Fractime Symmetry (Part 1)

Chapter 2

  2 Mar 2052

  John sat in the front porch of his 1940's bungalow that offered a great view of the campus. Previous faculty tenants had enclosed the porch against what were once harsh winters, but John had the windows fully open to enjoy a warm March breeze.

  Reading the latest Geological Society of America journal, he spotted an EV slowly drive by and stop; it then reversed and parked in front of his home. He watched as woman and man got out of the car; both wore similar navy blue jackets and looked almost young enough to be students.

  "Hi there!" John called, getting up to stand in the porch's doorway. "Can I help you?" he said as they walked past the mailbox on which his wife had hand-painted a multitude of starbursts. He wondered if they were campus security.

  "Dr. Mackinak?" the woman asked. Her auburn hair, tied back in a ponytail, bounced as she trotted up the concrete steps to the porch.

  "Actually it's Mack-in-awe," John replied with a sigh as they approached him.

  "My apologies," she said. "This is Agent Donald Wultz from the FBI, and I'm Agent Jenny Scott from Homeland Security. May we talk to you?"

  They both showed John their government identification.

  John's stomach tightened. Could this be about Carl and the damn internet theories? A week ago, he had a long conversation with the dean and department chair about the whole affair; it wasn't pleasant. John knew his near obsession with research and not department politics irked the dean to no end even though his introduction to geology was one of the most popular of the entry-level science courses. He was beginning to think his complexion or too broad nose might be factors in the tenuous relationship with the dean. He shook his head trying to rid himself of the possibility.

  Inviting the agents in, he asked, "Coffee or tea?"

  "Nothing thanks," replied Jenny.

  Wultz added, "I'll pass."

  "Dr. Mackinac," Jenny said, "as you probably are already aware, there are significant stories on the net about time travel that leads back to your department."

  John shook his head again at the continuing TIA nightmare.

  "There have been concerns raised," Wultz explained looking quizzically at John, "at certain levels in our government about potentially harmful political ramifications this TIA may represent. As you know, trust is critical to our relationships outside the US and stories like this just feed terrorist propaganda."

  "Are you saying this TIA stuff is a matter of national security?" John asked in disbelief.

  "We just have to check things like this out these days," Jenny added.

  "What can I do for you?" John asked.

  "If you can tell us the history of the TIA, that would be a start," she said, taking out a pad from inside her jacket.

  "It won't take long. We can talk in the kitchen," he said ushering them through the bungalow.

  John saw Jenny observe the few family photos on his fireplace's mantle in the living room. "My foster parents," he said with a nod to an elderly couple in a canoe. "And my wife Helen and daughter Steph," he added, touching gently another frame. "They died in an EV crash almost five years ago," he said smiling at the iconic uniforms they both wore in a self-pad pic at the annual convention they never missed. "Drunk driver," he added automatically.

  "They look like big fans?" Jenny said obviously recognizing the uniforms and adding a fairly good impression of a heart-felt smile.

  "You could not even guess," John said flatly and moved a dusty guitar from the kitchen table, laying it gently on a nearby counter. "Can't even get it in tune," he said embarrassed at his ineptitude with anything musical. He refilled his coffee mug and pointed the pot to the agents who had taken seats at his kitchen table "Sure you don't want a cup?"

  "Positive," Jenny said for them both.

  John told them about the volcanic risk analysis project the USGS scrapped and the three associated Martinique field programs. He guessed they probably knew all this, but he went over it all anyway. Finally, he described briefly how Carl found the sample known as 13-C.

  Agent Wultz just sat and listened, while Jenny used her pad occasionally.

  "Can you go over the analyses that occurred on the project's samples?" Jenny asked head down, looking at her pad.

  "I'm sure it's all in the USGS final report," John said.

  "We'd like your personal recollection," she said manipulating the touch screen on her pad again, "if you don't mind Doctor. There seems to have been issues with finding these data at the GS."

