Twice Upon A Time

Part One

Following the pointing crooked finger

On a gnarled and shaking hand

I stared across the sweeping plains

Of a barren and empty land

"See riders up there on that ridge?

Must be a dozen or so."

The old cowman's cataract and faded eyes

Stayed my reply of, "No"

Blinking hard against the strain

My eyelids squeezed out tears

Then I saw them, not across the miles,

But there, across the years

November 30, 2005

Fearful apprehension haunted the faces of the two

adult occupants of ultra sterile quarantine rooms as they

paced restlessly about the brightly lit, very private, test

lab. A third person, an effervescent young lady of,

perhaps, sixteen, with luxurious auburn hair hanging

down to her slim waist, presented a look of suppressed

excitement. Her blue eyes sparkled as she alternated her

gaze from her nervous senior companions to a rather large

volume she scanned with apparent preoccupation. The

trio wore thin synthetic one-piece white suits, which clung

to their bodies like a painted veneer. Short anklet socks

and gloves of the same material served as foot wear and

hand protection.

Outside the chamber, separated by an imposing wall

of one way plate glass, a second group of people in

various stages of anxiety struggled to restore a

communications link with the quarantined area. Two

communications experts exchanged verbal innuendo as to

who might be responsible for the glitch. The elder of the

pair, a no longer pretty woman of forty-something, ranted,

while her colleague, a beleaguered man perhaps half her

age, frantically sorted through a black Platt laden with test

equipment and tools. Meanwhile, Otto Kronburger, a

slight framed balding fellow wearing heavy dark rimmed

spectacles and a white lab coat, sought the source of the

damage. Kronburger was aided by his younger, similarly

clad assistant, Larry Doolittle. The professionals

remained calm though they were under far more pressure

than the quarrelling pseudo-technicians behind them.

Removed from the immediate area, a tall,

distinguished gentleman with a full head of dark hair

―showing only a hint of grey― and wearing an

expensive three-piece suit, conversed in low tones with the third member of the lab coat threesome. Tom O'Brien

acted as liaison for this highly covert project and through

him funding from government coffers had been made

possible. O'Brien, now in his fifties, had spent most of his

career in the federal government circle. His most recent

post, prior to taking interest in this project, had been

Canada's ambassador to the United States. Known and

trusted by Canadians nationwide, 'Tom O'Brien' had

become a household word in his homeland and, in fact,

throughout the political world.

"If the comm. link is not restored in time, they know

the drill, Tom," Bill Spencer, the director in chief, spoke

with unconvincing assurance. "When the green opal lights

up they will move into their assigned TDSM's and the

dimension shift will begin. Remember, we've done this

successfully thirty-six times without failure," he added.

Tom O'Brien glanced at the digital countdown timer

stationed above the heads of the communications duo.

"Seventeen minutes," he said. "I would have liked to say

one more last minute goodbye."

"Well, you'll be able to say 'hello' in," the scientist did

a quick mental calculation, "75 minutes. That is when

they return, although they'll have been gone fifteen years

in shift time."

"Fifteen years!" Tom repeated. "Shift 58 minutes and

add 15 years to your life? I just cannot wrap my head

around that. Indeed, a brief time in history."

"An abstract application of what physicists refer to as

the Twin Paradox. Incredible, isn't it?" the project director

said.

Spencer stepped toward the quarrelling

communications people.

"…You're the pathetic one, Sandy!" the young man

shouted. "At least I've gotten this far without losing my

pants!"