Trying to prevent his wife's death, Ronald Aikens, a scientist, enters a paradox of time travel where he must witness his wife's death over and over unless rescued. Carl, a research analyst and Sheila, a niece of Aikens join forces to attempt to rescue him and others and run into difficulties that almost destroy them.. NOTA: El libro no está en español, sino en inglés.
The Vortex
By Robert R. DozierAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Robert R. Dozier
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4685-6610-9Chapter One
"I'm still not happy about having our New Year's party at the lab."
"Ron, you'll have to understand my father. He's just an old romantic."
"But it's sixty-five miles up there! And in the middle of winter yet!"
Ron Aikens and his wife, Betty, were arguing in their bedroom while frantically trying to get dressed for the party. Both were late starting. Ron had attended a meeting that had dragged on and on. Betty had arrived back from the lab with her mother after spending the afternoon hanging bunting and balloons. Her mother, Denise, had driven and was the slowest driver imaginable. Curiously, she thought this was safer than driving the speed limit. The result was a rushed dinner, and hurried preparations for the party. To add to that they had their first argument over, no less, an old boyfriend.
"Dad's just doing this to celebrate the continuation of our contract with the government," Betty explained, "and he thought it appropriate to have everyone at the lab. He said your Counter was the convincing argument."
Ron smiled, thinking of Louis Abrums speaking to a subcommittee in Washington. Yes, he would be modest about his modifiable laser radar and push the electron counter Ron and Hank had built. But in reality, the laser radar was the marvel of the work. Intended as a radar that could identify the composition of its target, it seemed to be something else. Its effect on solids was something no one could understand.
"Your father is quite the man," Ron said smiling, then after glancing at his watch his smile waned, "and he hates people not being on time. We've got to rush- the party begins at 9:00."
The couple hurriedly put on the last of their clothes, and ran out of the bedroom. Betty came back, grabbing combs, brushes and make-up from her boudoir, and departed again.
Later, in the car, Betty asked: "How do I look?"
This was a question asked of husbands all over the world from time immemorial. There was, of course, only one answer if domestic peace was desired. Yet, when Ron looked at Betty he saw a truly lovely woman. Her light brown hair, that looked blond in the sunlight, was curled around her face accentuating the large brown eyes, straight nose and full lips of her mouth, which turned up just a tad at the corners, as if she was always slightly smiling. Married only a month, Ron was still amazed that such an intelligent, attractive woman could have accepted his proposal.
"You look fine, Sweetheart," he answered, knowing that he could say much more, but the question only asked so much. He'd have time later, he thought, to tell her what he really saw.
"How are we doing for time?" she asked.
Ron glanced at this watch.
"Damn! It's almost nine fifteen. We're late!"
He pushed the accelerator down to gain more speed but they were on government road E4, which led to the Kilgore Laboratories. This frustrated every attempt to hurry. It was a twisting, poorly paved road on the top of the El Capitan Bluff. Even cutting curves, Ron could not keep the car from leaning dangerously and skidding around corners.
"Ron!" Betty said with urgency. "It's not worth it! Slow down!"
Ron slowed a few miles an hour, but the tires still screeched as they slipped around the tight curves.
Going into a wider curve, they ran right up to an army six-by-six truck coming right at them skidding around the same curve. Ron jerked the car to the right while hitting the brakes but the right-hand wheels slipped off the road and the car topped over. It rolled over and over, throwing Ron out, trapping Betty inside and coming to rest upright, seventy-five feet below him, its engine smoking.
Cut and bruised, Ron picked himself up, calling Betty's name, and tried to run down to the car, tripping on sage brushes and falling heavily each time. He finally reached the car just as flames burst out from under the smashed hood.
"Betty!" he screamed, trying to open the passenger door. He couldn't control his right hand, so he switched to his left, but the door was jammed. He could see Betty, blood on her face, lying back in the seat, unconscious.
"Betty!" he screamed again. "Wake up! Help me get the door...."
The flames now spread to the rear of the car as the gasoline from the ruptured gas tank ignited. Desperate now, Ron tried to pound the glass in the window with his fist – then looking around, he could find no rock to smash his way in. He pounded helplessly with his left hand until he felt himself being pulled away from the car.
"You better get back sir," a young male voice shouted in his ear – "that car's going to blow." The driver of the army truck had finally reached Ron at the wreck.
"Let me go –I've got to...."
They were both thrown back by the blast as the gasoline tank exploded. The car was covered in flames.
"Betty! Betty!" Ron screamed. He sank down on his knees, the young soldier still holding on to him. He gave a final, despairing cry and fell down completely.
"Your arm's not broken sir, but you've torn many of your muscles and tendons." Nurse Angela Tafoya said as she gently adjusted the soft splint on Ron's right arm. "You should see your doctors in Albuquerque as soon as you can, and keep ice on your arm. None of these cuts and contusions is serious, but keep them clean and...." She stopped, and giving Ron a smile, stepped back as the doctor, a young man in his early thirties, arrived.