  "All the samples were photographed and geologically described in our field report," John explained. "Carl sent to the USGS for geochemical analyses, but I think sure the analysis could have been better"

  "Why was that?" Wultz asked.

  "The GS changed the lab doing the analyses for the last set of samples," John replied. "It's best to stick with one lab for consistent results."

  "Any idea why the Geological Survey did this?" Wultz asked.

  "They got a new chief scientist just before the third field trip; it was probably her decision, but I don't know the specific reason. At any rate, 13-C was not included within the report, but it had several pictures taken of it that you've probably seen on the net. It was the only thing atypical on the last field trip, and out of curiosity, we sent the sample for X-ray diffraction. That analysis showed its composition is mainly silica with, if I remember correctly, some carbon contaminated the sampling procedure."

  "Why wasn't it included in the final report?" Jenny asked, cinching tight the band holding her ponytail.

  "Because it's a man-made artifact," John said catching her gaze, then shyly turning away.

  "What do you think it is?" Wultz asked.

  "I don't know. At first, I thought it could have been a root cast. That's a fossilized plant root replaced by mineralization, usually quartz, calcium carbonate or even pyrite."

  "Fools gold," Wultz said.

  Jenny looked up from her pad at her colleague with a raised eyebrow.

  John continued, "A small section of a root cast can appear fairly rounded and are sometimes even hollow. But this thing, the angularity close to the melted end, the parallel groves inside and its asymmetry proved it was definitely man-made debris of some sort caught up in the Pelee eruption."

  "You're sure?" Wultz asked.

  "Positive," John said, "there was a pebble melted to one end."

  "He meant," Jenny clarified, "are you sure it was man-made?"

  "No doubt."

  "What did Dr. Watkins think?" Scott asked.

  "I'm not entirely sure," John reflected. "He initially thought it was a gun barrel, but I'm not clear where he ended up on that as the tube was slightly conical. You'd have to ask him, but I know he was embarrassed by the net theories and didn't say too much about it after the field report was sent to the GS."

  "We're having difficulties finding Carl Watkins," Wultz said reaching in his jacket pocket.

  "He finished up his post-doc work last month," John said. "He told me he was going back to Montana to see his family, and he was keen on getting some hunting in this fall. I'm afraid haven't heard from him." It was all too typical for students and even post docs to lose contact once they leave the university.

  "If he contacts you, please let us know," Wultz said, then handed John his bureau card.

  "What about this picture, Dr. Mackinac?" Jenny showed him an image on her pad.

  "That's an electron microscopic image at very high magnification of 13-C," John explained. "The X-ray diffraction technician was curious because of the hardness of the specimen, so they took a couple looks at it under an EM. You can see subtle hexagons in the material," John said pointing the pattern out.

  "How hard was it?" Wultz asked.

  John hesitated, trying to remember the analyses' details. "A diamond drill bit was the only way they could get material for XRD analysis and even that contaminated the sample so it would have a Mohs 9 plus. That's a hardness scale indicating it's very hard, diamond-like," John explain
ed and then sipped his coffee.

  "Did you say there were multiple images Dr. Mackinac?" Jenny asked. "This is the only microscopic image on the net as far as we can find."

  "You're right," he said, "I've only seen the one image, too. However, I'm sure the tech said they did more. Anything else is probably on the hyper drive."

  "A drive?" Wultz asked with a hopeful look at his partner.

  "We get a copy of all data from any laboratory analyses," John replied, "but as they did this on their own, we didn't pay it too much attention."

  "And where is the drive now?" Jenny asked.

  "Probably still somewhere in my office," John said.

  "Is there anything else you can tell us about sample 13-C?" she asked studying her pad.

  "I think that just about covers it," John said hoping the interview would end soon.

  "Very well," Jenny said standing up and pushing her kitchen chair under the table, "if we can go by your office and see if we can find that drive; that should just about do it.

  John sighed and took a last, long sip to finish his coffee.

