Quagmire's Gate

by Allan E Petersen

  “Fine, fine, just get here.”

  In a most clumsy manner, he stumbled out of his chair and glared over at Chief Security Officer Whelan Christianson sitting in the chair across the desk. He said to him,

  “Well, well my little Security Officer. I suppose I should thank you for helping to keep the ASC and that bothersome ass over at Fort Lincoln away until I prepared my little group for our entry into a world that will make me king of this world. However, I do not think I can reward you with a membership. You haven’t worked as hard for it as we have.”

  If he was expecting Whelan to reply, it was going to be a long wait. The duct tape across his mouth was too tight. In a maniacal manner, the General pressed the revolver to Whelan’s forehead. With his eyes frozen to the barrel, Whelan barely had the freedom to tilt his head away from the threatening gun. Yards of rope fastened him to the chair. It appeared that Irsthill had somehow lost his Boy Scout ability to make knots but made up for it in excess. Whelan could not move. Irsthill hissed,

  “Well, it’s off to work I go. There is much to do for the pleasing of fickle gods. Sacrifices, promises and payments as a reward, you know how it is don’t you.”

  As a departing gesture, he jabbed the barrel hard into Whelan’s forehead causing stars to appear behind his eyes. When his head had finally cleared he looked around and saw that the General was gone.

  Now alone in the office of a mad man, Whelan forced his mind to clear. Jabbing pain in his head made the task all the harder. Upon reflection, he questioned why he had left Fort Lincoln and come directly into the spider’s web to confront his Commander about the accusations made at the meeting. Naturally, General Irsthill denied all charges and pleaded his innocence until a revolver was suddenly pointed at Whelan’s head. Irsthill said,

  “It looks like I’m going to have to detain you while I prepare for our ceremony. Let’s get you tied up shall we.”

  It was then that Whelan’s secret service training kicked in. He remembered what Houdini once said, ‘the longer the rope used to tie you up, the greater the slack and the easier to work yourself free. There is no slack in two feet of rope.’ Not wanting to be tied up on the floor, when Whelan saw Irsthill bringing rope toward him, he immediately sat in the chair. Thankfully, Irsthill did not object.

  When Whelan realized that he was alone, he slowly exhaled through his nose and relaxed his puffed chest. He felt the ropes slack and breathing became easier. By pressing his ankles into the legs of the chair, there was slack felt there too. The more he wiggled, squirmed and twisted the slacker the rope became.

  It took longer than expected but finally persistent wiggling produced enough slack to get his arms free. It was not the first time he had pulled tape off his mustache and it hurt then too. Not knowing when or if the General was coming back, he hurried. A minute later, he was free.

  Leaving the rope on the floor, he frantically searched the office for anything he could use as a weapon. The desk and filing cabinets were empty of not only a firearm but files as well. It was obvious that the General had taken the time to shred documents. He wondered what could be so secretive that he had to destroy evidence. Matters that are more important kicked in such as survival and escape.

  A slight push on the office door revealed enough of Miss Crammer’s office to show it was clear. A frantic search of her office also turned up nothing he could use as a defensive weapon. As he quickly pulled out one drawer and turned it upside down, dumping all the contents on the floor, he was surprised to see a single Flash Drive taped underneath it. He tore it free and shoved it in his pocket.

  A careful look showed that the hall was clear of personnel. He was not surprised. The evacuation alarm had made sure of it. The emptiness of the halls was a sharp contrast to what he was used to seeing there. The corridors were usually filled with busy people darting about in all directions. Knowing that the elevator to the surface was just down the hall and to the right, he decided to take a chance and make a mad dash for it.

  Once reaching the elevator, to make sure the coast was clear, he stopped and looked around. While scanning the reception area, he reached into his pocket and brought out his security swipe card. To his horror it did not work. Thinking that the anxiety of his situation had distracted him from doing it properly, he carefully and methodically swiped it again. The red light continued to glare at him. Only one person can disengage his clearance code. Knowing that the elevator was the only way out of the complex, he wondered why the General had bothered to tie him up at all.

  Working his way through the halls, he swiped every door he came to with the same result. The General had changed all the codes. Knowing that the only safe place was the surface, he paused to evaluate his situation. There had to be some way to get up there. He did not become the Head of Security at Deep Lab 6 because of his good looks. When assigned the position, for weeks he studied engineer specs of the complex looking for ways an intruder might circumvent security. That was why he suddenly looked across the lobby and the receptionist’s desk. The main ventilation conduit was in the ceiling in the middle of the room. By sliding the desk over and putting a chair on it, he was able to reach the ceiling grid.

