The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter SIX

Andermatt, Central Alps

Switzerland

March 25

7.05 A: M



The man reminded Blake of the quintessential Colonel Klink. Conversation was minimal during their drive from the hotel to the private hangar. Bell looked hung over, Dal was hung over, and Blake was a prodigiously miserable morning person even without the booze.

Blake gave the passing scenery a short glance and moaned to himself, “Is it legal for the sun to be up this early?”

The wipers struggled as they cleared accumulated snowflakes from the windshield of the Benz.

“The road from Gothard is snowed in,” the driver said apologetically. “So we will avail ourselves of the foundation’s helicopter.” He turned his head to the passengers and put a slight laugh in his voice. “Far better than the two hour drive less important dignitaries must endure.”

Blake kept a serious face and asked the driver, “What’s your name?”

“Arno.”

Dal peered at a flight-control tower barely visible through the increasing white mist. He asked, “So eh, where are we headed, Arno?”

“To Andermatt, a small village not well known to tourists. Our Swiss Army trains there.”

The driver sniggered, hunched his shoulders then whispered as though sharing a secret. “It tends to dissuade sightseers, and provides an added advantage of free security.”

Blake caught the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He nudged Dal and said, “Must make for fun weekends, huh?”

“Yes, the soldiers leave us in peace on weekends. That is when we see some tourists – only on the weekends. Not during the weekdays, that is when we have it to ourselves, when we test our...”

He paused, cognizant of overstepping his mark.

Blake caught Dal’s look of ‘what the f*ck’ but kept his eyes locked on the rear view mirror where the driver’s apprehensive look still hung.

Silence.

Blake pressed. “You were saying you test, eh – what exactly?”

The driver ignored the question.

Blake pressed a little more. “On weekdays, Arno – you test what?”

“Best you wait to have that question answered. We will arrive at Andermatt shortly, enjoy the flight. Your transportation is just ahead.”

A baggage cart pulling a chopper on a trailer emerged from a hangar. Within minutes the rotor began its familiar whop, whop, whop gyrations. Two minutes after climbing aboard and at one thousand feet, all three were gazing down at the Zurich traffic.

Minutes later Bell shouted at the pilot and pointed to a ski resort to their right. “That’s a ski lift, are we nearly there?”

“Yes, it is the cable car at Gemsstock. We will set down in a few minutes.”

“Haven’t been on snow since Big Bear,” Dal shouted, “It looks promising!”

It took the pilot a few minutes to negotiate a landing between steep mountainous slopes. The chopper blades stirred the powdery snow, causing an opaque cloud of white to engulf them. A building constructed of aluminum or perhaps titanium came into view as though materializing from another world.

A white suited man ran to greet them, squinted and turned his face away briefly as the down-thrust from the chopper shot fresh snow about the landing area. He held one arm across his face to shield his eyes. The chopper pilot leaned across, patted Blake’s knee, and jabbed a finger toward the man who was momentarily obscured by a fresh flurry. The rotor continued whirling as Bell, Blake and Dal were assisted from the cabin, kept their heads low and made the eighty yard dash toward the building. Dal turned to Blake as they ran and made a shrugging gesture. Blake ignored it.

Bell caught the gesture and called aloud, “What’s going on?”

Blake considered his response for a few moments, couldn’t come up with an answer, and spouted out, “Just roll with the blows, okay.”

“Welcome to Libra,” the white suited man said with a half-bow. “Your luggage will arrive shortly, please follow me; we have private suites for our guests. There is appropriate clothing laid out for each of you. Please shower, relax. I am sure you are not only wet but also very cold. We will send for you in an hour or so.”

Ninety minutes later Dal sat in a small dining area, stared into his cup and sighed, “Ah – hot chocolate.”

Bell stroked her cup, placed it against her cheek, felt the warmth and ran her tongue around the edge, playing with the foam on top. Dal groaned, pretended to ignore her sexuality. She persisted in taunting him by pouting her lips and sensually blowing into the cup. “Welcome to Switzerland,” she said, holding his stare. “Have to tell you, Dallas - that shower was sooo good.”