  They walked in silence across campus to the geological science department in the C. C. Little building. Thankfully, there weren't too many students around Saturday at lunchtime to notice him with the agents; the last thing he wanted was more rumors floating around campus.

  After rummaging around in various file cabinets and drawers in his office, he finally remembered where he had put the drive. Fishing it out from among his colored pencil collection in the top drawer of his desk, he said, "I'll just copy this to my hard drive."

  "I'd like to sync it with my pad first, if you don't mind," Jenny insisted, taking the drive. She brushed her pads screen a few times and then handed the drive back to John.

  "Do you still have the sample in question Dr. Mackinac?" Wultz asked.

  "The entire Martinique sample collection is at the sample storage facility outside of Jackson, I'm afraid," John said.

  "No problem, we'll drive," Jenny said.

  Half an hour's drive west of the university, they arrived at an old, red barn surrounded by a chain-link fence. On the fence, a sign read: Authorized Personnel Only, Property of the University of Michigan.

  John opened the gate's combination lock for the agents and led them inside. "Carl filed the samples before he left," he said pointing to the back racks. "The newer samples should be over there on the left in the far row."

  The dusty barn housed what appeared to be hundreds, if not thousands, of sturdy cardboard boxes and crates, each stacked in rows on heavy-duty steel racks.

  When they rounded the last racks on the left, John shook his head in disgust seeing several crates had fallen into the aisle, their contents spilled on the plank floor.

  "How often is this facility used?" Jenny asked.

  "It can be a while between visits, maybe a couple of months or longer, it just depends," John said bending down to inspect the mess as Jenny took a few pics with her pad.

  John explained, "The two earlier Martinique trips' samples were identified by the suffixes 'A' and 'B' on the bag's tag. The 'C' samples are from the last field program on Mount Piquet."

  The agents helped John sort the various bagged and un-bagged rocks by sample numbers and locality designation. When they had finished there were six piles of samples, one for each fallen crate. Three of the piles were from the Martinique project.

  "There were thirteen samples collected," John said pointing at the 'C' pile, "but there're only twelve here: 13-C is missing." Shaking his head, he muttered, "Net idiots."

  "Thanks for all your help Dr. Mackinac," Jenny said.

  "I'll have to get these crates repacked and stacked," John said to himself as the agents were already heading back to their car.

  Carl jammed the garden fork under the potato plant and then levered several large spuds aboveground in one quick motion. He sighed as he tossed them into a nearby bucket. Somehow, the three months of planned post-university decompression turned into a nightmare. He had canceled several job interviews, hoping that the notoriety he had gotten from the TIA eventually would die down. He had tried to hide out with his family in Montana, but TIA lunatics as well as reporters hounded him and his family. Someone even approached his uncle with a gun demanding Carl's whereabouts. The sheriff, his cousin, dubbed his aunt's response as justifiable homicide. Soon after that, he decided it best to move into a long-time friend's cabin just outside of Colorado Springs.

  The cabin was nestled in a secluded valley and looked over a picturesque meadow and stream. The bio-insulated, one-room cabin would be warm and comfortable in winter heated by only a small wood stove. And by bartering with neighbors and hunting, Carl figured he could be nearly self-sufficient.

  The noise of an aircraft in the distance distracted him from his garden; looking up, he saw his friend, Curtis, enter the meadow in front of the cabin.

  "Hello Carl!" he called out, waving a large white bucket by the handle.

  "Hey!" Carl shouted back to his friend with a big smile.

  "I'm returning your primary fermentation bucket," Curtis said. "The ale should be ready by Memorial Day, and Nick said he's got a couple smoked rainbows for a bag of your hops."

  "Good thing," Carl said relieving his friend of the bucket. "I just finished drying a bunch out back."

  "I should have the new side plate for your board cut by next week, I had to order an Aluminum blank."

  "I still don't know about Beaver Creek this year," Carl said rubbing his right jaw.

  "That tooth still bothering you?" Curtis asked. "Don't forget my cousin's a dentist in Colorado Springs."

  "I know," Carl said. "It's not time yet."