Open Writing

*
Geneva, Switzerland
August, 2034

Werner Hartwig replaced the old-fashioned ornate white and gold telephone in its cradle and allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. The traitor had been taken care of, and the potential leak had been plugged. The call he had just received had been from one of his agents in America, in California, in fact. He moved across his suite in the Hotel D’Angleterre, on the Quai du Mont Blanc, with its magnificent views of the famous mountain and Lake Geneva.

The “English” hotel, as it was known popularly, featured sumptuously appointed rooms, with marble bathrooms and all communications fixtures, including telephone, fax, internet and cable television. Werner Hartwig, however, was not one to take advantage of this last; television held no interest for him, save as a medium for receiving information.

Hartwig, a tall man in his early 40s with close-cropped fair hair and bland, humorless features, carried the telephone to the king-sized bed and sat on the edge. He lifted the receiver and was connected with the hotel reception. “I wish to make a call to Paris,” he said in perfect German. He gave the number, then replaced the receiver. Seconds later, the phone rang. Hartwig lifted the receiver, put it to his ear and listened, then said in French, “It’s done.” Then he replaced the receiver and returned the phone to the ornate table.

With a small sigh of satisfaction, he opened the room’s mini-bar and removed a half bottle of Dom Perignon and a chilled champagne flute, into which he poured some of the bubbling liquid. Smiling, he raised the glass in a silent toast and sipped. Then he telephoned downstairs again and made a reservation for dinner. He had no company on this trip, and would be dining alone. Werner Hartwig was a man who preferred his own company, and required no dinner companion. Draining the glass, he headed for the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he went.

* * * *

Half a world away, Steve Chappel was preparing for the scheduled trip up the coast to the Los Angeles airport, from where he would catch a flight to Berlin, Germany. His former professor and mentor, who had tutored him in his minor, physics, had called the previous day. Professor Seartell had been excited, although he wouldn’t go into detail on the phone; he would say only that a great discovery had been made that would change the world.

Since the professor was not normally given to exaggeration, Steve agreed to meet Seartell at Berlin’s Templehof airport. He was still shaken by the event he had seen on the highway, and thought it might be good to get away for a while. What the professor was doing in Germany, Steve had no idea, but the old man had been insistent. So Steve would go and meet with him; he felt he owed that courtesy. Then he would see if his old tutor really had something, or if he had finally cracked. Which, thought Steve, given his somewhat eccentric nature, was not outside the bounds of possibility.

* * * *

With nothing to declare, and despite stringent security precautions, Steve exited German customs after only a half-hour or so, and went into the main concourse. People bustled around him as he stood uncertainly searching the crowd. Then he heard a familiar voice hail him.
“Stephen, my boy, how good to see you again!”

Steve smiled at the man descending the steps toward him. “Hello, Professor. It’s good to see you, too.” They shook hands and Steve took a moment to examine his old mentor.

Professor Julius Seartell, to Steve’s eye, hadn’t changed much in the seven years since Steve was his student. Steve tried to initiate conversation, but Seartell hustled him out of the airport, saying he preferred to wait until they were “safely behind closed doors.” Accustomed to the old man’s eccentricities, Steve made no objection, and when they had settled into the new Willy Brandt Hotel on Kurfurstendamm, the professor said he would explain it all over dinner. They arranged to meet in the hotel’s dining room at 7:30, which gave Steve two hours to shower and rest after the long flight from L.A.

* * * *

Steve walked into the hotel’s sumptuous dining room precisely at 7:30, and the maitre’d ushered him to the table where the professor was waiting. Steve had dressed casually, with a light jacket over an open-necked shirt and gray slacks, and the professor wore his customary tweed suit and dark blue bow tie. Steve sat and accepted a menu from the waiter, and looked expectantly at his friend as the waiter walked away. “Well, is this alone enough for you, professor?” he asked lightly.

Seartell looked around the room in a manner appropriate to a spy movie. “Best wait until we’ve ordered, I think,” he said, and Steve was obliged to wait until they had plates of excellent German food in front of them before the professor would say more.

