in downtown Montreal.”
“For the triple phase procedure there can be absolutely no extra baggage so-to-speak. As a precautionary measure we have designed the synthetic transport suits, or leotards as Uncle Charles called them, to isolate, or more accurately, contain the prospective transport individual's sub-atomic make-up.
“Evan, we want you to participate in another experiment while you are at Stockton ranch.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“We want to experiment with a data transfer across the dimension. While I was at Uncle Charles's place, Doc was able to send a bare-bones, no metal, laptop computer through one of the TDSM's. You can imagine it caused quite a stir when Charlie found it in his basement. I tried it out and the thing actually worked; it even had an instant message. So now we would like to send another laptop to the ranch and have you establish a telephone link from Stockton to Ottawa. Turns out, Larry thinks he can loop from Kanata 2005 to Ottawa 1960's with a wireless connection. Of course that won't work to Stockton and that is why we need the telephone link.
Tom said, “Larry told me he would fill you in during your quarantine, Evan.”
A stifled yawn from Spencer prompted Analyse's suggestion that the guests might be ready to turn in for the night as the long day of travel plus the western time difference would have the gentlemen missing their regular bed time. The discussion adjourned until the following evening, when Bill Spencer again resumed his narrative. The scientist recited more anecdotes from his 'historic' journey and held his audience's rapt attention while enjoying another large Cuban cigar.
At the rancher's request, Tom O'Brien arranged for a competent federal pasture grazing manager and his wife to handle the Tungstall's cattle operations during the family's sixty day absence for quarantine. The congenial couple were past middle age, their children grown and moved away from home. Evan Tungstall took an instant liking to the weather-worn cowman who soon demonstrated proprietary proficiency about the ranch. He assured Tungstall in a voice raspy from years of roll-your-owns, “I'll bring in an extra hand once in awhile if I need one. Don't you worry at all, Mr. Tungstall, Emily and I will keep your home and livestock in top shape.”
Later, Tungstall felt even more grateful for that assurance as the days dragged by in the confinement of the quarantine quarters. Initially, living space appeared quite adequate as more than half of the C R Labs building had been dedicated to time transfer tenants' ease, comfort and entertainment. However, for people as accustomed to the outdoors as the Tungstalls, no enclosure could satisfactorily suffice for a solid two months. The structure housed a living area complete with kitchenette, entertainment centre, two bedrooms, a bathroom and a capacious gymnasium/recreation area combined. All the rooms, every piece in each room and every component of every item down to the basic molecular structure were as ultra sterile as scalded stainless steel. The only outside item the family had been allowed to retain upon entering the chamber had been the Stockton history book which Toni Tungstall begged to have with her. Otto Kronburger had purified the volume during the two tedious days the Tungstall family had existed in the decontamination zone. The forty eight hour marathon became an exercise in humiliation for the trio; when they emerged into their new temporary home, a refreshing wave of relief engulfed them. Analyse proved the most capable of maintaining her composure throughout the ignominious ordeal, feeling that it was her duty to hold the family together while her husband's patience suffered inexorably and Toni alternated between weariness, boredom and homesickness.
So transpired the first forty-eight hours.
Though the synthetic garments issued for quarantine life were as luxurious as the finest silk, the rancher longed for blue jeans, a regular shirt you could snap button and roll up the sleeves on, and a comfortable pair of shit-kickers on his feet. He felt both naked and embarrassed with the 'get up' from the lab and the little sock-like slippers were a bane to all; soon the family simply went barefoot in their immaculate environment.
“Purified air, purified, distilled water, purified food from tubes ?astronaut fare? everything so pure it would make a fellow sick,” Tungstall said.
That was near the end of the second week.
“The toilet tried to bite me,” Toni complained to her mother one morning.
Evan, failing to enjoy a mug of 'purified' coffee, said, “Yeah, tell me about it! That toilet uses a small amount of liquid per flush to conserve the purified water. I don't know why, but the flushing unit seems to carry a grudge.”