A woman in a white smock appeared from a door marked Staff Only. Blake pulled himself away from his chocolate fondue, carefully manipulated a small smear with his finger, endured Bell’s disapproval as he sucked the finger clean, and walked toward the woman. He wiped the finger across his sleeve and thanked her for the fresh strawberries and chocolate.

“Sorry,” Blake shrugged. “Just so darned good I didn’t wanna waste a bit.”

Her tone was abrupt, demanding. “Please, come this way.”

Blake thought it was more of an order than a request. “Are we off for coffee?” he asked, then turned and shuddered at Dal.

The woman ignored his gesture.

They snaked their way along a wide metallic passageway to adjoining guest rooms, to the accompaniment of elevator music. Blake and Dal entered the first of the two rooms. It was windowless yet had curtains made of a silver colored organza.

Bell slid a curtain back revealing a solid white wall, a fake feel, cold, uninviting. Blake stepped into a suite, tested one of the beds, attempted bouncing, stopped on the third bounce and grimaced. Accepting his resolve, he stretched out, kicked off his loafers, and with a note of disbelief nodded to a ceiling mounted dome and groaned, “Elevator music.”

“Kenny f*ckin’ G,” Dal sniggered from the other bed.

“Yeah,” Blake said, “even worse.”

A gruff voice came from a large chair opposite their beds. The chair turned until the seated man faced them. “Forgive me for intruding on the privacy of your sleeping quarters. I am Doctor Gerhardt Beckman. No doubt you have questions.” He stood and reached a welcoming hand to Blake. “Allow me to familiarize you with our work here.”

Gerhardt Beckman was a handsome silver haired Germanic attestation to Arian supremacy. He walked with pride, with meaning – a candor one might expect from the master race had they not been the losers. He walked to the blank windowless wall, paused and stared at the organza curtain as his hand fingered a remote. The curtain opened, revealing a movie screen.

Dal shrugged and waved a slow hand at the screen. “We’re gonna want popcorn and Pepsi if this is a main feature, but I ain’t gonna complain if you only have Schnapps.”

Beckman was nonplussed. “There was a period not so long ago when it was believed time machines would never come to fruition. To this day many scientists are impaired by tunnel vision and are in a sense missing their

- hmm, what can I call it?” Beckman paused, rubbed his chin. “Yes of course, they are not finding their ‘missing link.’ Tunnel vision results from their Neolithic-like belief in today’s basic physical laws. With all of their postulating and with all of their brilliant physicists they become so entrenched in dogmatic belief that they have allowed their mathematical theorems to establish the impossibility of travel to parallel universes.”

He pressed another button on his remote and a section of the wall opened revealing a panoramic snow scene. Dal moved to the window and followed a skier making zigzag patterns down a distant slope. He glanced at an air duct ten feet above and thanked God for efficient heating, the outside air being frigid and cold enough to keep a Santa Monica boy indoors. Blake recognized the ‘off with the pixies’ oblivious stare on Dal’s face. He knew full well his partner would be asking for a layman’s translation of Beckman’s discussion.

“Agent Blake - not only can time machines be constructed but we at Libra have fragmented central problems in the foundations of physics. Those who are aware of our research – but not of our progress – still hunt for time machines in general relativity theory. Of course, as you Americans say, they are barking up the wrong tree. They believe that mathematical theorems related to various aspects of time machines are associated with the search of a quantum theory of gravity.

“Theories amount to little less than a ‘follow the leader’ row of ducks waddling along the peripheries of a H.G. Wells’ imaginary tale of time travel. These people are existentialists. What we need are more transcendental physicists, which I’m proud to say - we have here at Libra. More people who realize it is not a matter of ‘if’’ super terrestrial civilizations exist but how we can interact with those alien life forms, those ‘little gray men’ who’ve mastered wormhole travel, those who can manipulate a football sized craft silently around our most advanced air force and vanish in the blink of an eye - making no sound, leaving no heat trail.”

“So you’re saying those UFO shows are creditable, huh Doc?” Dal asked, giving the subject his full attention – extra-terrestrial life having been Dal’s high school thesis.

