Chapter 38
Six Days, Three Hours, Twenty-Two Minutes
It had taken Isaac Mentnor many years to grow accustomed to technology. Computers – despite their gifts of speed and accuracy – didn't present him any creature comforts. Those digital voice recorders were convenient, he realized, but he hated wading through the cold text of a user's manual to figure them out. Regardless of the investment in time and the increasing ache to his muscles with each passing year, there was just something about the feel of an ink pen – held in his hand – pressing to paper that provided a stronger foundation to human existence. It felt far more 'natural,' was the only way he had been able to describe it to colleagues. Of course, it slowed him down in ways that produced some frustration, but – as a considerable plus – it gave him time to further examination the various intricacies of any given equation he was considering at the time. With all things, there are compromises, and Mentnor had long ago accepted that continuing to use pen and pencil – when in private – would serve as a reasonable anchor to against the storm of complexities he battled each and every day.
Talmadge had given him a puzzle of sorts – to calculate the odds that Frank Parker's latest dimension-hopping conundrum was the other end of the parallelogram they discussed – and, pen in hand, he was sketching out several plausible statistics, considerable measures to take, and specific tasks to consider ... when the door suddenly swung wide, and the director appeared in the open frame.
"Isaac, we have a development."
The man looked up from the desk. A mischievous twinkle in his eye, he asked, "I hope you're not going to tell me that yet another Frank Parker just called in a conundrum?"
The director paused to smile. "No," he answered. As an afterthought, he added, "If it were only that simple."
"Simple?"
"As you can imagine, Washington is all abuzz with the return of Frank Parker, and I think they've made a decision that tops that ante of yours." Sounding official, he said, "Collect your things. We're on the move."
*****
"You must be kidding!" Mentnor exclaimed.
Behind the wheel of one of the facilities interior vehicle, Talmadge shook his head. "I wish I were, Isaac. As a matter of fact, I wish that the both of us could wake up to learn everything we've learned in the last several hours was all some kind of collectively-influenced dream, but, unless you pinch me, something tells me this day is only going to get far worse before it gets better."
Despite the vertigo it produced, Mentnor continued to scribble several checklists – new ones he'd have to tabulate into his already complex temporal equations. "Bradley, doesn't the NSA know what risk we'd be taking ... by letting Frank out?"
Slowing down their cart, the director yanked the wheel hard, turning a quick corner and barely missing the wall.
"If what you're hinting is that every member of the Committee has lost his mind, then I'd have to agree with you," he replied. "I can't say that I blame them, but Larnord has spoken. When the temporal overlord who's blessed your country with the gift of time travel speaks, I guess no one has the cajones to challenge his judgment."
"This is lunacy!" Mentnor proclaimed.
"Sure, it is," Talmadge assured his friend, "but look at it from the alien's perspective: we developed our own Sphere, and our chrononaut crashed it into a terrorist's jetliner, sacrificing not only his life but also possibly the tool to salvation of our planet! How much sense does that make?"
"But why not simply have Larnord flown here?" Mentnor asked. "He's traveled before! Bradley, he's flown countless light years through space in order to accept his assignment on Earth! Certainly, a plane flight of over a thousand miles shouldn't make his air sick?"
Slowly, Talmadge pulled the vehicle to a stop in front of a massive steel door with an open port within the top half.
"It's out of my hands, Isaac."
"But, Bradley ..."
"I said it's out of my hands," he repeated firmly. "Keep this to yourself until I say otherwise. I don't want anyone leaking a word about this release until it's absolutely necessary."
"I doubt any of them would support this, Bradley."
The director frowned. "It's not their support I'm worried about, Isaac." He unclipped his safety belt and hopped to the solid ground. "What I am worried about is how far any of them would go to see Frank's release stopped."
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "You're not ... you're not talking about sabotage?"
Immediately, Talmadge shook his head. "No, no. We're all patriots. We've been through life-and-death scenarios together. In the history of science, I don't think there's been a stronger team than the one assigned to BackStep today." He paused for a moment, his eyes searching as he tried to find the precise words to explain his concern. "What I'm talking about has far more to do with the morale of the mission. If what you've hypothesized is correct – if we're weighing the survival of Frank's world and our own – then I need everyone concentrating on safely resolving this conundrum. I need their commitment, and I need the best they have to offer ... now more than ever before. I don't need egos getting in the way ... especially where Channing is concerned."
Slowly, Isaac realized, and he nodded. "He is your ranking chrononaut."
"He is," Talmadge affirmed.
"He isn't going to like this."
"No, he isn't." The director shrugged. "Rightfully, he's going to expect to serve as the operational commander for this mission. Given the fact that we've never replaced Craig – all of us just assumed he'd eventually come back to the program after a leave of absence – Channing has been our greatest asset. He has served this country in more ways than you or I ever could have. Can you imagine how he's going to feel when he gets word that Larnord has, in essence, put him on the bench?"
"It wasn't your call, Bradley."
"He's going to blame someone, Isaac."
Offering an alternative, the scientist said, "Why not have Channing serve as commander? You can have Frank sent along with the team as an 'operational consultant'?"
