A fine brisk morning greeted the denizens of High Columbia. But then again, it was nigh always a fine brisk morning, a fine auburn afternoon, and pleasantly cool night. Not that Rosalind Lutece ever happened to enjoy such weather. The city of the sky basked in the light of the finest rays. The wonderful flora and exquisite cafes were always lovely and lively. Not that Rosalind Lutece ever saw, smelled, or partaken in. Indeed, not that Rosalind Lutece ever did anything, it was in fact, she did do nothing that the Columbian denizens ever considered as normal. She preferred not the natural sun but the artificial fluorescent lights that illuminated her laboratory. She preferred the sterile environment of steel machinery and the cleanliness of finely tailored notes. Most ladies would love to be taken out abound to a suave theatre or a tantalizing course at a local restaurant.
These ladies would not enjoy the maths, or the work, or the lack of gossip. To which, she must do at some point remind her neighbor, Miss Starling, that she as a respected member of the scientific community does not gossip. Not that it would have mattered. The female Starling had quite the irritating ability to not hear and to her, a woman was a woman and all women were just like her. It was during one of these awkward moments of female fellowship that Rosalind realized she was alone. No amount of force friendliness or scientific dissertation would change that. She talked only to the particles and theories of her mind.
So one day, the universe saw her plight, though she would have never openly admitted it, and replied back.
The morning was swamped entirely by the furnishing of her new laboratory and home at last granted to her by Zachary Comstock. After a year in the city, Rosalind Lutece was finally satisfied with a proper laboratory. Indeed, now real progress could be made free from distractions and infuriating inquiries. She stood by the door frame as the doors themselves had yet to be mounted, watching the workmen install the equipment, scrutinizing how they were handled. The whole concept of a Laboratory Lutece brought up the deal she made so long ago. It was a natural decision, she was promised funding for her theories and inventions as long as she aided sometimes the rise of his city. It had been simple enough to manufacture the floating cities on earth to heave to the heavens Comstock's Columbia and now, neither politics or lack the funds would ever bother her.
Eventually she felt decently confident with them and attended to one machine installed in the middle of the room. This piece was the very first item installed in the building, she made sure of that. The machine housed her particle of intent, Particle 47. It would be here where she would continue to figure out the final enigmas of her Lutece Field. Rosalind could not help to wonder what was in store for her.
Now, these changes to her laboratory would have been relatively easy if Rosalind Lutece had not stayed in the same room, in the middle, in the way, working on her particle. The workers did not consider her incredibly obtrusive but still an obstruction nonetheless.
The stairwell was absolutely cluttered with various buildings materials and other mechanical implements ready to be moved in. Earlier it took Rosalind over a full hour to get to her laboratory from the above floor. Now, she was finally settled in her work. Searching her aluminum desk for a pen, she found some underneath some tattered envelopes but before she could apprehend one, a nearly worker dropped his toolbox, the tools sliding across the linoleum, and vibrated the table, rolling the pens off the side.
"Ah," she frowned. She walked around to the side where her pen now lie and bent over to pick them up, only to be shoved by another worker. "Oh, you oaf!"
The worker murmured slight apologies before moving on. Rosalind's frown deepened, but decided not to pursue him. She sat back down at her desk for the second time today, and hopefully, the only time. The few hours passed quite genially for both Rosalind and the workers until one of them dared to intrude upon her work.
"Ma'am, Madam Lutece, can you-" a worker spluttered, burdened by a load of steel and sprockets. The sweat pouring down his face came in rivulets. "Can you just move? A little?"
Not willing to tear herself away from her work to even look at the worker replied nonchalantly. "I can move, yes." Yet Rosalind made no motion to get up.
The worker groaned and strained to speak out again. "Um…ma'am, will you?"
"I will not," another terse reply. Rosalind toyed with the flickering of the particle while taking the occasional note. The worker clumsily adjusted his grip on the materials. The can of sprockets balanced precariously on the steel bars shook violently. He took a deep breath and tried to assert some command.
"It's a bit tight squeeze, ma'am." Rosalind dropped her notes and presented him with her annoyance.
