by Phil Wheeler
“So be it”, he had reasoned to himself, “If I cannot leave here, than I will rule here.”
“Oh Great Pharaoh, live forever.”
It had been another hot day, and he was not feeling good. He had grown old and short-tempered with age. Never in the best of moods, he was in an extremely foul one this morning, and the slave kneeling before him was irritating him. His answer was short, and so filled with venom that the slave feared for his life. “What?”
Trembling with fear, the slave dared not raise his face. Finally, he said, “Oh Great Pharaoh, your Master Builder craves audience.”
“Send him in.” A wave of his hand signaled instant dismissal of the slave, and sent him scurrying from the tent, thankful that he had survived this encounter with his god.
Almost immediately a small man entered the tent, stopping 6 paces from his master, and bowed. His skin had been turned to the color of mahogany by the sun, he was dressed only in a white linen loincloth, and leather sandals covered his feet. Upon his head he wore a headdress of cloth with the royal seal of the Pharaoh’s Master Builder. Remaining bent at the waist, he waited in silence for the release to come.
“Speak.”
The Master Builder stood up, his eyes meeting those of his Pharaoh, and he spoke to the man that the people of this land considered the reincarnated sun god. The master builder could see that his master was not feeling very well, but there were things that he must discuss. He felt no fear, but it still did not do to be too forward with the pharaoh. “Oh Great Pharaoh, live forever.”
“Get on with it.”
The Master Builder chose his words carefully. “I have come to give you a progress report.”
“Go on.”
“I will complete construction today, sire. One shaft points directly towards Thuban. The other is aimed at the belt of Orion. Everything is as you instructed, except...” The Master Builder recoiled from the thought of what came next, but it must be said.
“Except?” For the first time, Khufu looked at his Master Builder, already knowing what was to come.
“Except, there will not be enough power for the stasis chamber to function correctly. Should I still install the machinery without power?” It had been said, now he waited for a reply.
“I know. I ran the figures myself, and came to that conclusion. No, just create a crypt for me.”
“I'm sorry.” Other than the Pharaoh himself, the Master Builder was the only other person on the project who was Draconian by blood, a decedent of the original Draconians. He knew what the Great Pyramid was for. He also knew that Khufu must be devastated by the failure of the power supply for the stasis chamber.
“There is nothing to be done”, he said, a smile barely creasing his lips, “it is this sand. It gets into everything.” Khufu softened his gaze, “Thank you, Sufi, that will be all.”
Khufu, the great Pharaoh of Egypt, watched his Master Builder leave the tent. Alone, again, he could only reflect on what was, finally, the end result for all life on this planet – death. He was the last of his race, his life spanning more than 30,000 years, there would be no reprieve. The great Pharaoh, master of the known world, god incarnate, was finally to die. The pyramid, built to outlast eternity, would no longer house his body in stasis until a cure could be found and he was returned to health, it would now serve simply as his tomb.
Chapter 5
Arriving at the Cleveland airport a half hour earlier then needed Dylan found a parking place, and walked to the terminal. He carried with him a sign that had 'Samuelson' printed on it in big, 6 inch block letters. Checking the flight schedules he saw that the plane with his guests was on time, and that gave him some time. He headed for the food concourse, past the gift shop, to a vender situated at the far end. No one was in line, so he stepped to the cashier, and said, “I would like a funnel cake, please.”
Funnel cakes, that deep-fried masterpiece found at every fairground in every city of every state in the union. He loved funnel cakes, and never missed a chance to grab one. They were one of life’s sinful pleasures. You took simple pancake batter, put it in one of those summertime bottles that picnickers used for condiments, and then squeezed out a goodly amount of thin strings into a hot deep fryer filled with grease. You waited until it turned golden brown on one side, then flipped it over and waited until the other side was golden brown. Then, this wonderful confection was removed to a napkin covered paper plate. After draining for a few minutes, the whole thing was buried in powdered sugar; it was truly a delight. Dylan looked at his snow-covered, golden delicacy, barely able to contain his pleasure, and ruefully thought to himself I need to go on a diet. In reality, he only occasionally splurged like this, and between his work and his various hobbies, he kept the weight easily in check. He especially liked to walk, and had numerous 10k, 15k and 20k walking events to his credit.
