by Greg Ahlgren
Professor Phyllis Fletcher stood with drink in hand, chatting with a lanky grad assistant Natasha didn’t recognize. She made a point to pass close to them on the way to the picnic table and heard the grad assistant mutter something about “sine wave reductions.” Natasha kept moving.
At the picnic table Lewis Ginter stood with one foot on the bench, facing off with Judith Wolfe.
“I’ve never seen that,” Wolfe was protesting. “Are you sure?”
Ginter took a sip from his beer and shook his head. “You’ve got a goddamn PhD. Didn’t they teach you anything at Columbia?”
Natasha turned her back to them and deliberately filled a plastic cup with ice.
“I just haven’t seen it,” Wolfe slurred.
“Well, then watch. I’m telling you, every single time. Two strikes, doesn’t matter how many balls. With two strikes he always chases the outside curve ball. With one strike or none he knows enough to lay off but with two strikes he’s got this goddamn protect-the-plate-at-any-cost mentality, and he always, always chases it.”
Natasha finished fixing her drink and moved off, leaving Wolfe shaking her head.
“Nice grounds, huh?” Nigel had reappeared at her side.
“It’s beautiful,“ Natasha said, and meant it. The yard sloped slightly downhill to the woods 100 feet away. Two paths, approximately 50 feet apart, led into the trees.
“Those woods are so beautiful,” Natasha gushed. “And the house. It must have been expensive.”
“You know, a full professor at MIT makes good money.” Nigel moved closer. “I expect to be a full professor soon.” He indicated the back yard. “Something like this will certainly be possible.”
Natasha ignored the bait. “Whose woods are those?” she asked. “Does he own them?”
“No, we don’t.”
Natasha turned back quickly. She hadn’t heard her host approach.
“Oh, Professor,” she stammered. “I was just admiring your yard.”
“It only extends to the wood line. That’s a nature preserve back there.” DeVere pointed straight ahead.
“And the paths?” Natasha asked. “Do those two paths lead through the preserve?”
“The one on the left leads down to an old stone icehouse near the pond. The icehouse is still there. Rumor has it that Thoreau stayed down there in a cabin at the end of the path.”
“That’s Walden Pond back there?” Natasha asked incredulously.
DeVere chuckled. “No, it’s not. It’s Warner’s Pond. But the story is that while waiting to move into his cabin on Walden Pond he stayed there for a few weeks. Or something like that. We call it our own Walden Pond. It was probably just a realtor’s marketing lie.”
“I see,” Natasha answered. “And over there, where does that other path lead?”
“Nowhere in particular,” deVere answered hurriedly. “It just loops around and joins the other path on the far side of the icehouse.”
“Giving the tourist riff?” Lewis Ginter joined the trio.
“Good evening Nigel, Miss Nikitin,” he added. “Surprised to see you here,” he said coolly, addressing the intern.
“Oh, Professor Ginter,” Natasha blushed. “I get out once in a while. Nigel was kind enough to invite me.”
Ginter smiled blandly at the junior professor. “I’ll bet he was.”
“Well,” deVere interrupted. “Please make yourselves at home. There’s plenty to drink and I’m told the burgers will be ready soon. Not that we need hot food this evening.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Natasha said as Ginter and deVere moved off. She turned to her companion. “Nigel, would you please get me another drink?”
As Nigel moved off toward the picnic table, Natasha turned and let her eyes wander over the grounds. Between the house and the woods, a series of iron posts supported lines from which were strung Japanese lanterns. Their light provided a warm glow over the yard. The impression was fantasy-like and Natasha was reminded of a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was amazing how much brighter everything seemed in the Northeast District. Back in Yeltsengrad on any given night half of the city could be without electricity. Yeltsengrad’s power grid was structured to take power from poor neighborhoods first, then inessential public consumers such as schools and hospitals, then from low-security police precincts, then prosperous neighborhoods–the ones with higher percentages of high Party officials were carefully noted–and few power outages had gone beyond that.
A few feet away Ginter whispered to deVere, “I don’t like her being here.”
“Who, our Miss Nikitin? Relax, Lewis. Nigel is single and obviously interested in our young intern.”
“And you think she’s here because she loves warm summer evenings and barbecues in New England? Or is Nigel more charming than my eyes can see?”
“Who knows?” deVere asked. “Maybe with enough burgers she’ll get co-opted.”
At the edge of the woods the pair halted and glanced back up at deVere’s yard. The moon had risen. The mosquitoes were not yet out in full force. When they arrived they’d drive the guests inside.
Ginter turned and ducked onto the path with deVere in quick pursuit.
“I did it,” Ginter said as soon as the two had stepped onto the path.
“And?”
“I don’t know.” The pair continued down the path for several minutes without speaking until they came upon a windowless stone building approximately 20 feet by 12 feet. A rusty iron door hung ajar at one end.