Analyse started to laugh and soon both females had the giggles. Tungstall's humour improved, too.
After that, the family seemed resigned to their fate and began to accept the restricted space. Like an extended stay in the hospital, at some point it starts to feel like a second home in spite of limitations.
Access to unlimited audio and video entertainment had been provided, with hundreds of satellite television channels, AM and FM radio stations, virtual books and finger tip selection of most movies ever recorded. Internet access and email supplied Toni with a medium to remain in contact with her friends and school work, though outgoing mail had to be double scanned for possible unintentional information leaks before it could be sent. A private tutor, on-line, coordinated Toni's education with the secondary school facility back home. Each member of the family had their own computer position and long hours passed in front of those screens. Evan followed the commodity markets and world news while his thoughts were in the pastures fixing fence or working with the horses and cattle. He also took the opportunity to cram his brain full of statistics and history of the era and area to which the family were voyaging. Using Spencer's technique, Evan etched notes into the fabric of the transport suit he would wear at the the time of the dimension shift.
Analyse missed her garden, though the growing season had passed. The quarantine quarters required no housework; no dish washing, laundry, vacuuming or cooking. “A fellow can't even take the garbage out!” Evan lamented; all the 'purified' food containers were placed in airtight dispensers for disposal at the conclusion of the confinement.
Often, one or more of Tom O'Brien, Doc Doolittle, Bill Spencer or Otto Kronburger would come to the “visiting room of the condemned”. The full length two way plate glass windows and intercom system were adequate to exchange pleasantries and information with the family. The former ambassador, especially, dedicated his time to maintaining the spirits of the captured and they never tired of his tales of world travel.
The gymnasium provided hours of activity and vigorous exercise to keep the trio physically fit and healthy.
Day sixty arrived.
On the morning of the long awaited event, all four of the time shift crew came to wish their friends a happy and successful adventure. Bill Spencer went over the procedure, it seemed to Toni, for the hundredth time.
“…The door to the laboratory will open in,” he checked his watch, “37 minutes. You will see the orange opal illuminate one minute before the panel automatically slides open. You must be wearing your individual synthetic form fitting suits… including the socks. Then, enter the lab in single file and do so quickly but safely as the opening seals itself in ten seconds. That's plenty of time, but you cannot hesitate either and you will be unable to return to quarantine quarters. Now, the next step is quite tedious as you must be scanned for possible impurities, excuse me for saying that, and treated with a fine mist, sort of like hair spray. It creates a protective capsule to contain your 'personal' energy fields. You will be in the laboratory almost two hours, a hundred and eighteen minutes to be exact.”
Otto Kronburger leaned over and spoke to Spencer, “Oh yes, good point, Otto; as you will be in the lab two hours and there are no facilities available, be sure to visit the washroom before leaving quarantine, definitely before the orange LED flashes on.”
“So… one hour and eighteen minutes from the time you enter the lab, a green opal will illuminate beside the digital counter situated above the one way glass wall. When that green opal comes on, go to your respective telephase dimension shift modules as we demonstrated on the TDSM prototype in our office and position yourselves. Do not enter that area before the green opal is lit. You have four minutes to mentally prepare for your journey. First thing you will feel is the Cosmic energy flow and then you will reappear in Montreal, December 15, 1962.”
Spencer took a moment to review his checklist, then he said, “If there are complications, a red alarm light will show and the quarantine quarters will be opened. We have a communication link to the lab to keep you updated. However, in the unlikely event of a communications failure, you are now prepared.”
The tension building up to the departure had been gradually increasing but grew exponentially upon hearing Spencer's final instructions. Adieus were exchanged and the scientific members returned to their stations while Tom O'Brien stayed to spend a few more precious moments with the Tungstalls. Again he said, “How I would love to be going with you.”
Analyse smiled through her anxiety. “We'll send you a postcard.”
Toni said, “And bring back the tee shirt.”
Evan Tungstall simply waved a solemn salute.
In a husky tone, Tom O'Brien spoke through the microphone, “Happy Trails.”
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