“Not all are creditable. However there are many sightings by reputable and extremely reliable sources that are beyond doubt, totally creditable. Air force personnel, commercial pilots, police officers, military, the majority of these sources cannot be dismissed.”

Dal: “So Doc, do you have an opinion on Area 51?”

Beckman moved to the window, tapped on the glass and nodded at the distant slope. He gestured at the skier who’d now reached the flatter area at the mountain’s base. He ignored Dal’s query. A heavy knocking robbed Dal of further discussion as Beckman motioned toward the large stainless steel entry. He removed a second remote from his pocket and engaged the opener and a middle-aged blonde haired man entered.

“Allow me to introduce Doctor Francois le Blanc. Francois is head physicist here at Libra. He is the technology wizard behind our leap into the future.” Beckman paused, broke into a chuckle and added, “Or should I say . . . into the past?”

Blake, Bellinger and Dal introduced themselves to the affable le Blanc. He nodded and made a clicking sound with his heels. “Je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer.”

Bake said, “Let’s dispense with the formalities, I’m Blake, the blond guy here’s Dal, and this is Patrice Bellinger.”

They exchanged handshakes and Blake said, “I’ve got a question, actually I’ve a bunch of questions. The acronyms I see plastered all about this place – LPA – what is it?”

“I assumed my colleague informed you we are an internationally supported foundation known as Libra Pubis Aeternas, or Libra as we prefer to be known.”

“Sounds obscene,” Dal frowned.

The younger man chuckled, a warm, pleasant sound. “On the contrary, it is Latin and translates to eternal balance of population.”

“I knew that,” Dal said flippantly.

Blake cocked his head to one side; and asked with a deeply curious look on his face, “So then, you gentlemen, you’re the, eh . . . the self -elected population police?”

Both Beckman and le Blanc exchanged disdainful glances and Blake caught the body language.

Blake asked, “You mind sharing what we’re being denied here? I mean, you say you’re an internationally supported foundation and that you can reduce the causes of overpopulation. I understand you’ve got the nod from some of the big boys back home - but who exactly funds the operation, who’s giving your people the backing?”

There was a long silence. Beckman leaned toward a flat screen at one side of his desk, gently touched the monitor and slid a finger across the screen. A cylindrical beam projected from a small dome inconspicuously set into the metallic ceiling. The form of a man materialized within the cylinder.

The figure stood frozen, and after a minute had passed he began to move his fingers and flexed somewhat as life traveled up his arms and released full mobility. He stepped from beneath the light source, smiled and moved toward Gerhardt Beckman.

Bell reached for Blake’s hand, squeezed it tightly as they stood in awe of what had just taken place, their eyes searching the room for whatever trickery had created the illusion.

Hans Beckman stepped from beneath the dome, and seated himself at the table.

“Good day, Agent Blake, Agent Dallas, Miss Bellinger. I see you have met the brains behind our foundation, Francois and Gerhardt.” He gestured at one of the men. “Do you require my presence, Francois?”

The three agents stood in a trance like state. Dal jabbed his elbow into Blake’s rib cage and mumbled incoherently, “What the f*ck! Did you see what I saw? Tell me it’s some kinda computer trickery, what the . . .”

Blake turned to Beckman who was touching another section of the panel and then threw a daggers look at Bosch. “What the hell is this, Bosch? You get around, don’t you Hans? And I thought we moved fast. How’d you get here so quickly? Where’s your buddy, Danzig? Why’d you skip out on the meeting with us . . . with Sam?”

“Questions, questions, questions, Agent Blake, so many questions. Ah yes, the Particle Accelerant Chamber, a grandchild of the Enterprise – a Captain Kirk bi-product

– another case of fiction evolving into reality.” He walked on by the three agents and leaned into the doctor’s ear. “Do you really need me here, Francois?”

“Merci, Hans. Our guests are inquiring about our mandate. C’est permissable pour les dire tout? I am sure your presence vindicates me of blame should I disclose any umm...” He sniggered, pulled a face, “. . . well, should I disclose any proprietary information.”

Bosch nodded and adopted a more serious demeanor. It was the first time Blake had seen the absence of the German’s ever-present grin.