The director pointed at the ground. "This is Larnord we're talking about," he replied. "He made his opinion perfectly clear. As it is, the Overseer speaks in riddles and puzzles. I've never been able to make perfect sense out of anything he's ordered me to do, and putting our entire civilization at risk to exposure of temporal contamination is pushing envelopes I never realized existed. But on this point? I understood him perfectly. 'Frank Parker must come to Washington, and Frank Parker must be in command.' Those were his exact words." He shook his head. "I have no other choice."
"Then make a stand."
"And lose my authority?" Talmadge glanced around the corridor, thankful that the two of them were alone. "There are some gambles even I refuse, Isaac. You know it as well as I do. BackStep is history. We're not living it. We're making it every time anyone takes the chair in that Sphere and travels back seven days. We're participating in the revision of events for the betterment of mankind." He swallowed his pride. "There is no way I can risk having Larnord directing the Committee to bench me ... not at a time like this."
"What about Channing?"
The director sighed. "He'll get used to it."
"Do you think so?"
"He'd better," Talmadge said, "or his tenure as chrononaut might be over."
Together, the two of them left the vehicle and approached the door. A white-suited brunette appeared in the portal, and she smiled promptly when she saw who had arrived.
"Good afternoon, director," she said.
"Hello, Jenny."
"Dr. Mentnor!" Reaching out, she laid her hand over Isaac's. "It's good to see you back with the program."
"Thank you, Jenny."
Expectantly, she focused her attention on the director. "We don't get many visitors down here, sir. I hear things are busy upstairs today. Anything we should know about down here in Supply?"
"Nothing I have clearance to discuss at this point," Talmadge assured her, "but, when the time is right, everyone will be brought up to speed."
"Of course, sir."
"In the meantime, I need the 'Christmas Gift.'"
The two men watched as the supply technician's jaw dropped wide. They heard her gasp, and they could only imagine what she was thinking.
"Sir, did you say ...?"
"That's right, Jenny," the director interrupted. "You heard me. I need the 'Christmas Gift.'"
Collecting her wits, she piped, "Right away!" and disappeared down the hallway behind. Talmadge and Mentnor glanced at one another, smiling to themselves, and, when she returned with the silver parcel – a 30 inch by 30 inch sealed aluminum container emblazoned with the BackStep insignia on its top – they greeted her warmly.
"Thank you, Jenny."
"My pleasure, sir."
They started back toward the vehicle. Before Talmadge could turn the ignition, he heard the young lady ask, "We'll all be brought up to speed soon, director?"
He flashed her a guarded grin. "Go back to work, Jenny."
End of Chapter 38
Six Days, Three Hours, Twenty-Two Minutes
It had taken Isaac Mentnor many years to grow accustomed to technology. Computers – despite their gifts of speed and accuracy – didn't present him any creature comforts. Those digital voice recorders were convenient, he realized, but he hated wading through the cold text of a user's manual to figure them out. Regardless of the investment in time and the increasing ache to his muscles with each passing year, there was just something about the feel of an ink pen – held in his hand – pressing to paper that provided a stronger foundation to human existence. It felt far more 'natural,' was the only way he had been able to describe it to colleagues. Of course, it slowed him down in ways that produced some frustration, but – as a considerable plus – it gave him time to further examination the various intricacies of any given equation he was considering at the time. With all things, there are compromises, and Mentnor had long ago accepted that continuing to use pen and pencil – when in private – would serve as a reasonable anchor to against the storm of complexities he battled each and every day.
Talmadge had given him a puzzle of sorts – to calculate the odds that Frank Parker's latest dimension-hopping conundrum was the other end of the parallelogram they discussed – and, pen in hand, he was sketching out several plausible statistics, considerable measures to take, and specific tasks to consider ... when the door suddenly swung wide, and the director appeared in the open frame.
"Isaac, we have a development."
The man looked up from the desk. A mischievous twinkle in his eye, he asked, "I hope you're not going to tell me that yet another Frank Parker just called in a conundrum?"
The director paused to smile. "No," he answered. As an afterthought, he added, "If it were only that simple."
"Simple?"
"As you can imagine, Washington is all abuzz with the return of Frank Parker, and I think they've made a decision that tops that ante of yours." Sounding official, he said, "Collect your things. We're on the move."
*****
"You must be kidding!" Mentnor exclaimed.
Behind the wheel of one of the facilities interior vehicle, Talmadge shook his head. "I wish I were, Isaac. As a matter of fact, I wish that the both of us could wake up to learn everything we've learned in the last several hours was all some kind of collectively-influenced dream, but, unless you pinch me, something tells me this day is only going to get far worse before it gets better."
Despite the vertigo it produced, Mentnor continued to scribble several checklists – new ones he'd have to tabulate into his already complex temporal equations. "Bradley, doesn't the NSA know what risk we'd be taking ... by letting Frank out?"
Slowing down their cart, the director yanked the wheel hard, turning a quick corner and barely missing the wall.
"If what you're hinting is that every member of the Committee has lost his mind, then I'd have to agree with you," he replied. "I can't say that I blame them, but Larnord has spoken. When the temporal overlord who's blessed your country with the gift of time travel speaks, I guess no one has the cajones to challenge his judgment."
