by Norman Oro
Telemetry
Feeling confident by the end of fall term that he’d found the team’s new quantum physicist, Dr. Rys focused once again on determining what was on the other side of the Allen field. Late March in 1958 found him reviewing the finalized blueprints for a probe. The task group had done well. Their design was simple, tough, lightweight and would record telemetry vital to future missions involving lab animals and eventually people. It even included a cleverly designed radio beacon for tracking purposes. Due to the transmitter’s complexity, however, he’d probably integrate that feature after the probe’s maiden launch.
As Dr. Rys began constructing the device, he had the team conduct a series of experiments as a run-up to sending the probe. When the second bunny had just been completed, he’d sent things that were as innocuous as possible, like sprigs of lettuce or small pieces of ice. Based on those experiments, it didn’t appear that the Allen field was sending objects anywhere harmful, like into people’s bodies. As a result, he felt comfortable sending measurement devices to begin gathering telemetry piecemeal, while working out any remaining kinks in the sending process. Just to stay on the safe side, however, he stipulated that only the smallest and most lightweight devices could be used. Each device had a timer to activate it after it had been sent and deactivate it before it returned. Once returned, the medical team would then check for any pathogens. Since Firefall, they’d also confirmed that even light was sent through the Allen field, potentially compromising telemetry readings taken at the counterpart location. Consequently, US-395 began switching off the lights in the sending room once an object had been sent. They’d built a thermal imaging system into the room’s closed-circuit camera to accommodate this.
The first measurements were taken in late March using a simple electronic thermometer designed to record only high and low temperatures. The other side of the field seemed to enjoy mild temperatures with lows never dipping below 60ºF and highs never exceeding 72ºF. Dr. Rys couldn’t help but notice that the temperatures were very similar to those he often encountered on his drive to work. The ambient light readings were also moderate, ranging from 25 lux to 50 lux, which corresponded to the intensity of light present around sunrise or sunset on a typical day in Pueblo. Barometric pressure was normal, ranging from 1,011mb to 1,020mb. Instruments were sent at different times during the day; sometimes early in the morning, sometimes well into the afternoon or even well into the evening. They varied the intervals during which they took their readings from a few seconds all the way up to three hours. It was intriguing to find that the measurements never varied much regardless of when they were taken or over what duration. As for the medical team’s evaluations, the instruments always came back clean. Based on the readings they’d collected, he personally wouldn’t have minded visiting wherever it was the Maytag sent things.
With Dr. Rys’s curiosity piqued by the telemetry readings and the probe nearing completion, preparations began to collect visual telemetry. He’d wanted to see what was on the other side of the Allen field since he’d discovered it several years earlier; however, the limited field-strength of his generator prototype precluded sending a film camera for any meaningful amount of time. With the Maytag completely operational and preliminary telemetry indicating a temperate environment on the other side, it was now literally just a matter of flicking a switch.
Though by no means a home movie enthusiast, Dr. Rys was impressed with the little Kodak movie camera he bought for the task. It took 8mm film, was about the size of a paperback dictionary and was powered by a spring-driven motor. It recorded about five minutes worth of footage. He asked Dr. Pascal, US-395’s mechanical engineer, to toughen its casing, so it could withstand the sterilization process once it was brought back. Also he requested that a twenty minute delay be built into the camera before its spring-driven motor activated and began filming. This provided enough time to place it in the sending room, exit the chamber and then turn on the Allen field.
Most of the team was busy analyzing the piecemeal telemetry they’d recently collected or preparing for the upcoming probe launch, so Dr. Rys did the Kodak’s launch preparation himself. When the camera was ready, he made his way through the chamber, placed it in the sending room and activated its timer. He returned to the control desk with time to spare and saw that the retrieval team was ready. Because of Firefall, there were now two toggle controls that needed to be flipped to send an object. Also, each toggle had a spring-loaded plastic cover that had to be lifted open to access the switch beneath it. Flipping the left switch then the right one, he sent the camera away for twelve minutes. Once he was done flicking both switches on the Maytag’s controls back to “Home”, Dr. Rys saw the little Kodak reappear in the closed-circuit monitor and gave the all-clear.
