keeping it together.
“I’ll do what I can, Laslo. But, what happened?”
“I’d rather explain in person. Could we meet?”
“Sure, Laslo. Where?”
“Maybe I could come to your place. Okay?”
“I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “When?”
“Now would be best.” There was a long pause on the other end. “I know it sounds strange, but I’ll explain when you get here. Oh, and I need you to pick me up. I’ll be outside the Metro Center station.” With that Laslo hung up, distracted by a serious looking man who glanced over as he walked by.
Marion stared at the phone, still processing the strangeness of the call. She had always admired Laslo for his logic and efficiency. Now he sounded so distraught. Still, he had called her. She knew right away she would help him, and grabbed her keys on the way out the door.
When her gray Honda rolled into the Metro parking lot, there was no sign of Laslo. She pulled into a space and waited. Laslo watched nervously from behind a bench, scanning the area to see if she had been followed. When he felt reasonably certain she wasn’t, he popped up from behind the bench and walked quickly to the passenger side of the Honda and got in.
“Thank you so much,” he said, huffing with relief. He was wild-eyed and his hair stuck out all over the place. He launched right into the story and spoke as coherently as he could. He told her about Hangtime and the algorithm he had worked out to allow him to control his attention sufficiently to take advantage of his discovery. He explained how it was similar to the way slowing down a film allows the observer to experience more detail. In that case, the observer normally has a narrow window of time to observe, so the film must be slowed for him to see more of it. However, if the person could stretch his attention across more of the consecutive moments of an experience and thus span them simultaneously, time itself would slow for him. When you sit looking out a window and see something go by it appears to move faster than if you stand outside and can watch it with a panoramic view. Many great athletes have described the phenomena, but no one had thought of a way to gain control of it until now.
She listened intently, saying nothing.
When he was done he took a deep breath and said, “You better say something.”
She smiled, and said, “I think you are amazing.”
Laslo blushed, and then, remembering the impossible spot he was in, put his head in his hands. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Whatever it is, Laslo, you can count on me.”
For the first time in his life Laslo didn’t feel alone. “You don’t know how much that means to me right now. Could we go to your place? They’ll be watching mine, but they won’t think to look for me at yours.”
Marion agreed, so they headed to her townhouse in Tacoma Park. Once inside, Laslo closed all the blinds and, feeling secure for the moment, sat down to think. His practice spanning had given him an increased ability to extrapolate events. At this point, there was no putting the lid on his discovery. He figured that his one option was to go public. Getting the amazing ability he had developed into everyone’s hands would at least level the playing field and slow down the special interests from monopolizing it toward their own ends. He needed to break the story in a big way that would effectively make it available across all media. That kind of exposure might afford him some temporary protection, although it could also be a death sentence if the military and NSA decided he was expendable.
He was trying to re-work the plan when a delectable smell invaded his nose. He heard Marion tinkering in the kitchen. Laslo realized he didn’t know the last time he had eaten, and followed the smell.
“I thought you might be hungry. Want a burger?” asked Marion.
“A burger—I could probably eat a half dozen.”
“Coming right up.”
“No, really, one will be fine.”
While they ate, Laslo studied Marion’s face in the scientific manner he observed most things. He noted the symmetry of her features, even did a few geometric calculations of distances—eyes, nose, chin, etc. She had large wide-set green eyes and a perfect straight nose. What he could not calculate was the warm feeling he got looking at her, the heightened interest he had in the curve of her neck, and the dance her eyes seemed to do whenever she looked at him.
“How about putting it on the internet?” suggested Marion.
“That would be too anonymous, too easy to ignore or invalidate. Besides the internet is so vast, a post there would drown in the sea of data. I think a television station will be our best bet.”
“Why don’t we just call the station and tell them the story?”