"Then you should have considered your load more carefully." The worker groaned once more and turned around, back to the stairwell to drop off some of the steel. The worker was willing to turn around. The can of sprockets was not and fell with a thundering clattering on the desk in front of her. Rosalind was startled for half a second just dropping her pen with slight plink before composing herself. The worker however was nowhere near as reserved.
"I'm sorry miss!" He decried only to trip upon himself and release his load. The metal beams followed suit of the sprockets and laid themselves all over the floor not caring for the mortality of the tiles. "Uh, uh," the worker stammered. "We can replace them." Rosalind rolled her eyes and sighed before returning to her work.
"Why Fink ever recommended this renovation team I will never understand." The worker scratched behind his neck, waiting for the reprimand. Rosalind left him standing there for quite a time before the monumental tension finally caused her to order the worker back to his duties. She took a swift glance around her laboratory. Progress was slow but it was being made at the very least. Hopefully no more intrusions she thought.
"Lady Lutece!" It was her butler, Gerald, calling from the living room. "Miss Starling is here."
Rosalind shuddered as she heard Miss Starling's voice emanating through the walls. A theory, never hope for a better day, seldom does it not cause more trouble. She capped her pen and attended to the trespasser in her home. Yet Miss Starling was not to be easily rebuffed.
"Some tea, Miss Starling?" Gerald offered, pouring the hot liquid into a small china cup. Rosalind came into the living room quietly exasperated and looking none worse for wear. Miss Starling as Rosalind observed was as finely dressed as ever or at least she assumed so. Miss Starling picked up immediately upon seeing Rosalind and strode over, ignoring Gerald's offering in midair. The elder gentleman made no outcry and replaced the tea cup back onto the platter.
"Oh, Rosalind, why didn't you tell me where you were moving too?"
"It must have slipped my mind," Rosalind responded and added as an afterthought, "I don't suppose you will be leaving anytime soon?" Miss Starling mirthfully laughed and ended with an incredulous smile.
"As opposed to what Rosalind? Your particle? I can't honestly imagine you," Miss Starling paused. "Well, I can actually. That is a problem." She shook her finger. Rosalind crossed her arms.
"If undertaking what one loves is considered a social problem, then I cannot imagine that better candidate for example than you," the Lutece retorted. Miss Starling raised an eyebrow.
"There is a difference, Miss Lutece, there is a difference between enjoying life and having a healthy one," Miss Starling intoned. "Now do not take that the wrong way. I do not decry your choice of work, but I do against the time you put into it compared to everything else." Rosalind scoffed at the Starling's words. Starling only sighed and walked over to the nearby coffee table which had on top of it a basket of groceries next to a jar of peaches. "Do come visit the market with me some time, please."
"Everything I have is here and that is all I need," asserted Rosalind whereas Starling seemed as if she did not hear. Starling lifted the basket and gave small bow to both the butler and the aggravated Lutece.
"If you do not mind, Mr. Gerald, please remind later that Miss Lutece now has to care for a jar of peaches." The butler nodded. "I do believe they can be quite challenging at times."
"Of course, Lady Starling." The Starling gave a fleeting glance to Rosalind before being escorted out by Gerald.
"Rosalind," she started standing at the door, "Do try not to lie to yourself too often. " This statement provoked an instant frown. The nerve of that woman, she thought.
And so the day finished and the auburn waned and the workers cleared away, coming back tomorrow to continue the endeavor. Rosalind was left alone holding a yellow sheet entitling her to a replacement of the laboratory floor. Do they really expect me to pay for this, she thought as she eyed the fee. A theory, Fink is not to be trusted for anything involving money. The sheet was casted aside on her desk and the day's notes were collected into her arms. Carefully, she sidestepped the abandoned steel and wires to a much worn wooden desk. She brushed the loose papers aside and revealed a red leather folder. There her notes were kept safe and sound or even safer if the clasp actually closed she mused. She went by her generator and proceeded to shut it down or tried to.
"Gerald," she called. "Gerald!" Some moments later, the elderly gentleman sharply dressed in suit attire knocked on the open laboratory door. He bowed.