The retrieval team entered and subsequently found Dr. Pascal’s modifications to the camera more than up to the task of withstanding the 300ºF temperatures used to sterilize the sending room. A few minutes later they handed the Kodak over to Dr. Rys, who then walked it over to the admin room, which had a film projector. As the retrieval team filed in to see what the camera had recorded, Dr. Rys carefully extracted the film, placed it into the projector and let it run, eager to finally glimpse the other side. To his and the retrieval team’s dismay, however, the footage revealed nothing. It was literally nothing. There were no images of darkness or light, much less the forested landscapes or suburban dwellings that some had speculated about seeing. It was as though someone had erased the film. Puzzled, he confirmed that Dr. Pascal’s heat-shielding protected the film then sent the little camera about a dozen times more into mid-April, varying the time of day when it was sent. The results never changed.
Things Remembered
Inexplicably unable to obtain visual telemetry of where objects went, Dr. Rys realized he needed to take a step back. Perhaps he’d grown too accustomed to how swiftly US-395 had been moving along. He was certain that one day he’d see what was on the other side directly, through his own eyes. However, until then, he had less than three months before the probe launch and serious gaps still remained in his theoretical model. He decided it was time to shore up what he considered to be one of its most critical flaws: The model couldn’t estimate in what condition things sent through the Allen field returned.
His very first experience with the field years earlier in the Caltech synchrotron lab indicated that it continuously sent anything that entered it. It somehow kept track of all those things and then returned them simultaneously to their original locations within the field in their original states. Or at least that’s how it seemed. For certain applications, such as harnessing energy, this was a godsend. Unfortunately it wasn’t so beneficial for transportation, especially for human passengers. An unwelcome image of some poor soul rematerializing with dust and other airborne particles fused directly into their vital organs sprung to mind. To better understand this property of the field before sending the probe, Dr. Rys did some empirical work.
The experiment was relatively straightforward. He tied a helium balloon to a ballast weight, which had a built-in timer and thermometer. Once sent, the timer would trigger the balloon’s release from the weight. The ballast would then record the highest and lowest temperatures it encountered on the other side of the Allen field. While the balloon and ballast weight were gone, the sending room would be steam-heated and then cooled. The balloon and weight would then be un-sent.
There were relatively few surprises when he ran the experiment. The balloon and its ballast disappeared then reappeared fifteen minutes later precisely where they originally were. However, this time, the balloon reappeared untethered to the weight and then immediately burst as the steam that had crossed into the field simultaneously rematerialized with it. The ballast’s thermometer recorded minimum and maximum temperatures of 68ºF and 250ºF, reflecting the steam that had been shunted all around it.
This verified a few things. Most importantly, it showed that somehow the Allen field kept track of ev
ery single object that passed through it. It then returned them all simultaneously in their original forms to their initial points of contact with the field. For example, rather than returning in a position it subsequently occupied relative to the balloon on the other side, the steam returned at the balloon’s periphery, causing it to burst. With an eye towards the ultimate goal of sending human passengers, this meant from a practical standpoint that the sending room would have to be turned into a vacuum almost instantaneously after launch. Though the results indicated that a passenger’s internal organs would be safe, Dr. Rys nevertheless didn’t want anyone returning with airborne particles fused into their eyes or exposed skin. To accommodate the passenger’s return, the room would also need to be quickly re-pressurized. He spoke with Dr. Pascal; and after working almost nonstop for over two months, US-395’s mechanical engineer had everything ready by the end of June.
While modifications were underway, something about the experiment nagged at Dr. Rys. Wanting to examine it more closely, he drove to work even earlier than usual in early July and warmed up the Maytag. He’d brought a small bowl from home and filled it with water in the lab room. He then placed a blade of grass at its center, froze the water, photographed it and then sent the bowl along with a time-delayed thermometer. He un-sent them the following morning. Along with Dr. Young and Dr. Bishop, he entered the sending room to observe the results. Based on the thermometer, temperatures had hovered between 70ºF and 75ºF on the other side of the field. When he looked at the bowl, however, he saw the same layer of frozen water with the same blade of grass exactly as it appeared when it was sent. Somewhat amazed at what he’d confirmed, he jotted down his observations in his journal.