“Sorry about all the cloak and dagger, Stephen,” the old man said. “You’ll understand when you hear what I’ve turned up.” He ate a forkful of food, closed his eyes in appreciation, then began to speak in a low voice. “A few months ago, a colleague of mine, Orville Windsor, came to me with a rather radical idea. He had been conducting research into a subject that I had also had more than a passing interest; quantum physics. He put forward an interesting hypothesis, one that concerned the idea of multiple universes, and which also embraced the possibility of time travel.”

He held up his hand to forestall Steve’s objection, which the younger man was about to form. “I know, all of my training, and yours, too, although I know physics was your minor, says that such a thing as time travel is not possible. Einstein said so and, until recently, I believed it.” He looked around the restaurant, and then continued. “But things have happened which I cannot ignore, Stephen, things which I have witnessed personally.”

“Like what?” Steve said, fascinated.

“Orville developed a…portal, I suppose is the best way to describe it, which we both believed to be a doorway between universes, a kind of overlapping of dimensions. It took a most unexpected form; quite frankly, when Orville showed it to me, it frightened the living bejeezus out of me.”

Steve leaned forward; the professor had begun to speak more quietly, and the younger man strained to hear.

“It was a black hole, Stephen, a singularity created in the laboratory. How Orville did it, he never got around to explaining; hopefully, it may not be too late.” Seartell sat back in his chair.

Steve asked, puzzled, “What do you mean, too late? Why?”

The older man looked across the table absently, then seemed to pull himself out of a reverie. “Oh, er, Orville was killed several days ago. Car accident, I believe.” He looked at Steve, animation in his face. “Somewhere near your neck of the woods, I think, near Monterey.”

Steve stared at the man. “A car accident? On the coast highway?”

Seartell glanced at him. “Yes, that’s right. Why, do you know something about it?”

Steve nodded. “I think I might have seen it.” He described what he saw. “It was odd, though,” he said. “It seemed to be a one car incident. Do you have any idea what happened?”

The professor looked gravely at the younger man. “There was no other vehicle involved, Stephen. His car exploded. The police say it was a bomb.”

Steve stared. “A bomb? Jesus.” He shivered. “That’s…creepy.”

Seartell nodded. “Exactly. I think it’s too much to assume it had nothing to do with his discovery. Too much of a coincidence.”

Steve frowned. “What about his…portal, was it?” Seartell nodded. “What happened to it? Where is it?”
Seartell smiled slightly. “Well, fortunately, Orville was able to explain enough of its theory for me to dismantle the actual portal. I hid the parts in various places on the Stanford campus.” He patted one of his bags on the floor next to the table. “The theory itself, I have here.”

Steve stared, then glanced around the room. “Better keep that under wraps, professor.”

Seartell nodded, then went back to his breakfast.

“So, what am I doing here, exactly, Professor? Why did you send for me?”

Seartell set down his knife and fork and leaned forward. “I have a contact here in Germany, Stephen. He’s actually Orville’s grandson, an MIT grad in theoretical physics. He worked on the device with Orville, and I think it’s reasonable to assume he could be in some danger, given what happened to his grandfather.”

Steve grunted. “No shit.”

The professor nodded. “Yes, well…Anyway, he’s been carrying on the work; keeping the dream alive, as he puts it, for the memory of his grandfather. He’s operating out of a secret laboratory here in Berlin; we have an appointment with him in…” he glanced at his watch… “one hour. We’d best get moving.”

Steve sat back in his chair and made a ‘time out’ sign with his hands. “Back up here, Professor. What’s this ‘we’ stuff? What appointment? As a matter of fact, why am I here?” Before Seartell could answer, Steve went on. “Look, I agreed to come all this way to meet you here because of our past association, and the esteem in which I hold you. But…I didn’t expect to be dragged into some kind of conspiracy or whatever. I mean, someone has been killed, Professor, and if the bomb theory is right, then it was murder.” Steve leaned forward, and his voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “I don’t believe we ought to be going off on some kind of crusade. I think it’s time to go to the authorities, and let them handle this.”

Seartell regarded the younger man for a moment. “What makes you think these authorities are the right people to ‘handle’ this, as you put it? How do you know they’re not the ones who had Orville killed?”

Steve stared at him. “What? You think it’s all a conspiracy?” The Professor opened his mouth, but Steve hurried on. “And I suppose Oswald didn’t kill JFK, and his brother was shot by his security guards, and John Lennon was a clone who was shot after the real one was beamed up by aliens.”