“I found a wormhole from this afternoon to a spot in the New Mexico desert in 1846. March 3, 1846 to be precise. Return wormhole was one second later. I used a rat.”
“And?” deVere asked anxiously.
Lewis shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know. It worked all right. The rat went back to 1846 and returned. But when the rat returned it had collapsed.”
“Dead?”
“No, it revived after a minute or so.”
“Injured?”
Ginter shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing I can find. But I’m not a goddamn veterinarian. And we can’t exactly ask one.”
“How do you know the rat really went back? The time of departure on these wormholes is the same instant as the time of arrival on the return wormhole, so how do you know the rat ever left?”
“One moment it was standing on its hind legs, the next moment it was lying collapsed. It never fell. Just at one point standing and then instantly collapsed. I can show you the video.”
DeVere nodded. “Could something have attacked it in the dessert? Bitten or stung it? A snake or other animal?”
“I thought of that before I sent it back. That’s why I chose a wormhole with a one second span between arrival and return. To keep anything from getting it. And to prevent it from wandering out of the spatial window. There wouldn’t have been enough time for anything to have gotten it at the other end. And there were no visible injuries.”
“Where’s the rat now?”
“Back at my house. Seems to be O.K. I’ll keep watching it.”
“We need to try this on a person,” deVere suggested after a moment.
Ginter shook his head forcefully. “No, we can’t risk discovery. When we go back, we go back. We’ll take the risk then.”
DeVere started to respond when Lewis Ginter raised his hand and forcefully placed it on deVere’s chest. DeVere stopped in mid-sentence. Lewis slowly turned and calmly called out, “Why Nigel, what brings you to the icehouse?”
“What? Oh sorry,” Nigel stammered from behind a lilac bush. He stepped out. “I was just looking for Natasha. Have you seen her?”
“The last time I saw her,” deVere answered evenly, “was back where she was waiting for you to bring her a drink.”
“What? Oh, right. I’ll go back.” Nigel turned and headed back up the path. DeVere and Ginter watched him disappear back into the trees, his feet crunching the leaves and twigs.
“You think he heard anything?” deVere as
ked nervously as Nigel moved out of earshot.
“I’m more concerned with why we didn’t hear him approach,” Lewis replied. “Let’s get back to the party.”
At the top of the path Lewis Ginter spotted Christine Worbly speaking with Dr. Fletcher. Dr. Fletcher headed into the house, Lewis following close behind.
The mosquitoes were arriving, harrying guests inside. In the kitchen people hovered around the granite island inhaling chip and dip. In their midst Valerie deVere stood replenishing food trays. Next to the refrigerator, Judith Wolfe was embroiled in an animated discussion with Dr. Arnold.
Arnold was scoffing. “You and your silly boycott. Who is going to be hurt by not going to the library? The grade school students, that’s who.”
The kitchen door slammed and Lewis turned to see Natasha and Nigel standing just inside. Natasha looked grim and stared straight ahead as Nigel tried to whisper to her. Lovers first fight, Lewis thought.
“Finished feeding the mosquitoes?” Ginter asked mischievously.
“We heard there was more food inside,” Natasha answered without looking at her companion. She moved past Ginter and reached for a ridged chip. In front of her, Arnold and Wolfe’s discussion became more heated.
“What loss is there in not going to a library that is filled with lies?” Wolfe sputtered.
“You’re naive!” Arnold boomed loud enough that several guests paused at the island. Nearby, Valerie deVere stood quietly, a look of concern spreading across her pale features.
“Naive?” Judith challenged, her speech more slurred than it had been earlier. “What’s naive about wanting this country to be the way it was, strong and independent?”
“Country? There is no country! If your so-called country was so strong why did it collapse in the face of the superior Soviet system? You are living in the past, Dr. Wolfe, in a nostalgia-laden past that has no foundation in reality. And you and your pathetic bumper stickers can’t change reality. There is no U.S.A. And pining for the past will not restore it.”
“My past is a past where this country, this nation, stood up for itself. Where it wasn’t exploited to perpetrate and support a tottering Soviet system that’s rotting from within. You Soviets survive by taking what isn’t yours, our oil, our coal, our wheat.” She shot a quick look at Valerie deVere. “And you’re apparently no different, Dr. Arnold.”
Arnold stood up and for a moment Natasha thought that he was going to punch Judith Wolfe. Next to him Valerie deVere flushed deeply, turned and strode from the room. Arnold turned to say something to her but she was already through the doorway. He turned back to Judith Wolfe and spluttered as she stood swaying, hands on hips.
Arnold flashed a look of hatred at the astronomy professor before hurrying from the kitchen after Valerie.
The room was silent for a moment until Dr. Worbly burst into the kitchen and announced, “Hey everyone, the burgers are ready!”
Natasha scanned the room and gratefully noted that neither Paul deVere nor his daughter were present. Even Lewis Ginter had somehow disappeared from the kitchen.
The poor man, she thought. I wonder if he knows?