Dr. Rys had discovered yet another striking property of the Allen field. In mid-April, the water brought back along with the balloon in the first experiment was still steam. It didn’t rematerialize as the liquid water it became on the other side due to heat loss. It returned as it was sent. On the other hand, the thermometer did return changed. It didn’t return blank; it came back with readings corresponding to temperature variations on the other side of the field. Finally, the water in the bowl he’d sent the day before should’ve melted. Yet it returned still frozen. But the thermometer again returned changed, recording high and low temperatures.
To most, perhaps, this was just a hodge-podge of astounding, yet unrelated observations; nothing more. What Dr. Rys saw, though, was almost miraculous. He didn’t use that word often, but in this case the experimental results warranted it: The Allen field seemed to distinguish between changes in what it sent that arose from phenomena like entropy or heat loss versus those caused by the accumulation of information. It reversed the former and kept the latter.
Gizmo
As the Friday, July 11th launch date approached, Dr. Rys was busy putting the finishing touches to the probe, which he’d codenamed “Gizmo”. In addition to being descriptive, the codename also alluded to a division within the Manhattan Project that he’d been a part of many years earlier. Befitting its name, Gizmo was a tough little machine, and there was a great deal of anticipation leading up to its launch. Considering they’d completed developing and building the probe six months ahead of schedule, Dr. Rys gave everyone a four-day weekend beginning that Thursday to celebrate the Independence Day holiday. Like the year before, he spent the long weekend relaxing with his wife in Santa Barbara. Unlike the prior year, though, he couldn’t help but spend at least a few moments thinking about the project and wondering about what they’d learn from the probe.
Returning to US-395 well-rested, Dr. Rys had quite a week ahead of him. In addition to the upcoming launch, his new quantum physicist, Dr. Jeremy Marshall, started work that Monday. He made sure to tell him to show up just after 9am to ensure that he wouldn’t remember his first day at work as being when his car was towed. When he arrived, Dr. Rys personally greeted him at the door then invited him to a seat at the table outside the tent. Once he was settled, Dr. Rys proceeded to give him an overview of US-395. Initially it went well; however, when he mentioned they were working on teleportation, Dr. Marshall’s eyes started to glaze over. Having grown familiar through the years with the faraway look that he saw creeping into his new quantum physicist’s eyes, Dr. Rys discreetly eased himself out of his chair and walked away to give him a moment to sort through what he’d just been told. He spent around a half hour going over diagnostic results with one of his project physicists, glancing every now and then at Dr. Marshall to see how he was doing. Once he seemed to have regained himself, Dr. Rys went into the tent’s community refrigerator to get him a glass of orange juice. Fortunately that and the time alone seemed to do the trick. He then introduced Dr. Marshall to the rest of the team and gave him a tour of the chamber.
As was the custom every Monday, Dr. Rys later treated everyone to lunch at Art’s Diner. The special was liver and onions with mashed potatoes. Dr. Rys had his usual, a corned beef Ruben and onion rings. Also as was customary, no one talked about work. Over the course of their lunch, it turned out that three people on US-395 surfed: Dr. Gidsen, Guy Pool and Dr. Marshall. Dr. Rys then mentioned that his sons Pedro and Juan also surfed. In fact, he got a letter just the other day from Pedro mentioning an apparently very “cool” surf spot in Northern California called Steamer Lane. Hearing Dr. Rys say the word “cool” elicited a few good-natured chuckles around the table. Guy Pool then chipped in with a story about a detour he’d taken two years earlier through the South Pacific to French Polynesia and the Cook Islands. He recounted the power of the Tahitian waves he found there and the warmth of the island women. A few minutes later Dr. Gidsen mentioned how he surfed practically every day growing up in Santa Monica and how good it felt getting back into it. As for Dr. Marshall, his girlfriend lived in Santa Barbara and despite just moving to Pueblo, he planned to surf there once a week then spend some time with her. All three of them agreed to paddle out together that Sunday at a surf-break in Santa Barbara County called Jalama. After lunch Dr. Marshall spent the rest of the day working on the sensors arrayed around the tent. Despite his experience that morning, Dr. Rys was pleased to see that his new quantum physicist appeared to have had a good first day at work.