The Professor sat with his mouth closed, regarding Steve.

“Forgive my rudeness,” Steve said. “I know your colleague’s death was a terrible shock, but usually there’s more than one explanation. Terrorists are always threatening to strike at Americans; maybe they just chose his car at random. Who knows?”

The Professor regarded Steve, “Then you will not help me? You are going to get on a plane and just go home?”

Steve looked at the older man, for whom he had so much respect. Two factions warred inside him; finally, loyalty won out over better judgment. “No, I’m not. I’ll come with you, at least to meet with this guy…what’s his name?”

The professor sat forward, a smile on his face. “Thank you. Trottman, Graham Trottman. He’s Australian.” At Steve’s unspoken query, Seartell rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask. I never could figure out Oliver’s family tree.”

Steve nodded dubiously. “Where do we meet him?”

* * * *

Graham “Trotter” Trottman sat in the Baumgardt Biergarten, waiting for Steve and the Professor. This young genius was the only child of a well-to-do couple in Queensland, Australia in 2012, and raised in the Surfer’s Paradise suburb of Southport. IQ tests revealed that Graham was rated above genius level, and the Australian government made arrangements to assure that he received the best education they could provide. Minds like Graham’s were rare, his parents were told, and the government would pick up the tab for the boy’s schooling.

The physical world fascinated Trotter from the start, and after earning his degree in physics at age 15, he moved into the rarified world of theoretical physics, and quantum studies. At the time, the world’s leading thinkers were beginning to take seriously the idea of parallel universes, which some scientists and most science fiction writers had been doing for some time, and Trotter was posted to a government facility in Canberra. There, he mixed with thinkers of his own level, and for the next three years he immersed himself in the dazzling waters of quantum physics.

Australian and American governments had always maintained close ties, and soon this brilliant young man was sent to the United States to further his work. There, he met like-minded young people who shared his fascination with the abstract, and came under the tutelage of his ‘uncle’, Professor Julius Seartell. Together, they advanced the professor’s work on multiple dimensions, and eventually the breakthrough to the discovery of a portal was made.

* * * *

The Baumgardt Biergarten was at the eastern or opposite end of the boulevard Unter den Linden from the Brandenburg Gate. Hidden from passing tourists, as if discouraging their custom, its entrance was all but obscured from the street, and had to be accessed through an alleyway beside a small tobacconist’s shop.

Steve and Seartell entered the cozy, uncrowded place; its pergola-like ceiling overgrown with jasmine vines lent an ambient fragrance to the place that the younger man found relaxing and, in fact, quite delightful.

He followed Seartell across the open space to one of the bars set into the wall and they ordered steins of Lowenbrau, a German lager that Steve thought he could really get to like. After receiving their drinks from the bartender, they carried them across to a table in the middle of the room, where a solitary figure sat hunched over a stein. They reached the table, and Seartell sat without invitation; Steve did the same, and waited until the professor spoke.

“Hello, Graham. I’m very sorry about Orville.”

The young man seated opposite the professor looked up, and Steve was immediately struck with just how young he was. He can’t be more than about 18, he thought. How much can this guy know about quantum physics? Unless he’s some kind of child prodigy or something…

The young man appeared to be of average height, with blonde hair and eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. He wore jeans, a plain white tee shirt, and a Mickey Mouse watch. He looked at them for a moment, then said quietly, “They killed him, Uncle Julius. They didn’t have his genius, so they killed him for it. He said he was going to blow the whistle, unmask their man, and they killed him.”

Seartell reached across the able and patted the young man’s arm. “I know, son. I know.”

They sat quietly for a moment, then Seartell turned to Steve. “Stephen, I’d like you to meet Orville’s grandson, Graham Trottman. Graham, this is Stephen Chappel, a former student of mine.”

The two men shook hands, and Steve said, “Call me Steve, Graham.”

The younger man nodded. “G’day, Steve. I’m Trotter.”

Steve nodded back. “Sorry for your loss, Trotter.”

The Australian smiled gratefully. “You’re thinking I’m too young to be a physicist, aren’t you?”

Steve smiled. “I didn’t think I was that obvious.”