  After easily tearing away the grid, he discovered that it was not going to be that easy to tear out the fan blades. He attempted to grab the swirling blades but they fended off the attempt each time with painful slaps to his hands. Desperation made him determined and finally on the fourth try he managed to grab and stop the blades. Holding tight to the fan he pulled hard and the whole contraption tore lose crashing to the floor. With another chair precariously balanced on top of the other, he slithered and wiggled his way up into the conduit.

  Many times during the past few years, there were reminders that he had gained weight. However, thank goodness for complacency, he simply ignored the bulging gut. Twenty-five pounds on the wrong side of the scale never seemed that important to him. Now, recently two things happened to embarrass him about the expanding girth. The first was when he discovered that he could not suck it in and hold it long enough to impress Doctor Lynda Gray. The second time it ever bothered him was now.

  The width of the conduit was perhaps a hair wider than his girth. It was a tight fit. Inching and squirming upward tore his shirt and he hated to see what it was doing to the seat of his pants. He felt a warm sensation dripping down his back and knew it was blood. He was scrapping his shoulders raw. He found that it worked better if he kicked off his shoes and forced bare feet hard against the metal. The detection sensors installed to alert an intruder had to be torn away but at this point, there were no security guards on duty.

  As he pushed with his legs and wiggled with his shoulders suddenly a section of the pipe he had pressed his feet against gave way. The following thunderous roar of screeching and scrapping metal indicated the whole system was caving in and tumbling back down into the lobby now far below. He braced as tight as he could and prepared to go crashing down like the rest of the duct. After a moment of holding his breath, he realized that he was on the good side of the collapse.

  It was dark in the conduit, hot and stifling yet he persisted. What else was there to do but be tenacious, keep squirming and struggle upward? All the while one chastising thought kept returning. Why he had thought this was a good idea in the first place? Another exhausting heave and another rest prompted another realization. He could just as easily be sitting in General Irsthill’s office drinking his liquor. With sweat pouring over him and blood from scrapped shoulders and bare feet, it was getting harder and harder to wiggle upward. He thought that for every foot gained, he slid two back. His shirt was in tatters and he hoped his pants were still there.

  One of the many times he suffered pain in his neck to look up, he finally saw dim light just above. With renewed vigor and hope, the painful squirming continued. Finally at the end of the pipe was a screen cover that he hoped was not bolted down. With his head pressed hard against the screen, he looked down and with a grunt managed to get his
shoulders squarely onto the grid. After a great heave, the grid reluctantly lifted off. The conduit was three feet above the ground and with one more push he tumbled down as limp as a newborn dropping from a birthing giraffe.

  He discovered that pain and cramps would not allow him to stand right away. From his knees, he saw that he had emerged near the staff quarters. His eyes focused to see people milling about in the distance apparently waiting for something to happen. Finally struggling to his feet, he recognized one of the staff houses and with wobbly legs made his way to it.

  Chapter 25

  All three intently stared at Lynda’s computer monitor greatly perplexed over the phrase ‘will turn off in trade for pilot’. Suddenly a violent knock at the door snapped them back to the room. Lynda looked up and quizzically asked,

  “Who could that be?”

  Professor Quagmire proved his intellectual worth when saying,

  “There’s only one way to find out isn’t there.”

  For some reason Lynda stayed seated and stared at the message on the screen. This prompted Raymond to put his tea down and go to the door.

  It was not until she heard the door open and Raymond shriek that she looked up to see who it was. She heard Raymond ask,

  “My goodness man what happened to you?”

  She saw a very tattered and bleeding Whelan almost stumble into the living room. She ran and grabbed him just in time to prevent him from collapsing onto the floor. It was a struggle to get him to the couch. She knew it was a futile question but it came out anyway.

  “Are you okay?”

  His shirt was blood soaked and torn exposing lacerated shoulders. His feet were bare and his pants were ripped. The only other time she had ever seem a person in this wretched condition was under a bridge at some homeless commune. Raymond raced to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. Lynda asked,

  “What happened to you?”

  After a pause to catch his breath and swallow the water, which drained his throat of dust, he told her what happened in the lab. As she was bandaging his shoulders, he decided to ignore the reams of secrecy contracts he had signed and blurted out everything including the question of Irsthill’s sanity.

  She turned to Raymond and said,

  “Run over to his residence and bring back clothes for him.”

  As he snapped into action she had a thought and yelled after him,

  “Better still, don’t run. Try to act as casual as you can.”