Having put in a substantial amount of preparation time upfront, the week leading up to sending the probe went smoothly and without incident. In fact, aside from the launch itself, the most remarkable thing about that week was that Dr. Rys kept having the same unusual dream every night. It was from when he was a boy growing up in Colombia. He remembered very little from that time and hardly ever remembered his dreams in general. However, they were so vivid and so real that it was as though he were truly there each time. They made such an impression that he decided to include them in his personal research journals.
Although everything stood tested and ready on the eve of the launch, Dr. Rys slept for only a couple of hours that night. He’d had the same vivid dream again, woke up and talked into the early morning with Abigail, like when they were in Caltech and still dating. He then got up and made some toast, bacon, eggs and coffee. After breakfast, he got dressed, kissed his wife, asked her to wish him luck and then headed off for work. It was 2:45 in the morning.
The drive to Pueblo was soothing. He rolled his window down, taking in the cool air as he neared the town off-ramp. When he pulled into the parking lot, he saw three cars already there: Dr. Bishop’s, Dr. Sharp’s and Dr. Kerberos’s. He made his way down the stairs and into the auditorium, wished everyone a good morning, went to the Maytag control box and keyed in the seven-digit security code to start warming up the field generator. The launch time was set for 9:30am; and it’d take at least an hour for the Maytag’s systems to reach optimum operation.
A few minutes later, Dr. Marshall arrived and began checking the results from diagnostics he’d run on the sensors the night before. By 7:30am, most of the team had trickled in and began arranging chairs behind the Maytag desk to get a view of the sending room through the closed-circuit monitor. J
ust before nine o’ clock, Dr. Rys was feeling relaxed, more relaxed than he expected. Most of it was due to how much preparation they’d put into sending the probe. He felt the same sense of calm self-assurance in the rest of the team. They’d all spent hours doing drills to prepare for almost every contingency. So, like an exceedingly bright yet over-achieving student just before an exam, team US-395 was relaxed and eager to proceed.
A vote had been taken a few days earlier, and the team had elected Guy Pool to do the honors and carry Gizmo into the sending room on launch day. At nine o’ clock, he took the probe and began making his way through the chamber. By then, everyone else had taken a seat behind Dr. Rys, who was at the Maytag’s control desk. Once he got to the sending room, Guy Pool set the probe down and as the team had requested, he recited a short passage of his choice. It was Robert Frost. Though nothing fancy, in Dr. Rys’s eyes it suited the occasion. He then began walking out of the chamber, closing every door behind him. A few minutes later, he took his seat along with the rest of the team, eyes glued to the image of the shoebox-shaped probe on the closed-circuit television monitor. Watching the clock built into the monitor, Dr. Rys uncovered the left switch and toggled it to “Away”. He then uncovered the right switch. At 9:30am sharp, he toggled the second switch, causing the probe to unceremoniously disappear.
There were a few cheers and claps immediately afterwards. The probe’s retrieval team was already suited up and began working its way towards the sending room door. The team’s physicists were reviewing telemetry from the sensors; and seemed to be immersed in the data they’d just gathered. Once he saw the sensor output, Dr. Rys understood why. There’d been a substantial release of energy detected when they sent Gizmo. Though the findings were very preliminary, it was heartening evidence of something that his theoretical model had been predicting for years. Looking at the paths that the particles took through the water-tank underneath the sending room, he began mentally reconciling the data to his theory. It was an engrossing task, and before he knew it, it was already time to bring the probe back. He returned to the Maytag desk, set the right toggle switch back to “Home” and keyed his eyes again on the television monitor’s clock. At 10am sharp, he toggled the second switch, bringing Gizmo back.