Tom’s optimism was good medicine. Al jumped at the chance to get away. “Your unabashed flattery has won the day. I’d like nothing better right now than to get out of the dorm and do something useful.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you downstairs. Wear your old clothes; you’re going to be a mess when you get back.”
Al changed and headed downstairs. Tom was waiting for him; together they left the building and began the walk to East Harbor, about three quarters of a mile away. A short way from the dormitory they were stopped by a campus patrolman.
“What are you guys doin’ out after curfew?” he growled.
“My name is Tom Chartrand, and this is Al Gleeson. We’ve been seconded to biology, and I just received a call to go to East Harbor to help unload a catch of fish.”
“Who are you working for?” asked the officer in a suspicious voice.
“We’re to report to Professor Sturgeon in biology. He took out a trawler this afternoon and has just arrived back.”
“Wait here!” The officer walked out of earshot and spoke at length on his communicator. Al saw him keep his eyes fixed on them as if he expected them to make a run for it.
The patrolman ambled back. “Okay, you’re good to go! Your story checks out. Here, take these passes and show them to any other patrolmen you meet so you don’t waste their time reporting in. You’re supposed to have these before you head out.” He scrawled a signature on a couple of pieces of green paper and shoved the passes into their hands. “Fill in the blanks later.”
After about twenty minutes they arrived at East Harbor. The quay was deserted except for one lone trawler. A huge tube from the hold of the trawler was spewing fish onto a tarp on the wharf.
“Professor Sturgeon!”
A figure cloaked in rainwear turned toward him. “Oh, hello, Chartrand! Glad you could make it. Can you believe it! I’ve been trawling off these waters for more than ten years, and this is the first time I’ve run into a school of fish like this. I filled up the whole hold in four hours!”
Al studied the professor. In addition to his rain gear, Sturgeon had fine chainmail gauntlets on his hands, like a butcher’s cutting gloves. He was bearded, and his head was framed by bushy long hair that made him look like a bear in his hood. A hook-like nose protruded from the hairy shrubbery of his face, which was broken only by a smile that revealed crooked teeth. His eyes were a contrast to his austere face and showed an uncommon friendliness. Al’s interest was piqued by the conversation.
“Normally, it would take me a week of trawling to catch what I caught today in an afternoon,” said Sturgeon. “You know what else is funny?”
“No, what?”
Sturgeon picked a couple of fish from the mound. “Not only did we catch a lot quickly, but look at these. We have a lot of species mixed in together.” At this point he noticed Al examining the fish. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, pointing at Al.
“Let me introduce Al Gleeson. He’s a fisherman by hobby and has come along to help.”
“Glad to meet you!” said Sturgeon, affably taking off his gauntlet to shake Al’s hand. “Please help me sort the species into piles so we can make a tally. If you need any help identifying a particular fish, ask one of the grad students. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go back to supervise the discharge. Use gloves. Some of the fish have spines. There’s a pile of spares on that box.” He waved in the general direction of a forklift, then turned and bellowed instructions to a student standing on the deck of the trawler.
Al followed Tom as he picked up two pairs of gloves. They got to work on opposite sides of the enormous mound of fish. Al pulled two large Atlantic mackerel out of the pile. Indeed it looked like his area was mostly mackerel. He found a large tarp that already had several hundred mackerel on it, and added his to the growing pile. He found the occasional black sea bass in among the mackerel. It gave him an odd sense of security since he had often caught black bass off Halcyon near the causeway bridge, when he could get away for an early morning fishing trip.
On his third trip back, he saw the tail of what looked like a small black-tipped shark sticking out of the pile. He carefully gave it a pull. It didn’t budge. He pulled harder, and the pile began to shift as the fish came out.
It can’t be! I don’t believe it. His mind reeled as he looked at the forty-pound monstrosity he was holding by the tail. The fish was about three feet long with the dorsal and tailfins of a small shark. But instead of the jaws and head of a shark, he saw a mass of ten tentacles crowning the creature’s head like the snake hair of a Medusa.
Al let the bizarre creature slide to his feet, and then stood there dumbfounded, looking down at the jumble of tentacles. One of the graduate students brought Professor Sturgeon over.
“May I have a look?” he asked gravely. He bent down and grabbed the heavy fish by the tentacles using both hands and spread them to reveal a blunt shark’s mouth with razor sharp teeth.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he muttered. He flexed the fish torso. “It’s clearly a chordate. How can this be? Where are we? What’s happened to us?” He looked around at the gathering crowd. “Just an unusual specimen,” he said in a loud voice. “Please get back to work. We don’t want to be here all night.”
__________
Exhausted and covered in scales and fish oil, Al and Tom walked back to the dorm. Although most of the fish had been familiar Atlantic species, there must have been two dozen examples of species that Al had never seen before.
“So what happened back there?” asked Tom at last, breaking the silence.
Al drew a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. “From what I can tell,” said Al slowly, “Halcyon is not just a few miles from our former location, as O’Reilly was hoping. We found a good many fish tonight that, as far as I can tell, have never been reported off North Carolina, or anywhere else on Earth. Sturgeon said as much.”