Walking back down the concourse, he stopped at the newsstand for a bottle of water and today’s edition of the Plain Dealer. Finding a place where he could wait he sat down, putting the water bottle and his sign on the little table next to him, and had a bite of his Funnel cake, the wonderful goodness exploding in his mouth. Putting it down for a moment, he opened the newspaper, grabbing the comic section first, and started reading the daily bridge column. Taking another bite of his gooey treat, he covered the bidding in his mind as he would have bid the hand, before looking at the actual bidding printed in the newspaper. Sometimes, they got into various systems that he wasn't familiar with, but today he was right on the mark. Then he read the experts explanation of how the bid could be made. Chuckling to himself he was once again amazed at the incredible deductions made by the columnist on the playing of the hand in question. The analysis was far beyond his meager card playing skills, and Dylan was sure that it had nothing to do with the fact that the writer was afforded the luxury of knowing what each player had in his hand, and the way that the hand had actually played out – hind sight was such a wonderful thing.
He finished reading the Bridge column, grabbed the Sports Page, and read over the daily report from Brown's training camp. His Browns had another high pick, top five, and he wondered if this was the year that the pick would actually produce that superstar player that Cleveland always seemed to lack; a thousand yard rusher, or a 100-catch wide receiver with blazing speed and hands the size of catchers mitts would be nice. He had the high hopes of an incurable, lifelong Browns fan. He was just finishing up that article, when he heard someone speak to him.
“Hello, are you here to pick us up?”, came the question directed at him by a deep, incredibility sexy female voice.
Startled, Dylan looked up, the funnel cake halfway to his mouth for another bite, and could do nothing but stare. Standing in front of him was the most attractive woman he'd ever seen. She appeared to be Eurasian, an absolutely incredible mixing of two races, and tall; he estimated at least five foot eight. Her straight, black shoulder length hair framed a rather pert nose and rich, full lips that had just a touch of red to them. The color of her eyes was hazel, the shape was almond with long eyelashes, and they were set in an oval face with a flawless, light brown complexion. No, her face was not quite oval, but slightly elongated, thanks to her European heritage. She wore an expensive, and exquisitely tailored navy blue pinstriped business suit that clung to her figure, revealing small breasts and a slender waist ending in gently curved hips. Her skirt stopped just above the knees, and her long legs were bare, tanned, and shapely.
“I saw the sign, and assumed that you were here to pick us up.”
“What? Oh, yes, the sign.”, he said, “You're with Samuelson Ltd?”
“That looks good. Mind if I try a little?”, she said. Leaning forward, she reached out to his plate, broke off a piece of funnel cake, and brought it to the tip of her tongue. After a microsecond delay, she drew it into her mouth. “This is really good. My name is Tommy Samuelson, and you are?”
&
nbsp; Dylan got up from his chair, and just stood there. Finally, all he could think to say was, “I thought you were a man.”
A mischievous smile crossed her face, “I have been accused of many things, but being a man is not one of them.”
“I'm sorry. I - um – my name is Dylan Teague. I am here to pick you up. Sorry – I wasn't prepared to – I didn't realize, I mean – I didn't know that you were a girl. Sorry.” He knew he was fumbling badly, and his face felt like it was on fire. He was sure that it was bright red.
“Dr. Teague, himself? I didn't expect you, personally. My name is actually Tomiko, but I go by Tommy professionally . People who don't know me assume that I am a man, and I like that edge of uncertainty it gives me.”
Dylan tried to collect himself. “I – Do you have your bags? Where are the rest of your people? Let me go get the car. Who else came with you?”
