glass door, INERTIAL RESEARCH.
Bodenland’s judicious answers in response to her questions indicated that Schatzman had been properly briefed. He liked that, and her slightly plump forties-ish figure in a tailored suit which signalled to him that human nature survived under the official exterior.
Various important figures were gathered in the lab for the demonstration, including a backer from the Bull-Brunswick Bank. Bodenland introduced Schatzman to some of them while technicians made everything finally ready. As she was shaking hands with the Bank, one of Bodenland’s aides came up and spoke softly in Bodenland’s ear.
‘There’s an urgent call for you from Utah, Joe. Bernard Clift, the archaeologist. Says he has an important discovery.’
‘Okay, Mike. Tell Bernard I’ll call him back when possible.’
In the centre of the lab stood a glass cabinet much resembling a shower enclosure. Cables ran into it from computers and other machines, where two assistants stood by a switchboard. The hum of power filled the air, lending extra tension to the meeting.
‘You have all the technical specifications of the inertial disposal principle in our press and video pack, Miss Schatzman,’ Bodenland said. ‘If you have no questions there, we’ll move straight into the demonstration.’
As he spoke, he gave a sign and an assistant in a lab coat dragged forward a black plastic bag large enough to contain a man.
Waldgrave explained, ‘The bag is full of sand, nothing more. It represents a consignment of nuclear or toxic waste.’
The bag was shut in the cabinet, remaining in full view through the glass as computers briefly chattered their calculations.
‘Energy-consumption rates are high at present. This is just a prototype, you appreciate. We hope to lower tolerances in the next part of the programme, when we have the okay from your department,’ Bodenland said. ‘Obviously energy-input is related to mass of substance being disposed of.’
‘And I see you’re using solar energy in part,’ Schatzman said.
‘The corporation has its own satellite, which beams down the energy to our dishes here in Dallas.’
Waldgrave got the nod from his boss. He signalled to the controls technician, who pressed the Transmit pad.
The interior of the cabinet began to glow with a blue-mauve light.
Two large analogue-type clocks with sweep-hands were visible, one inside the cabinet, one on a jury-rig outside, facing the first one. The sweep hand of the clock in the cabinet stopped at 10.16. At the same time, the clock itself began to disappear. So did the black plastic bag. In a moment it was gone. The cabinet appeared to be empty.
A brief burst of applause filled the room. Bodenland appeared noticeably less grim.
The party went to have drinks in a nearby boardroom, all tan leather upholstery and dracaena plants in bronze pots. There was a jubilation in the air which even the formality of the occasion did not kill.
As she sipped a glass of Perrier, Schatzman said, ‘Well, Mr Bodenland, you appear to have invented the long-awaited time machine, no less.’
He looked down into his vodka. So the woman was a fool after all. He had hoped for better. This woman was going to have to present his case before her committee in Washington; if she could reach such a basic misunderstanding after studying all the documentation already sent to her over the computer line, the chances for government approval of his invention were poor.
‘Not a time machine, Ms Schatzman. As we’ve made clear, our new process merely halts time-decay – much as refrigeration, let’s say, slows or halts bacterial action. We found a sink in real time. The bag in the cabinet disappeared because it became suddenly stationary with regard to universal time-decay. It remained – it remains at 10.16 this morning. We are the ones who are travelling forward in time, at the rate of twenty-four hours a day. The bag remains forever where we put it, at 10.16. We can reach back and retrieve it if necessary, though the expenditure of energy increases geometrically as we progress further from entry point.
‘The inertial disposal process is far from being a time-machine. It is almost the reverse.’
Ms Schatzman did not greatly enjoy being talked down to. Perhaps her remark had been intended humorously. ‘The department will need to enquire into what happens to substances isolated in 10.16, or any other time. It would be irresponsible simply to isolate considerable amounts of toxic waste in time with no clear picture of possible consequences.’
‘How long do you estimate such an enquiry might take?’
‘We’re talking about something unprecedented, a disturbance in the natural order.’
‘Er – not if you have an understanding of the science of Chaos.’
She understood she had been snubbed. ‘An enquiry will of course occupy some weeks.’
Bodenland took a generous swig of his vodka and inclined his head in her direction.
‘The disposal of toxic waste represents one of the world’s most pressing problems, Ms Schatzman. No one wants the stuff. Only a decade ago the cost of disposal of nuclear waste as prescribed by US law was $2,500 per tonne. It’s twenty times higher now, and rising. Only last week the death of a whole village through the dumping of an illegally manufactured pesticide, Lindane, was reported in Bulgaria.
‘That’s where we come in. Bodenland Industries have developed a foolproof way of ridding the world of such evils. All we need is your department’s clearance. You must persuade your committee not to stand in the way of progress.’
She pronounced the last word at the same moment as he did. ‘Progress,’ echoing it ironically. ‘“Progress” cannot be achieved at the expense of safety. You’re familiar with that concept. It’s what we call the Frankenstein Syndrome.’ She attempted lightness of tone. ‘You know the Department will do what it can, Mr Bodenland. You also know how thoroughly this new advance will have to be investigated. We have our responsibilities – there are security aspects, too. May I suggest that meanwhile you turn your inventive mind to other matters?’
‘Sure,’ he said, setting his glass down and rising. ‘I’m going to turn my inventive mind to being a late guest at my son’s wedding.’
A jazz band was playing an arrangement of ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’ when Joe Bodenland entered the main reception rooms of the Gondwana Ranch, the home in which he and Mina had lived for a decade. At present it was full of flowers and guests.
Some of the wedding guests were dancing, some drinking, and some no doubt otherwise engaged. The caterers hired for the occasion were bearing savoury and sweet dishes to and fro, while the popping of champagne corks could be heard above the noise of the band.
Bodenland exchanged compliments and good wishes with a number of family friends as he made his way to where Larry Bodenland stood with his bride, receiving congratulations.
Kylie greeting Joe warmly enough, flinging her arms round his neck and kissing him on the mouth. Kylie was a beautiful girl with a round face on which good features were set wide apart, giving her a singularly open appearance. Joe had already discovered that Kylie was no mere innocent. She had – beside the considerable fortune accruing from her father’s transport