"Mr. Aikens? I'm Doctor Ramsay McCall. I've looked at your x-rays and found nothing broken. Your arm is your major injury, but it should begin healing soon. You'll have the use of it after some physical therapy. I've written a prescription for pain. You can pick up your pills at the pharmacy when you leave – that is, if you still want to go. I urge you to reconsider and give us a chance to check you out more thoroughly. A night here won't hurt anything, and...."
"I can't, Doctor. I've got to take care of things."
"Whatever, but Officer Montoya might be able to help."
"Thank you."
Ron eased himself up from the gurney, sore in every joint and tried to concentrate on each movement. He was still in shock over Betty's death, and this attention to details helped him go through the motions. As he walked out of the Emergency room into the lobby, Henry Barrows, his co-worker, burst through the entry doors.
"Ron! My God! Are you alright?"
"Hank – she's dead. I couldn't get to her."
"Abrums told me the whole ... Don't worry about that now. Travis is taking care of all those ... details. Here, let me get you home."
"But she was right there – just inside the car."
"Don't think about it right now Ron. Let's go home first."
"Mr. Aikens?" A young police officer approached the pair.
"Yes?"
"I'm Officer Montoya. Sgt. Jones has given me his account of what happened and he said ..."
"Look man." Hank answered sternly. "Mr. Aikens has lost his wife and was nearly killed himself. Can't this wait?"
"It's better if we get the infor ..."
"Officer," Dr. McCall interrupted. "Mr. Aikens is still in shock. I suggest you question him tomorrow."
"Yes Sir. I've got your address, Mr. Aikens, and I'll call tomorrow to see when we can fill out this accident report."
The two men were silent on the drive to Albuquerque with only a monosyllable now and then. Ron and Hank had courted Betty at the same time, and Hank felt almost the same sorrow as Ron over her death. Each had much mending to do.
As they arrived at Ron & Betty's house, 1214 Silver S. E., however, Ron broke down. It was 12:22 p.m. Less than four hours earlier he and Betty had rushed out to go to a party. Now everything, it seemed to Ron, was ruined. His whole world had changed.
As they came inside, Ron limped to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle.
"Shouldn't you go to bed?" Hank asked.
"I can't. My mind's too scrambled. You see – it was all my fault. I was driving too fast_"
"Don't torture yourself that way," Hank answered. "Look, I need a drink – want one?" He moved to his right where a small bar jutted out. The room stretched across the full width of the house. There were three openings off it: one into a dining room on the left; another into a staircase in the center; and the third into a hallway to the back of the house.
As the ice tinkled in the glasses, Ron continued, his hand shading his eyes. "She wanted me to slow down – in fact, those were her last words."
"It wasn't all your fault, Ron. Sergeant Jones said he was making a night run for supplies because the usual driver had messed up his schedule and couldn't do it himself. He's the one, incidentally, who saved your life by getting you away from the car. But if he hadn't been exactly at that curve at that time, this accident would...."
"And if Louis hadn't decided to have a contract celebration at the lab – and if I hadn't been such an idiot driving up there-and if we both hadn't been late starting- and- Oh hell!"
"Don't do this, Ron. You know that everything's interconnected. Your whole life was pointed to what happened tonight. You can't change the past, so stop hurting yourself this way."
Ron's head jerked up as an idea struck him.
"Can't change the past?"
"You know what I mean. It's an awful tragedy – it's terrible really – but you've got to get over it, and wondering this or...."
"But Hank – maybe I can change the past!"
"Wha ... you mean ... But that's only a theory! We don't know if the laser radar is a time machine!"
"But what else explains the disappearance of our test objects?"
"Abrums and Phillips believe it's a matter disintegrator – the objects were totally destroyed."
"None of the science supports that. How can an electron counter mounted on a laser radar do anything except count electrons – unless it replaces a few by its actions."
"We've been through this dozens of times, Ron. We just don't know."
"But for God's sake, Hank. Don't you see? In every test we counted the usual electron loss of our test objects, set our radar to count as well as to identify the substances we were experimenting with. SDI won't work unless the dummies can be separated from the real war-heads. In each case our specimens vanished – no traces whatever left behind. You're trying to say that they were destroyed – yet you know matter cannot be completely destroyed. It has to be a time machine."
"I don't see how you can leap to that conclusion. There must be a dozen other explanations."
"Remember experiment six. When we tried to add electrons to lead to make it uranium again? If uranium had "aged" to make lead, we were trying to restore its youth? "
"But those were only laboratory jokes – matter doesn't grow or...."
"That's not the point. What if we restored enough electrons to that specimen to mimic a state that specimen held in the past – would we not be sending it back to that time? And wouldn't that explain why it disappeared without any residue – trace or whatever? Maybe all aging is just electron loss."
"But Ron – why are we arguing this? You're not thinking of using the laser radar to go back...."
"That's exactly what I'm thinking. I can get a count on my electron loss and ..."