Trotter shook his head. “You’re not. I’m just very perceptive. For the record, I’m 22, and I’ve got an IQ of 190. Anyway, thanks for the kind words.” He turned to Seartell. “So, Uncle Julius. What now?”

Seartell looked at Steve, then back to Trotter. “Well, ah, I was rather hoping you might be able to suggest our next course of action, Graham. You, and perhaps Steve, here.”

Trotter smiled grimly. “Well, I think you know what I’d like to do.” He waited a beat; then, when neither of them spoke, said, “Use the device, of course. Find this parallel world where the Nazis won the war, and…”

“Whoa, time out,” said Steve. “Where the who did what?”

Trotter glanced at the professor. “Didn’t you tell him anything?”

When Seartell looked down at the table, the younger man continued. “Okay, I guess we’d better fill him in, then.” He turned to face Steve. “First of all, you do know about the device, don’t you?”

Steve nodded, and Trotter said, “Cool. Now, we—Uncle Julius, Granddad, and I—built a prototype at our lab here in Berlin.” He glanced at Seartell. “Our first big mistake, as it turned out. Then, when we’d exhausted all theoretical avenues, and sent enough mice and whatever through the thing, Granddad went through it.”

Steve looked at him sharply. “You mean Orville Windsor was the first man to visit a parallel universe? It’s actually been done?”

Trotter and Seartell nodded, and Trotter said, “Yeah, we had to pre-set his time over there because we had no automatic return device to bring him back. Actually, we set it for just five minutes, just long enough for him to have a look around, but because of…well, a lot of things that we didn’t take into account, our five minutes turned out to be almost an hour over there.”

Steve nodded uncertainly, “Wow, go on.”

“When he returned,” Trotter resumed, “he told us he’d been to a Germany where the Nazis had won the Second World War. Armed soldiers everywhere, Jews in chains, slaves to the Fourth Reich, the whole tamale.” The young man looked intently at them levelly. “Good job he wasn’t Jewish, I suppose. He said it was the most horrible vision of the future he’d ever seen. Of course, it was made all the more horrible by the fact that it was real, even if it was in another dimension.

“He said he had to hide for the entire hour that he spent there, in case he ran into any of the soldiers. He had no ID, and the last thing he wanted was to be picked up and subjected to their tender mercies. And you know the strangest thing?”

The others shook their heads. “There were huge billboards everywhere of Hitler and Borman and the rest, but the most honor seemed to be reserved for, of all people, Rudolph Hess. There were statues of him everywhere, on the streets, in parks, everywhere. It was as though he was revered even more than Adolph.”

Steve and looked at the Trotter keenly. “Hess? But he…things must have gone very differently in that universe.”

“Oliver returned after only about five minutes had elapsed here,” Seartell picked up the narrative, “and thereafter refused to repeat the experience. He also forbade either Graham or me to use the device until he had had time to study it further.” The Professor’s expression grew sad and distant. “He and I returned to the States, leaving Graham here to continue his postgrad studies, and to also keep an eye on things here. Oliver called me the morning of his…the morning he was killed, and said he had made an important discovery and that he was on his way to Germany. He said he would leave the country via San Diego/Tijuana and fly out of Mexico.”

Seartell’s expression turned bleak. “He said he would explain when he saw me next. I told him I would meet him here after I tied up a few loose ends at home. I never saw him again.”

The Professor looked down at the table, then up again. “The Monterey Highway Patrol called me; Oliver had one of my cards in his wallet.” He smiled sadly. “It was something we were experimenting with; a new type of fireproof substance. Evidently, he had a piece of it in his wallet, and it had protected some of the contents from the flames when his car…. Well, anyway, I made the arrangements for his funeral, called Graham, then contacted you, Stephen. The rest you know.”

* * * *

Steve sat in silence for a moment, then said, “Graham, do you have a contact here in Berlin? Someone you can trust? Really trust?”

Trotter nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, for sure. There’s a guy I met at Berlin Tech; Berlin Technical University. He’s one of the professors there, and he’s been helping me on the project.”
Steve nodded. “Sounds good. We’d better meet with him, see if he has any fresh ideas. What’s he like? What’s his name?”

Trotter smiled. “You’ll like him, he’s a really cool guy. His name’s Werner. Werner Hartwig.”