“We are right here, Dr. Teague.”, came a masculine voice to his right.
Dylan violently jerked his head around and two men, both immaculately dressed in suit and tie, stood smiling at him. Neither was as tall as their boss.
The man to the left wore a charcoal gray 3-button suit, and what looked like a silk white shirt. A thin red tie was pulled tightly up to the edge of the shirt's collar. He had a mustache trimmed close to the upper lip, leaving the area beneath the nose free from any hair, and he wore thick black eyeglasses. His gray hair was thinning but neatly cut close to his head, he looked to be in his mid-fifties. He bowed slightly, extended his hand, and said, “I am Dr. Haru Yamato, and this is my colleague Dr. Minori Toshuro. Don't be overly concerned by your discomfiture, Dr. Teague”, he said with a smile, “Ms. Samuelson has that effect on most men.”
The second man, Dr. Toshiro, bowed and extended his hand. He was dressed in the same charcoal gray suit with white silk shirt and red tie as his colleague. Was it some kind of company uniform?, Dylan thought to himself. Dr. Toshiro was about the same height as Dr. Yamato, but the resemblance ended there. Dr. Toshiro looked to be late-forties, and where Dr. Yamato was slender, Dr. Toshiro was broad, and had a thick mass of jet black hair a comb would probably have a difficult time getting through. He wore no glasses, and his eyes were a piercing brown. His handshake was firm. “I am glad to meet you, Dr. Teague, and am looking forward to seeing your work.”
Dylan still hadn't recovered from the shock of meeting Ms. Tommy Samuelson, but managed to mutter a quick Thank you, before continuing, “Aah, right. Umm, are you folk’s hungry? We can get something to eat before we go back to the lab; there are many fine restaurants in this area.” He still felt like some starry-eyed schoolboy, but at least feeling was returning to his limbs.
Tommy Samuelson gave him a smile that would have charmed a snake, “Yes, I think that we could all use a little bite, and it will help us to get acquainted. Excuse me, Dr. Teague, you have some powdered sugar on you cheek.” A slender, perfectly manicured hand reached out and gently brushed the speck from his face. “That's better.”, she said, then licked the sugar off of her finger. “Can we go to Burger King? I really love whoppers.”
Setting at the table in Burger King, Dylan finally felt like he was returning to some semblance of normal. Getting the luggage, the car, and the drive to the restaurant had been a blur. The talk had mostly been about their trip and the airline meals that they had been subjected to, so he'd had time to recover his composure a little. He still could not fully grasp what was happening, however, for it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before – a cross between waking up on Christmas morning to that toy you were sure that you were not getting, and a bad case of the flu. Tomiko had the ability to make him completely at ease and tongue tied, all at the same time. It wasn't like he was a monk, he had been in relationships with other women, but this woman made it seem like he was the only one in the world that mattered. It was like she read his mind, saying exactly the right words to enchant him.
“So, Dr. Teague, we are very excited to see your work. Cold fusion has become the Holy Grail of the twenty-first century.”, Dr. Yamato said. “The idea of a cheap and renewable energy source that is not tied to conventional fossil fuel, or even Solar and wind, is revolutionary.”
“Yes” added Dr. Toshuro, “If you can truly do what you say you can do.”
Dylan looked at the two physicists. He did not wish to appear anything less than completely confident in front of Ms. Samuelson so, speaking with an edge to his voice that was not normally present, he said, “Gentleman, I can assure you that I can do exactly as I have told you. Cold fusion is a reality.”
“For my benefit, Dr. Teague”, said Tommy, “would you be so kind as to share a brief overview of your work with cold fusion? I may be the head of Samuelson Ltd, but I am by no means a scientist. My expertise is in the area of finding the scientists who make the discoveries, and then I let them spend my money and, try as they might, my two physicists cannot give me a plain answer. Their minds are too much in the scientific clouds to relate to a simple woman.”