“What are you saying?” asked Tom, a current of fear in his voice.
“I do not think the senators were quite accurate in their assessment,” said Al. “When we travel to the mainland, I do not know what we’re going to find, but I do not think it will be North Carolina.”
Chapter 5 Calm to Chaos
Dave woke from his sleep in a cold sweat, his nightmare still vivid. He and his older brother Joe had been on a rock wall of the quarry near home, climbing, as they often had, without ropes. In the dream, Dave was looking up as his brother shifted his handhold and a piece of rock gave way. Joe slid down a steep incline and snagged a rocky projection only six feet away. He looked at Dave, his eyes pleading for help, as he clung desperately.
“Dave, help me! Please help me!”
Dave was too terrified to move over and grab his wrist. He saw the disappointment and despair in Joe’s eyes as his grip weakened. Then in an instant, without another cry, he plunged to the bottom of the quarry. Dave woke with the thud of the body ringing in his ears.
I couldn’t have helped him! I couldn’t have helped him!
Steady old fellow; get a hold of yourself. It’s been a year since I last had that nightmare. I guess being at the edge of the bridge with Uncle Charlie brought it back.
It was still dark outside. Glenn was gently snoring. Dave went over the funeral in his mind. Mom and Dad never said anything to him and never questioned him about what exactly had happened. Although he and Joe had strict orders not to climb there, they never blamed him. Dave made up for it by blaming himself.
When the first light of dawn crept through the window, Dave was startled by a knock on the door. “Dorm meeting in twenty minutes,” said a voice.
Dave got up. Glenn groaned, sitting up in his bed, holding his temples. “I could sure use some coffee,” he said.
The events from the day before came flooding back, and Dave realized there would be no coffee, and probably no breakfast. He got up and looked in his small fridge. There was half a carton of orange juice and two pieces of cold pizza. He offered a
slice to Glenn, but when he declined Dave was more than happy to eat both slices himself.
They both threw on some clothes and rushed downstairs to the large auditorium on the main floor where dorm rock concerts were usually held. The auditorium was nearly full, with more and more people arriving every minute. The dorm president, Clive Henderson, stood on the stage, preparing to speak to the audience through the public address system.
Henderson cleared his throat loudly to get everyone’s attention. “I have a few things to say. As you heard on the TV last night, Socrates was selected to begin exploration of the mainland.” There was a murmur of opposition, and Henderson held up his hand for quiet. “Here’s how we’re going to organize ourselves. Each of our five floors will represent a separate company or unit of operation. Tomorrow, weather permitting, the Fifth Socrates will head to the mainland. We will be joined by a small company of naval personnel, who will be armed. If we make contact with North Carolina, our mission will be over—”
“What do you mean ‘if’?” said a voice from the back.
Henderson stared at the questioner and said slowly, “We’re not 100 percent sure that we will make contact.”
The murmuring grew louder. Henderson pounded on the podium with a gavel. “Silence!” he roared. The sounds stopped as if a loudspeaker had been switched off.
Henderson continued more quietly. “Because of the food situation, we don’t have a lot of time. If we don’t find—that is to say, if something unexpected happens—we plan to make camp on the mainland and make that a base for exploration. We don’t know what we’re going to find there, and we’re all rookies, so let’s keep our heads and learn fast.
“Every week, as our transportation permits, we will send one dorm floor over to the mainland and rotate one floor back to Halcyon. Your floor dons will fill you in on the details and tell you exactly when you’re scheduled to leave. Any questions?”
“I paid tuition to come to university,” said Glenn. “What if I don’t want to go exploring?”
Henderson looked Glenn squarely in the eye. “That is your choice, of course. However, if you don’t work, you don’t eat.” More murmuring. He waved some papers in the air. “These food vouchers entitle you to eat. If you sign up, then you’ll get two meal vouchers today. As long as you keep working, you keep eating.”
“When do we eat?” shouted out Dave.
“Ah, I can see we have at least one veteran among us,” said Henderson with mock gravity. “After your floor meeting, your don will pass out the signup forms and the meal vouchers. Any other questions?”
“Where do we get the equipment for this camp we’re supposed to set up?” called a voice from the back of the auditorium.
“We hope that each of you has some equipment of your own, since backpacking and rock climbing are popular activities. We can get some tents, bows, and arrows from the physical education center. We are currently collecting all of the fire axes from the fire safety stations, and we will send some of those along with the first group. In addition, the metallurgy department is even now converting scrap metal to useful implements.”
“How are we supposed to cross the six mile channel?” queried another voice.
“We only have a few Boston Whalers and precious little fuel. But we have about 200 dinghies. We will cross with about 60 and try to establish a beachhead.”
There were a few more questions, but Dave and Glenn went back to their room. About twenty minutes later, another knock on the door told them that Floyd Linder, their fifth floor don, had called the much awaited floor meeting.
After about 200 people had assembled in the large common room, Linder climbed onto a small platform at the end of the room, and whistled to get everyone’s attention.