  Surprised, he stopped at the door and asked why. She explained,

  “Because we don’t know what is going on out there. It is no use drawing unwanted attention to us. Just go and get the clothes and come back as fast as you can.”

  Lynda looked at the bandaged Whelan and asked,

  “You didn’t know I was back from Roads End. Why did you come here?”

  He wanted to tell her that he knew she was gone and that the ventilation pipe was practically in her back yard. What he did not want to tell her was that he was prepared to kick the door down to get in. Instead he smiled and said,

  “I was just hoping to find a friendly face.”

  Liking it but not believing it, she returned the flirt,

  “My aren’t you sweet.”

  Finding the strength to sit up was a mistake. He keeled over and into her arms. Mostly because she did not want to, it was a struggle to lay him back down again. After catching his breath he said,

  “I don’t know what General Irsthill is up to but it’s not good. He sealed the lab and the silo elevator. He locked himself in down there.”

  For some reason this greatly upset Quagmire who quickly turned to Lynda and blurted out,

  “Is your office down there?”

  Not understanding the importance of the question, Lynda casually said,

  “Of course it is. Why are you ill?”

  Quagmire slouched and suddenly seemed defeated.

  “I certainly am now.”

  For the first time, Whelan realized he did not know who the man was. With a quizzical look to Lynda he asked,

  “Who is this guy?”

  “This is Professor Quagmire, the scientist at Roads End.”

  Her voice then turned bitter.

  “Remember? You sent me on that grueling all day drive through the mountains when you could have sent me there in a helicopter.”

  Because she was putting a bandage on his chest, he was afraid her anger might demand revenge and yank it off. He quickly explained,

  “Look, before you start pulling the bandages off, that was not my doing. I knew the General wanted you out of the way but not why.”

  Hoping that she believed him, pleading eyes looked deep into hers. Her tempting fingers mischievously played with the corner of the bandage.

  When she finally let go and slid her hand down his chest, he looked to Quagmire and said,

  “I thought you were there because of your mental condition or something.”

  Quagmire gave him a snake-eyed look and spitefully said,

  “You mean nuts?”

  Not understanding that he had insulted him, Whelan’s reply was casual.

  “Yea.”

  The Professor nodded. After all, he was playing that game. He admitted,

  “Well maybe just a little bit. I do have one question for you if you don’t mind.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How are we going to get into the lab when the security codes have been erased? Can you bypass them?”

  The question surprised Whelan. There was no doubt that going back down was out of the question and he expressed that in clear terms. However, Quagmire seemed to be oblivious to the situation and determined to get down there. This prompted Whelan to reply,

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear Professor. It is impossible to get past the shutdown codes. Even if you could there is a crazy man running around down there with a gun.”

  Quagmire had no ears for reasoning and asked,

  “How about the way you came up? Maybe we can get back that way.”

  “You’re not listening. It caved in.”

  Lynda turned to the Professor and asked the obvious question.

  “What’s going on here? Why are you so determined to get down there?”

  She thought it was because of his concern over the anti-matter leak and saving the world but questioned that when Quagmire asked where Raymond’s office was. It seemed that he was more interested in the bell than the anti-matter. Wanting to defend her reasoning for bringing him back, she said to Whelan,

  “You told me that if anybody could solve the mystery of the hole it might be Professor Quagmire. He said he needed information that I could not give him back at Roads End. Apparently he needs to see the anti-matter hole to figure it out.”

  Whelan again looked at Quagmire and stated what had just come to him.

  “So he’s not crazy then?”

  Feeling that he had to prove something, Quagmire stepped forward and took the floor.

  “Do you have any idea what your people have been doing down there?”

  The question prompted indignity, of course he knew. He replied,

  “Yea I know. It’s to research the space craft and retro-engineer the propulsion system.”

  “And did you?”

  “No, something went wrong.”

  There was an, ‘ah-ha’ in the Professor’s response.

  “Yes and that something was your scientists not knowing anything about Temporal Distortions and anti-matter confinement.”

  The confused Whelan again looked to Lynda. She saw his bewilderment and unintentionally added to it by saying,

  “Professor Quagmire is an authority on many sciences, one of them being theoretical physics. It appears that he has suddenly become very interested in Raymond’s little bell hanging above his door. He thinks that it might have something to do with dimensional portals or something like that.”

  Quagmire abruptly cut in,

  “The fact that anti-matter
is dripping from the craft proves your people are fiddling with dimensional harmonics. The fact that the bell chimes an exact frequency that aggravates the anti-matter is proof that it can interact with that dimension. I’m sure that the bell can open a portal to another dimension.”