“Ms. Samuelson, I can assure you neither myself or Dr. Toshuro would accuse you of having anything other than the most acute of minds, easily able to grasp the intricacies of any subject”, said Dr. Yamato deprecatingly.
“Never the less, Dr. Teague, would you please enlighten me?”
Dylan hoped he didn't really sound as pretentious as he felt as he began, “The energy for a normal fusion reaction is created at very high temperatures. For fusion to occur, the two hydrogen nuclei have to collide at very high speeds, which has only been possible at temperatures of around 27 million degrees Fahrenheit. This is why a fusion reaction is also known as a thermonuclear reaction, and it takes a tremendous amount of power to just create the collisions. That power, in the form of heat, is essentially wasted. The idea is that, by creating nuclear collisions at room temperature, an unlimited source of power can be generated using water as fuel and producing almost zero waste and very low amounts of radioactivity. Essentially, cold fusion would make oil, or any other known fuel, obsolete.”
Dr. Toshuro spoke, “Dr. Teague, when Ms. Samuelson proposed this trip based on the brief synopsis of your work in the report that you sent us, I suggested we be patient and not commit too much in the way of our time or money. I still did not believe that there was enough information to warrant the time or expense for this trip. Ms. Samuelson was adamant, however, apparently seeing something that I have missed. I can't say that anything you have said has changed that opinion.”
Ms. Samuelson looked across the table at him, then said. “Dylan, you must forgive us. Cold fusion has never been scientifically proven, that is, it hasn't been reproduced in a controlled environment. Now you are saying that it has proven workable, and the good doctors are somewhat skeptical.”
Dylan looked to the two man, feeling challenged. Outwardly, he may have appeared self-confident, but inside that little boy sometimes still struggled in the deep end. He held their gaze a full thirty seconds before he spoke, finally he said, “Forgive me, gentlemen, I haven't been purposely vague. The fact of the matter is simple, I believe that my discovery has the potential to change the world, and I would rather show you than talk about it at a local burger joint.”
With a clearing of her throat, Tommy ended the somewhat tense moment between the three men, “In that case, gentlemen, let us finish our lunch with lighter conversation, and be off for the lab.”
Chapter 6
Dylan pulled into the small parking lot at his lab. He parked the car and walked his guests through the outer doors of the building, went through the security protocol, then walked them down to his office. If he was nervous, he did not show it, but immediately launched into the explanation of his work with cold fusion.
“You see, there have been successful tests of cold fusion in the past. From your own country, physics Professor Yoshiaki Arata of Osaka University made a successful demonstration of cold fusion. He presented to 60 onl
ookers, including other physicists, as well as reporters from six major newspapers and two TV studios. In his experiment, the physicist forced deuterium gas into a cell containing a mixture of palladium and zirconium oxide, which absorbed the deuterium to produce a much more dense form of deuterium. In this dense state, the deuterium nuclei from different atoms were so close together that they fused to produce helium nuclei. When Professor Arata first injected the deuterium gas the temperature inside rose from 40? C to about 70? C. He said that this was due to nuclear and chemical reactions. He was right.”
“I have heard of that test”, interjected Dr. Yamato, “but I believe that the amount of energy released was recorded as miniscule, was it not? It seems that the consensus was that until they could repeat the experiment with larger amounts of the palladium and zirconium oxide mixture in order to generate larger quantities of energy, cold fusion isn't proven, much less practical. And they have failed to do so.”
“Yes”, added Dr. Toshuro, “I remember a 1989 demonstration by Martin Fleischmann and Stanley Pons. They claimed to produce controlled nuclear fusion in a glass jar at room temperature. However, no one, including Fleischmann and Pons, could duplicate the experiment, leading many people to consider cold fusion to be a pseudoscience.”
“That is true”, said Dylan, “Fleishmann and Pons work proved to be a false trail. No one denies that.”