“First things first,” he began. “If you sign up, you’ll receive your meal vouchers from Al Gleeson. You’ll have to come to him every day to get your food vouchers. There are only two meals per day until we get our food situation sorted out, so don’t miss your chance!
“We’ll be the first group to go to the mainland. Our job is to learn to sail well enough to get across the channel. While we’re learning, the navy guys will be exploring the coast with the few powerboats we have available. If they make contact, our training will have been a waste of time. On the other hand, if we have to go ahead, a contingent from the naval station will join us, and their responsibility will be to protect us while we do the grunt work of establishing a camp. How many have sailed before?” A few hands went up. “All of you please come and see me after the meeting. We’ll all meet at West Harbor after lunch to watch training videos, and then we’ll take up sailing in earnest tomorrow morning. Clive was overly optimistic about our crossing to the mainland tomorrow. It’s my call, and we won’t try the crossing until we’re reasonably proficient and the weather’s good.”
Dave and Glenn signed up for duty and received their food vouchers. They made their way through a sleepy crowd of students to the cafeteria for a meal of day old hamburgers and reheated fries. Nevertheless, they were so hungry, any meal would have tasted delicious. They were still quite hungry when they finished their portions, and they couldn’t help ruing the complaints they’d made in the past about cafeteria food. After brunch they walked to West Harbor and spent the rest of the day in class watching sailing videos that described more than they’d ever wanted to know about sailing.
Late that afternoon, word raced across campus that the first boats had returned from the mainland; no trace of North Carolina or any human habitation had been found.
Tired and hungry, Dave and Glenn returned to their room and turned on the TV to see if broadcasting had resumed. To their surprise Jennifer McCowan, the blonde talk show host of Halcyon Music, was on the air.
“Even without social media,” said McCowan in her gentle, lilting voice, “I know that everyone is asking ‘where are we?’ and ‘what’s happened to us?’ To answer those questions I’ve asked a friend of mine to the studio. Please welcome Vlad Sowetsky.”
Canned applause welcomed Vlad.
“So, Vlad,” said McCowan, “please tell our viewers what you do.”
Vlad, a tall, big boned youth in his mid-twenties, had a long, narrow face and close-set eyes, so that the overall impression vaguely reminded one of a horse. He had shoulder length hair and stubble on his face.
“To cut to the chase, I’m a graduate student with Professor Hoffstetter, and I was in the control room when the dislocation occurred.”
“So what actually happened during the accident yesterday?”
“Well,” said Vlad, “we were running the largest test on the force field to date. The plan was to—”
“Whoa,” said McCowan, “I think you are going much too fast. Tell the audience how the Hoffstetter force field works, but no jargon, please!”
Vlad screwed up his face as if he were being asked the impossible. “The force field appears as a bubble about the size of a soccer ball when we first generate it. The time inside the bubble is slightly behind our time. When we first make the bubble, the time delay—or offset—is very, very small so that the field is thin. That is to say, anything can cross it. We expand the bubble to the desired size and then thicken it. By ‘thicken’ I mean that we increase the time offset so the field begins to have an effect. First it stops large objects. If we increase the time offset even more, we could theoretically stop air molecules or light from crossing the force field boundary.”
“Field boundary,” said McCowan. “Now you’re lapsing into jargon again and losing me.”
“By field boundary I mean the edge of the force field bubble. Shooting a missile through this barrier is, as Hoffstetter would say, ‘like trying to shoot into last week.’” Vlad was beginning to get exasperated.
“Okay,” said McCowan, “please go on. Even if I don’t understand all of the physics, I’m sure there are many listeners who will.”
“Well, we had intended to expand the force field so that it enclosed the central
building in the experimental area. However, while we were expanding the bubble, the first lightning strike overloaded the equipment and the expansion continued unabated.”
This was followed by a momentary pause and a baffled look on McCowan’s face. “How big did the bubble get?” she finally asked.
“I think it expanded to a sphere about four miles in diameter,” said Vlad.
“Then what?”
“Then a second series of lightning strikes overloaded the offset controls, and the time offset increased enormously,” said Vlad. Beads of perspiration had appeared on his forehead.
McCowan uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Tell the audience what you think happened next,” she prompted.
Vlad took a deep breath. “I only have a half-baked theory. Do you know about quantization of energy?”
“Vaguely,” said McCowan, a blank look on her face.
“Let me see if I can make it as simple as possible. Macroscopically, that is, in the world of meter lengths and kilogram masses, energy seems to be continuous. It flows like a stream or a river. So if I ask how much energy it takes to lift this book,” he lifted a book from the table, “you can calculate the energy in joules to as many decimal places as you like. I can lift the book to any height and calculate the lift energy for each height. But when you go down in size, ten orders of magnitude to angstroms, the world changes. When lifting electrons away from the atomic nucleus, all the rules change, and one can only ‘lift’ the electron to discrete ‘heights,’ or energy levels. It’s like being able to lift this book in little jumps.” He demonstrated by rapidly lifting and stopping the book at various heights.
“Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. You’re bringing back unpleasant memories of first year chemistry. But what has that got to do with the Hoffstetter field generators and the accident?”
The Halcyon Dislocation Page 4