"Madame Lutece. What are your requests?" Rosalind pulled uselessly on the lever that connected to the Shock Jockey prototype Fink had asked her to test in her new lab. She huffed and swore under her breath. Gerald watched his mistress kick the generator in anger before attending to him. She brushed back a lock of fiery hair that had undergone disarray.
"Gerald, take the yellow slip on that desk and tell Fink that I will not pay for such incompetence." She started. Immediately after her request, the generator crackled and finally shut down. Rosalind crossed her arms and glared at the prototype. "And that his generator has more fits than Miss Starling."
"At this hour? It's the middle of the night!" The butler stated, reviewing the bill. "My, my, that is quite a sum."
"Yes, Gerald! Do it and then he will a taste of the frustration I felt this morning," she huffed, "and I want my old generator back." Gerald nodded while pocketing the bill. He bid his mistress good night and left, taking along a dark coat and hat.
Rosalind relaxed as she heard the door shut behind him. She took another seething look at the generator before preparing to finally get some sleep. She made it only as far as the machine that housed her particle.
It was glowing. Particle 47 was glowing. Rosalind stared at the machine then at the generator and then back. She scowled and tramped to the generator and gave it another sound kick. The steel shell resounded emptily and the particle was still shining. She was puzzled. Obviously, the generator was for all intents and purposes dead. So why is particle glowing if it is not me that is stimulating it, she questioned.
She ran back to the machine and watched the particle glow then flicker. Once. Twice, then constant. Her confusion only heightened. The particle was following a pattern that Rosalind could not follow. "What in the world," she whispered. It was too constant to be simply entropy.
"How is this possible?" Grabbing from a nearby stack of fresh paper, she jotted down the new behavior. She counted the flashes then made lines for the slightly longer flashes of the particle. The pattern repeats she observed after the particle made a decent pause. She scanned over her jottings. Her brow furled in thought. It is almost akin to, she paused in disbelief, Morse code.
"Inconceivable," she whispered again and glanced at her particle, flickering this impossible message. Could it even be a message? She let out a small laugh in astonishment. Rosalind pended her thoughts, trying to remember the sequences for the letters. And lo and behold did the universe reply one letter at a time.
The first clumping of sequences she decoded read out her name in the midst of other letters without context, -rt Lutece wh-. That was odder than odd. She was at a loss for words, for thought. The only thing that mattered at that very moment was that message. It became an instant obsession. What about me she assumed, how could this particle know things, how could it transmit these messages. The decoding went on revealing a question, who are you.
"Who am I?" Rosalind repeated incredulously to the particle. "You ask that now after being together for years?" The particle said nothing, still flashing its original message. She scoffed and finished the pattern. She dropped her pen for the third time that day. She read it again and again. Firstly, to fix the context. Secondly, to finally realize what she had just read and even then it seemed impossible as if she had just imagined the entire ordeal, a taunting dream.
"I am Robert Lutece. Who are you?" she repeated in a voice that could hardly be heard. Lutece? Who was this man that shared the same name as her, but more importantly, how did he hijack her particle?
It was tempting, entirely tempting to reply back immediately. With demands, of course, she mentally added. More kicking ensued as Rosalind beat the generator to life. She prepared her reply and turned from her side the knob to full, keeping the particle on, unable to flash.
x-x
Robert sighed in the darkness of his laboratory. Probability of success, nil, he thought as he repeated the signal over and over. A more grounded thought interjected. Who would answer him in the dead of night? Robert stopped his message in the face of sobering realizations. But then again, why would a quantum particle ever care what time of day it is?
"Nil, nil, nil," he reiterated as if to chastise the particle. "This is-"
An ecstatic grin was captured in the grey light of a glowing result. A reply. Unfortunately speaking, the universe has a sense of humor. The particle answered back wildly. A message much quicker than his. Robert hurried to write it down and once decoded and placed in context, was a tad off put. Inside him was a mixture of awe and utter indignation.
"I am Rosalind Lutece. Give me back my particle." At least I have affirmation that whoever this person is, she is indeed a Lutece, Robert mused.
x-x
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