Paul Jones - Towards Yesterday

Obediently, Jim did as he was asked. “Take this,” the new teacher said handing Jim one of a pair of speakers, holding its twin in his own hand. “Now hold it directly over your head.” Unbuttoning his leather jacket, the pirate pulled a portable CD player from his belt and connected it to the speakers. Pressing the silver play button the sound of some rock group Jim did not recognize began pounding out from the speakers, Jim could feel the speaker reverberating in his hands with each drum beat. “For those of you who don’t know,” said the pirate to the rapt class of kids, “that’s a group called The Beatles. Now, watch this.”

Slowly, he brought his own speaker parallel with Jim’s and began moving it closer. When the teacher’s speaker was about six inches from Jim’s, the music had suddenly and inexplicably stopped. Jim could still feel the drum beat reverberating through his hand and down his arm to his shoulder but no sound came out. The teacher moved his speaker back an inch and the music magically began spilling into the classroom again. Forward an inch, it stopped. Back an inch, it could be heard.

The pirate’s face had suddenly been split by a massive grin and his eyes lit up with childlike excitement, “Cool, eh?” he said to the class and it was at that point Jim knew his life was about to change.

That day had stuck with Jim. When he needed reminding of the force that drove him, or when he found himself slowed by the whys rather than what’s, he would drift back and remember that display of physics.

So many times he had… Jim stopped mid thought. He picked up the remote control and switched off the music, walked over to the wall and flipped on the lights. Grabbing a pen and paper, he quickly jotted down some formulas before dropping his hands to his hips.

“Well, shit!” he said, tearing the page of figures from the pad before heading out the door.

Rebecca was getting ready for bed when a knock at her door stopped her. She quickly threw on the baggy gray sweatshirt she had just tossed on to the comforter, buttoning up her jeans as she made her way to the door.

“Rebecca. It’s Jim. Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” Jim said, as Rebecca ushered him into her apartment. “I just needed you to verify some figures for me, if that’s alright?”

“Sure,” came her reply, “it’s not a problem.”

Jim looked at her peculiarly, his head tilted just a little and his lips turned up in a lopsided smile, “Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?” He reached out and pointed to her neckline.

Glancing down she saw that in her rush to throw her sweatshirt back on she had somehow managed to put it on not only inside—out but also back-to-front. The tag was protruding pertly out from the sweatshirt’s neckline like some mischievous kid poking its tongue at her.

Rebecca felt her face flush with embarrassment, “Ummm! Could you excuse me for just one moment?” she asked and tried to walk with as much dignity as she could muster back to her bedroom, leaving Jim in the living room attempting to suppress his laughter as best as he could.

When next she emerged, she was wearing a white blouse and she could not help but notice the appraising look from Jim before he averted his eyes.

“It needed washing anyway,” Rebecca said, pointing a thumb back to her bedroom.

“Take a look at these,” Jim said, placing the sheet of paper he had torn from his pad on her coffee table. “Tell me if I’ve made a mistake.”

Sitting down on her sofa, she picked up the piece of paper and scanned Jim’s scribbled figures. Jim took the seat next to her, his hip brushing against hers; she caught a faint trace of his cologne and her heartbeat skipped a beat. She was surprised he could not hear it thudding behind her ribs it was so loud in her own ears. She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the numbers in front of her.

“It all seems to work,” she said a minute or so later. “Why? What is it?”

“Great,” he exclaimed grabbing her hand and pulled her in the direction of the door. “Come on. We need to wake some people up.”

“You really have to stop doing this to me,” said a haggard looking Horatio Mabry as he flopped his huge bulk down into a chair in the conference room.

“There, there” chided Adrianna, patting his hand with her own, her face a picture of mock sympathy and understanding.

Jim passed Horatio a cup of coffee and addressed the assembled scientists. “When I was a kid, I had this teacher. A great guy who helped me understand a lot of things. First time I met him he showed me an experiment that stuck with me.” Briefly, Jim outlined the experiment involving the two speakers.

Lorentz said, “It’s called co-phasing. It’s just simple waveform canceling—Oh! My goodness.”

Jim smiled at Lorentz as he saw realization dawn on the scientist’s face. “Exactly! The action of one waveform canceling out another.”

“How’s that going to help us?” asked Adrianna.

“It’s really kind of simple. If we can set up and transmit a second tachyon stream equal and opposite to the one that’s heading toward us, it should have the same canceling effect as the sound waves from the speakers.”

“In theory,” said Lorentz.

“Will it stop the slip?” asked Mabry.

“Dead in its tracks,” answered Jim, and then echoed Lorentz, “In theory.”

It was stupendous, magnificent news.

Lorentz pushed open the door to his office and sat down in the plush leather chair. Finally, there was hope. The burden of responsibility had weighed so very terribly on his mind, and Jim’s news was like a glimmer of light to a man trapped deep beneath the earth. It represented freedom from his personal prison, the chance to redeem himself for his own miserable failure. But most of all it symbolized hope for the billions of men, women, and children who would never know just how close the human race had come to being finally run.

Picking up one of the three phones on his desk, Lorentz quickly punched in a set of numbers and waited for the person to answer.

“Hello,” he said, the call answered after just two rings. “I have wonderful news.”

A large mahogany desk occupied the center of the office, its plinth as bare and arid as an African desert, except for a telephone and an empty in/out tray. Seated in his black leather executive chair, Homeland Security Deputy Director John Humphreys replaced the telephone receiver into its cradle, his ample belly straining the fabric of the white button-down—collar shirt he wore beneath his three-piece suit. The aged leather of the chair creaked as he leaned back, his fingers steepled in front of his face while he stared distantly at the corner of his office.

He could not have hoped for better news; the President would be very pleased. Lorentz had sounded excited. He had begun to have some misgivings about the gap between the scientist’s intelligence and his actual capabilities. Humphreys was concerned the scientist could not handle the stress his position created and had come very close to removing him from his post. That was all behind them now and, for the first time, there was hope.

Reaching a pudgy hand to his desk, he pressed a button on the intercom system. “Ms. Brahms, would you come in please.”

No sooner had his finger left the machine than the door to the office swung open and a ramrod straight woman, gray hair tightly tied behind her head accentuating her sharp, bony features, entered the room, electronic notebook in hand.

In her early sixties, Ms. Brahms exuded a sense of perfect secretarial efficiency. Everything about her confirmed this was a woman of competence, from the stride of her walk and aloof jut of her chin, to the way she immediately took the seat on the opposite side of the bureaucrat’s desk and flipped open the screen of her notebook, her fingers paused over the keys ready to begin transcribing her boss’ words.