Chapter 2
The Experiment. Four concrete walls, one with a two-foot squared window and a solid metal door that was open. Tom and four students worked inside the cramped space of the project. The small room was confining. Elbows bumped into walls and feet stepped on feet.
“Pringle, please set the destination and time into the Time Shift Circuit,” said Tom.
Pringle responded to the instructions by manipulating a small brown wooden box with one cable running to the experiment’s cannon and another that went into the outlet in the wall. He turned a dial and flipped a switch on the modest yet essential piece of equipment.
“Done,” Pringle said with pride.
Tom held a thick square piece of a copper plate and said, “I’ve the target.” He opened a clamp and then pinched it to the copper plate. Gingerly he worked, but the back of his hand sent him a message of pain. Any tighter on that grip and the scar would open up. “Go to blazes,” he yelped, shaking out the dull thud of hurt in his hand.
Pringle backed away and said, “It’s the right angle?”
Tom grimaced from the echo of pain that subsisted in his tight thick scars and said, “Yes, it needs to be a right angle, and yes, I believe it’s the correct angle. Now,” he paused to breathe, then said, “line up the anti-proton beam launch.”
Two students adjusted the two-foot long mini-cannon until it snapped into place. They tightened it securely with screwdrivers. Emily palpated the tools and responded as they were called for.
Tom clamped the copper target into its position.
“The distance is right. I know it is,” said Tom. He rubbed his chin. His exhaustion from too many late nights was visible in the cracks of his face.
Emily said, “It is, Professor. I concur.”
Tom and Pringle followed the others through the exit when they were finished and latched the metal handle making a tight seal inside the doorframe. Tom pulled a tin of beeswax hand-salve from his coat’s pocket and applied the ointment to the raw war-wound.
A knock sounded out from the classroom door. Tom nodded. One of the students opened it. Filling the frame was a wide shouldered man with deep grey eyes and a chocolate brown suit and a matching fedora. He removed the fedora and stroked his jet-black mustache.
Tom said, “Please, Bass, come in.”
Emily was seated in the chair at the desk with the rotary telephone. She put her hand out and said, “Hi, Dad.” Her eyes always looked straight ahead and yet kind. She couldn’t see her father but her eyes showed the love of his presence.
Bass Taylor said, “Hi, Sweetie. You guys giving it another go today?”
Emily said, “Yep.”
Tom said, “But we know it won’t work. We’re trying to call back to yesterday afternoon.”
Bass asked, “To what time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Got it,” said Bass, “and six o’clock yesterday the phone didn’t ring.”
Tom said, “Right. Go ahead Pringle.”
A nervous Pringle flipped a switch on the wall.
Emily waited for the hum. She was the best at timing when the call should be attempted. She squeezed her dad’s hand once for luck and let go and lifted the handle and dialed the number seven, seven times.
At that moment the two-foot squared window exploded with a bright flash. All the overhead lights flickered off and then back on. Into the phone she said, “It’s Friday, March thirteenth, nineteen-fifty-three, nineteen hundred hours.”
Tom added, “The anti-proton beam ignited. The launch went without a hitch and the capture was successful.”
The project’s cannon glowed for two minutes and then slowly it died out along with the hum. Emily set the handset into its base. Pringle stepped to the window and peeked in.
He said, “The Time Shift Circuit is cycling and now it’s resetting.”
Tom turned to Bass and said, “We’ll analyze the data now.”
Bass asked, “Any idea where it’s failing?”
“The angle of the beam is right. I believe it’s the speed. I don’t think we’ve got it going fast enough.”
“What are you using?”
Tom rubbed his face and said, “Gold.”
Emily said, “We’ve only tried gold and copper. Next is silver. Silver is the best we can do.”
Tom added, “When we went from copper to gold the data was more askew. Doesn’t make sense.” He looked out into the hall. “Where’s your partner?”
Bass said, “He’ll be along.”
Bass had a presence inside the room that held everyone’s attention. The entire group was about to change history if the experiment proved to be a success, but yet Bass Taylor filled the room with such a powerful spirit that it easily overwhelmed the amazing act which they were attempting.
Tom nodded to the group. “Great work today. I’m so proud of all of you. Whatever happens, I’ll always be that.”
Bass unbuttoned his jacket and straightened his tie. His revolver showed slightly from the break in his blazer. He buttoned his coat. A skinny man wearing a badge on his belt, with a suit sans the jacket but with suspenders and a polka-dotted bowtie, stepped into the class. He had a loose-leaf sort of grace and a gun on his hip in plain view. He glanced about the room wide-eyed.
He looked at Bass and his eyes got wider and he said, “Damn, I missed it. Didn’t I? I missed it again. Drat.”
Tom said, “You’ll catch it next round, Sam. It’s time-based so you have to be on time.”
Sam nodded and then shook his head. “Drat.”
Bass chortled.
Emily stood from the chair with her dad’s help and said goodbye as they went out.
Detective Sam waved and followed in trail.
Pringle said, “He’s quite the mammoth of a man.”
Tom replied, “He is. He’s got an even bigger heart.”
Abruptly a robust man in a vest and red tie stormed into the classroom in a huff. His face was pink and obscenely contorted. He went to speak but corrected his composure as he saw the students and stepped off to the side and looked at his feet.
“Alright guys, let’s call it. We’ll see you in class tomorrow,” said Tom. “I’ll analyze the data and debrief you tomorrow.”
As the last student left, Tom said, “Welcome, Dean. Are you stopping by to encourage us in our new and exciting endeavors?”
Jacobson glared.
Tom said, “Didn’t think so.”
Dean Jacobson’s demeanor turned even more savage as he said, “God ‘dang electrical--”
Tom interrupted him and said, “Yes, I am fully aware. I’ve worked that out with the board of directors.” He managed to tamp down his anger for this man. It didn’t last. “You know that I’m allowed that twice a week.” He pointed.
Jacobson stepped forward and said, “Maybe, but I’m the one who has to deal with all the other issues that occur when the power shuts down due to this so called experiment. It’d be appropriate if you informed me of the days that you’ve chosen.”
Tom said, “The power doesn’t shut down; it stutters. You've been chiseling in on this class since day one.”
“You’re paranoid. Furthermore, my issues are going to be dealt with one way or another. I need to be kept in the loop on what you’re all doing in here. I personally doubt any of it is legal. I wouldn’t be surprised if you burned this place to the ground.”
Tom gnashed his teeth but kept his hands from cinching. The dean’s eyes dropped to Tom’s marred knuckles.
Jacobson stepped back and mumbled, “I don’t care what kind of boxing you did I’m not afraid of you.”
Tom allowed through his teeth, “Yes you are.” He regretted it as soon as the words left his lips.
Jacobson huffed, fumed and fumbled his way out of the classroom.
Tom shook his head. “Good-God.”
From the Pen of Greg Norgaard, Book 1: Change the Past Page 3