“We could, but they’d have the option to delay airing, or not air it at all, either of which won’t do us much good. We need to get it on the air, because now that the NSA is onto this, all hell’s gonna break loose. I’m thinking we go to Channel 9, the CBS affiliate. They’re owned by Gannett. That should ensure national coverage.” They discussed the options, and Marion offered to be the one to bring the material to the station, since there might be alerts out on Laslo.
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I really shouldn’t have got you mixed up in this mess.”
“It’s too late for that. I’m going to do it,” Marion insisted.
“Then I’m going with you,” Laslo insisted right back.
First, they contacted the program manager at Channel 9 to whet his appetite with a brief outline of Laslo’s breakthrough and a promise of a live demonstration. They would also give Channel 9 an exclusive as long as the story had legs, providing he gave assurance that they could go on the air live tonight. He sounded interested but said he would have to rearrange some scheduling and get back to them.
While they waited for his call, Laslo had Marion set up her computer so he could record the details of Hangtime, including the algorithmic formula that made it all possible. First, Laslo reconstructed the data from memory and they recorded it. Next, he did a demonstration in the living room of Marion’s townhouse using her Sony HD wide-angle camcorder.
They stood side by side, and Marion reluctantly threw one of her china cups toward the far wall. She was amazed to see Laslo flash across the room and casually catch the cup with one hand.
“Not bad, huh?” said Laslo, beaming with success.
Any doubts Marion might have had evaporated. Marion loaded the recording onto her computer, burned it all to disc and popped it into a plastic case. “Like I said, you are amazing.” She handed Laslo the disc, and then gave him a peck on the cheek. He blushed and fidgeted with the disc. The phone rang, interrupting the moment. It was the program manager. They were on for tonight at eight o’clock. Laslo looked relieved for the first time, and Marion started chatting enthusiastically about Hangtime. Laslo listened and smiled.
They arrived at the Channel 9 studio in Tenleytown at eight, prepared to show the DVD and for Laslo to be interviewed afterward on its contents. What they did not know was that when the program manager had given them the go ahead, he had already seen a bulletin from the NSA to be alert for one Dr. Laslo Reingard or anything to do with time manipulation, and he had reported it once they were in the studio. He figured he could scoop the story and get it on the air before the government had time to get there. Then he would film the capture and have an exclusive that would rocket the station’s ratings. What he did not know was how fast and how decisively the NSA would act, or that they had no intention of letting any data on time spanning make it onto news channels. In fact since 9/11 and the Patriot Act, the NSA had authority to take over the station at a moment’s notice and shut down all transmissions. The broadcast was supposed to air at 8:30, with the on-air interview of Dr. Reingard at 9:00. Neither one happened.
A caravan of government vehicles arrived within minutes of the program manager’s call, and NSA agents swarmed around and into the building like ants. A half dozen men entered the studio, and were closing in on the broadcast booth. Marion
was giving the DVD to the technician, when Laslo noticed the men who had quietly stepped inside the large studio. He was behind the technician’s booth in a makeup chair being prepped. When Marion saw the men closing in she looked frantically at Laslo through the glass partition that separated them. Then she shook her head slightly from side to side, knowing they both were not going to get out of there. Laslo hesitated and felt sick to his stomach, but he could not disagree, no matter how much he wanted to. He concentrated on the entire scene and began to span. He saw what he had to do.
“Is there a back door out of the building?”
The makeup artist, a foppish man about 30, pointed to a dark metal door at the rear. His hand was visibly shaking from fright. “That’s a door into the alley.”
“Do you have a car?”
“I keep my makeup van in the lot across the alley for doing mobile shoots.”
“Give me the keys,” Laslo ordered, slipping out of the chair. “Sit down in the makeup chair and don’t say a word. You’ll be safe there, unless you see a man with a gun. Got it?”
The makeup man nodded nervously, and sat in the chair. There was a bright lamp lighting the makeup chair, making the areas beside and behind it harder to see by contrast. The agents had already spotted Marion, but only the makeup artist was clearly visible in the prepping area behind the technician’s booth.
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