"This is lunacy!" Mentnor proclaimed.
"Sure, it is," Talmadge assured his friend, "but look at it from the alien's perspective: we developed our own Sphere, and our chrononaut crashed it into a terrorist's jetliner, sacrificing not only his life but also possibly the tool to salvation of our planet! How much sense does that make?"
"But why not simply have Larnord flown here?" Mentnor asked. "He's traveled before! Bradley, he's flown countless light years through space in order to accept his assignment on Earth! Certainly, a plane flight of over a thousand miles shouldn't make his air sick?"
Slowly, Talmadge pulled the vehicle to a stop in front of a massive steel door with an open port within the top half.
"It's out of my hands, Isaac."
"But, Bradley ..."
"I said it's out of my hands," he repeated firmly. "Keep this to yourself until I say otherwise. I don't want anyone leaking a word about this release until it's absolutely necessary."
"I doubt any of them would support this, Bradley."
The director frowned. "It's not their support I'm worried about, Isaac." He unclipped his safety belt and hopped to the solid ground. "What I am worried about is how far any of them would go to see Frank's release stopped."
Isaac raised an eyebrow. "You're not ... you're not talking about sabotage?"
Immediately, Talmadge shook his head. "No, no. We're all patriots. We've been through life-and-death scenarios together. In the history of science, I don't think there's been a stronger team than the one assigned to BackStep today." He paused for a moment, his eyes searching as he tried to find the precise words to explain his concern. "What I'm talking about has far more to do with the morale of the mission. If what you've hypothesized is correct – if we're weighing the survival of Frank's world and our own – then I need everyone concentrating on safely resolving this conundrum. I need their commitment, and I need the best they have to offer ... now more than ever before. I don't need egos getting in the way ... especially where Channing is concerned."
Slowly, Isaac realized, and he nodded. "He is your ranking chrononaut."
"He is," Talmadge affirmed.
"He isn't going to like this."
"No, he isn't." The director shrugged. "Rightfully, he's going to expect to serve as the operational commander for this mission. Given the fact that we've never replaced Craig – all of us just assumed he'd eventually come back to the program after a leave of absence – Channing has been our greatest asset. He has served this country in more ways than you or I ever could have. Can you imagine how he's going to feel when he gets word that Larnord has, in essence, put him on the bench?"
"It wasn't your call, Bradley."
"He's going to blame someone, Isaac."
Offering an alternative, the scientist said, "Why not have Channing serve as commander? You can have Frank sent along with the team as an 'operational consultant'?"
The director pointed at the ground. "This is Larnord we're talking about," he replied. "He made his opinion perfectly clear. As it is, the Overseer speaks in riddles and puzzles. I've never been able to make perfect sense out of anything he's ordered me to do, and putting our entire civilization at risk to exposure of temporal contamination is pushing envelopes I never realized existed. But on this point? I understood him perfectly. 'Frank Parker must come to Washington, and Frank Parker must be in command.' Those were his exact words." He shook his head. "I have no other choice."
"Then make a stand."
"And lose my authority?" Talmadge glanced around the corridor, thankful that the two of them were alone. "There are some gambles even I refuse, Isaac. You know it as well as I do. BackStep is history. We're not living it. We're making it every time anyone takes the chair in that Sphere and travels back seven days. We're participating in the revision of events for the betterment of mankind." He swallowed his pride. "There is no way I can risk having Larnord directing the Committee to bench me ... not at a time like this."
"What about Channing?"
The director sighed. "He'll get used to it."
"Do you think so?"
"He'd better," Talmadge said, "or his tenure as chrononaut might be over."
Together, the two of them left the vehicle and approached the door. A white-suited brunette appeared in the portal, and she smiled promptly when she saw who had arrived.
"Good afternoon, director," she said.
"Hello, Jenny."
"Dr. Mentnor!" Reaching out, she laid her hand over Isaac's. "It's good to see you back with the program."
"Thank you, Jenny."
Expectantly, she focused her attention on the director. "We don't get many visitors down here, sir. I hear things are busy upstairs today. Anything we should know about down here in Supply?"
"Nothing I have clearance to discuss at this point," Talmadge assured her, "but, when the time is right, everyone will be brought up to speed."
"Of course, sir."
"In the meantime, I need the 'Christmas Gift.'"
The two men watched as the supply technician's jaw dropped wide. They heard her gasp, and they could only imagine what she was thinking.
"Sir, did you say ...?"
"That's right, Jenny," the director interrupted. "You heard me. I need the 'Christmas Gift.'"
Collecting her wits, she piped, "Right away!" and disappeared down the hallway behind. Talmadge and Mentnor glanced at one another, smiling to themselves, and, when she returned with the silver parcel – a 30 inch by 30 inch sealed aluminum container emblazoned with the BackStep insignia on its top – they greeted her warmly.
"Thank you, Jenny."
"My pleasure, sir."
They started back toward the vehicle. Before Talmadge could turn the ignition, he heard the young lady ask, "We'll all be brought up to speed soon, director?"
He flashed her a guarded grin. "Go back to work, Jenny."
End of Chapter 38