"But you don't know! You might be blasting your body to pieces for nothing!"
"What other chance does Betty have, Hank? If I don't do this, she's lost forever!"
"I won't have anything to do with this. You're committing suicide with nothing to gain!"
"You've got to help me, Hank! I've only got one arm and I'll need someone to focus.... I'll go back to the moments just before the crash and I'll slow down – won't be there when the truck ..."
"Oh God. What the hell are we thinking?"
"Help me, Hank! It's the only chance Betty has!"
Hank Barrows stared at his friend for long seconds, and taking a long swig from his drink, nodded his head.
22 YEARS, FOUR MONTHS LATER.
Alfredo Baca paced nervously back and forth in his tiny bedroom. He knew hiding or staying away wasn't fixing anything, yet he didn't know what else to do. Tonight, he felt more threatened than any time before and he knew he had to do something, but what that something was – he didn't know. He had stayed in bed for the past month, but the evil kept growing, even if he hadn't visited his hill.
Finally, as the little clock his daughter had given him showed it was a little after nine o'clock, he thought of an answer. Doctor Hawkins would know what to do, and tonight he would tell him everything. He hadn't told him before because he felt foolish about the whole thing, but now he knew the danger he faced was too great to go it alone. He needed help, and Doctor Hawkins was his only hope.
Throwing on a Levi jacket, Alfredo left his rented room and began the long walk to Doctor Hawkins's office. He had told Hawkins about the hill talking to him, and, to give the man credit, Hawkins had not laughed at him. But he hadn't told him everything: about the pictures in his mind: about the figures he had begun to see, about the screams and noises. Tonight, he would reveal everything.
Suddenly, Alfredo felt himself tugged, then pulled into the open fields. No, he shouted to himself, keep going, run! But the force was too strong. He tried to bend down as if he were resisting a strong wind, but the force rolled him over and over. Soon, in spite of his utmost efforts, his body no longer obeyed. He found himself running across the field. Pictures exploded in his mind: of a couple in a car, of a laboratory, of a crash down a hillside.
"No!" he shouted as loudly as he could, and he bent his will to stop his fevered rush. But it was all to no avail. It was as if he were in a strong gale blowing him directly ahead.
He tried to fall, to grasp the branches of the sage brushes– anything to stop his progress – but the force which impelled him was too strong. When he fell, his body continued to roll quickly forward. When he grabbed the sage, the branches were torn from his hands. It's the hill, he thought. The hill is calling me.
As his lungs gasped for air, his mind snapped back to when it had been before he was forced into this relentless rush. Was he in the laboratory? – in the house? – in the car? Images flooded through his mind accelerating and rushing together into an incomprehensible blur as he began to lose control of his thoughts. He tried to focus on anything, but pictures raced through his mind in a torrential flood as if a dam had burst and walled-up thoughts and images of everything that had happened in his life rushed into and flooded every corner of his mind. His breathing grew more and more labored and difficult. Bright flashes exploded behind his eyes, and dimly, above all the chaos in his mind he knew somehow that he could not keep up the pace – yet, he was pushed or drawn faster and faster into the night.
Finally, in the moonlight, he saw it – his hill – and his cave. But now the cave seemed like a huge, hungry, opened mouth waiting to swallow him. He gasped out a scream, tried to clutch the boulders at the bottom of the hill, but the force pulled him up the hill, over the boulders, and into the cave.
Two Hours And Fifty-Five Minutes Later.
Sheila Cavanaugh sat up in bed abruptly. There were those sounds again! Hurriedly, brushing her hair back and feeling for her slippers with her feet, she tried to think of a way out. Her bedroom was upstairs, there was only one way down, and the noises – or voices? – were in the living room, just at the bottom of the stairs. Last time, she had been in the dining room and had run out the back door – but now she felt trapped. What to do?
Aunt Elizabeth's gun was in her room – down the hall, but what if some floor boards creaked when she went after it? Even at that, could she actually use it? Could she shoot someone? But then, she wasn't really sure there was anyone downstairs at all. While the noises sounded like voices – they were voices a long way off. And they sort of rose and fell, like the volume was turned up and then down.
Carefully, she approached the stairwell and looked down. It was dark. No one had turned on a light. Steeling herself, she took one carpeted step after the other, listening to the strange noises all the while. Once, a stair did squeak, and she held her breath, waiting for a cessation of sounds to indicate whoever or whatever was making the noises downstairs had heard her. After twenty or so seconds, when the noises showed no interruptions, she exhaled slowly, and continued her slow decent.
Finally, at the bottom landing she peered around the wall corner and tried to see what was making the noises. The room was dark. A faint light from the windows on the street side outlined a few pieces of furniture, but as far as she could tell there was no one there.
Gathering her courage, she felt around the wall for the light switches, prepared to run back up the stairs if need be. Her fingers found the switch, and, before her courage failed her, she switched on the light.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Vortexby Robert R. Dozier Copyright © 2012 by Robert R. Dozier. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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