Chapter 5
Thursday, July 9, 2026
Paul stood back in the alley as Lewis fished a key from his pocket, manipulated the padlock, and rolled the garage door aside.
“Lenin’s tomb is open,” Ginter said.
Paul ignored the sarcasm. After glancing up and down the alley he followed Lewis inside. Together they rolled the garage door closed and Paul watched as Lewis drop bolted it in place.
“If there’s a raid that door won’t stop anyone,” Paul offered.
Lewis switched on an overhead fluorescent light and moved to a small refrigerator as the bulb flickered to life. He pulled two beers from the Wal-Mart mini-fridge and flipped one open before handing the other to Paul. He took a small silver disk from his pants pocket and waved it around before checking it intently. He nodded to Paul.
“No bugs. It’s more the vandals I’m afraid of in this neighborhood, not the squishheads,” Lewis remarked, taking a deep chug. “We’re safe here.”
Paul popped his beer and took a sip. “I heard that Arthur Pomeroy got picked up. I can’t confirm it. A secretary in the department was talking this morning about a raid in Newton and mentioned some names. I was in the next room but I think she said Pomeroy. I had to pretend not to be interested and that’s all I heard her say. You knew him, didn’t you?”
Lewis opened a tool cabinet and took out a series of wrenches. “If it was Pomeroy I’m not surprised. I never talked to him much but I’ve seen him around. He always drank too much. You don’t become Sam Adams by drinking it all day.”
Paul pulled up a metal folding chair and wiped it off with a soiled rag. He set it facing Lewis’ vintage Plymouth Roadrunner. He settled down and took a second sip. “You think they can get back to us through Pomeroy?”
Lewis paused before answering. “I don’t think so. You never ran into him, did you?”
Paul shook his head.
“Last time I saw him was at a meeting in Somerville a few months ago,” Lewis continued. “Drunk as usual. He was with some woman down from Maine. She ran some sort of pamphlet operation–left pamphlets at restaurants, something like that. He was spouting off about trying to blow a ship or barge or something coming into Portland. Would supposedly close the harbor for six months. He had a map of it spread out in front of him. I knew then he was toast so I gave him a wide berth. I wouldn’t worry about him.”
“What if he gives them someone who can torch us?” Paul asked.
Lewis shrugged. “What’s anyone going to say? You haven’t joined any group. Christ, Paul, you never meet with anyone. So, I’ve been to a few meetings. Who hasn’t around here? The squishheads can’t lock up half of Cambridge, can they?”
“But, the project…” Paul began.
“What about it?” Lewis demanded. “It’s no one but you and me. Nothing on our computers. No notes left lying around. Arnold doesn’t even know what half the equipment we’ve bought is for, not that he ever did,” he added contemptuously.
“What about the money trail?” Paul asked nervously. “They’ve funneled a ton of dough to us to build this thing. Perry knows about the money. Lorrie Maddox delivered most of it to you. She knows. And we’re gonna’ need more to get additional fuel to run more tests.”
“She knows about the money, that’s all,” Lewis corrected. “She still thinks we’re developing explosives.”
“Jesus, Lewis, how the hell does that help? You think Vodkaville will leave us alone if they think all we’re doing is building bombs? You think they’ll figure that’s O.K.?”
Lewis sat on the bench opposite his friend. “Look, there’s nothing we can do. We need the money, we need Perry and we need Lorrie. Besides, even if they trace us they won’t make any move until they know what we’re up to. They’ll be afraid of not getting all of us and ending up with a 50 car freight train lying on its side outside Chicago. If they nab someone close to me we’ll know and have time. They won’t do a thing until they figure out what we’re up to.”
“What about the lab intern?”
Lewis nodded thoughtfully. “Natasha’s probably Agency. Smart too, and not just as a spy. Nigel says she really knows her stuff in physics. If she wasn’t a Russkie she could probably be a real help to us. But it’s just routine. There’s always a plant in the department.”
Paul shook his head. “Not always. There hasn’t been anyone for awhile. The last guy you spotted as Agency was that janitor two years ago.”
“You mean the guy from Boston College? That was two years ago?” Lewis laughed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Well, Vodkaville has had funding problems. They don’t have the dough to watch everyone. Hand me that wrench, will ya’?”
Paul searched around the floor before bending over and retrieving the wrench closest to his feet. As he handed it to Lewis he glanced around the garage.
“Not th
e cleanest place to plan a revolution,” he mused aloud.
Lewis grunted at an especially tough engine bolt. “Yeah, well, we’re off the beaten track here. What office building around town isn’t bugged? Any outdoor meetings are sure to draw attention and I don’t exactly fancy freezing my ass off half the year. You know the problem with public places, you never know who’s in the next booth. Besides, I really want to get this Superbird on the road. Can’t let Wolfe beat me on this.”
Lewis inserted an eight-track tape into a player on a nearby metal shelf and cranked up the volume. Paul winced at being forced to listen yet again to Steppenwolf.