“Proprietary? Hmm, I would say confidential more than proprietary,” Bosch shrugged. “Gentlemen, we are supported by a world governing group who meet annually to discuss the world and the direction in which it is heading. They set people into seats of power, and those people determine who will live . . . and who will not.”

Le Blanc placed a hand to his mouth and said quietly to Bosch, “Vous ne les direz pas de la Société, n’est-ce pas?”

Bell picked up the comment and relayed it to Blake. “From my high school French skills, I believe he said something about a society.” She half turned to le Blanc. “Am I close?”

Le Blanc blushed and made an apologetic shrug. “Pardonner mes manières. Je suis parler si confortable ma propre langue. My apology.”

Dal made a coughing sound, dismissing the Frenchman’s pathetic display. “You mean to say you guys are run by the fourth Reich, is that it Hans? Are you guys like . . . sieg heil?” And he made a snappy Nazi salute.

Bosch replied, forcing a contrived version of his former grin. “On the contrary, Agent Dallas, we are under the auspices of the Bilderberg Society, they are hardly admirers of the German war machine. They are a compilation of world leaders who determine through scientific and economic resources, what is good for the planet, and conversely what might adversely affect the planet. Do I make myself quite clear? They smooth out the road bumps, so to speak.”

“Yeah, sure – quite clear,” Dal said raising a hand to cover his mouth and mumbling to Blake, “Ja, mein Kapitän.”

Bosch caught the comment, turned away, and stared at the panorama.

“This is just too surreal,” Blake whispered.

“Surreal?” Dal queried, his head tilted at Blake. “You think so, huh?”

“Congratulations,” Francois le Blanc said with a smile. “You three are about to lay to rest all of those who dispel our illustrious Einstein’s Unified Field Theory. You are to travel to a very nice region of Southern France - to the Dordogne. The people may appear a little strange and perhaps even eh - somewhat hostile. However I rest assured all three of you are up to the task. We will need to acquaint you with the dress of that period, familiarize you with customs of the era, mannerisms, all of the usual requisites.”

“Why the education,” Blake asked with a querulous face. “Haven’t we traveled enough to skip that part of the, eh . . . inauguration? I mean to say, if we haven’t already seen it, it probably isn’t worth visiting, right?”

Silence.

“To the Dordogne, huh,” Blake said with a wry grin. “That isn’t too far from here, right?”

“Too far, Agent Blake? Well now that would depend on your perception of distance as a quantum measure. I would say it is exactly six hundred and fifty-three years from today’s date.”

Beckman lifted a hand and spoke slowly, deliberately. “You see, Agent Blake, Einstein showed mass and energy is one and the same. We at Libra have in our possession the means to safely tele-transport all three of you to any past era we so choose. The device we have designed employs light in the form of circulating lasers with the capacity to warp time, or perhaps you might understand it better if you visualize time as being looped.” He paused, passed Bosch a subdued snigger and chortled as if in ridicule. “Conventional thinkers believe a time machine must consist of some massive object.” The snigger increased and his chin raised a little as he added proudly, “This we have proven wrong.”

“As Gerhardt is saying . . .” Bosch interjected, “. . . to prove and consequently successfully utilize time loops, we have designed this desktop pad.” He ran a finger along the top of the screen. “This controls our reassignments.”

Dal squinted at Bosch and leaned across to look more closely at the flat paneled screen. “But this has got to connect to a main facility. Like - this isn’t the whole deal, right?”

“Intuitive of you, Agent Dallas,” Beckman said. “We have a mother unit containing a series of mirrors. Within the unit a light beam circulates resulting in the warping of surrounding space. Initially sub-atomic particles were restricted to a very short lifetime. However, we at Libra have expanded that lifetime by exposing the particles directly to the circulating light beam, realizing after several laboratory tests that this ‘extended particular lifetime’ clearly indicates that particles do in fact flow through a time loop and into the past.”

Bosch interjected. “As Einstein theorized, time is directly affected whenever you do anything to space. We can twist time simply by doing the same to space. Just as man can walk through space, Libra can walk through time.”

“Your concept of time has me confused,” Blake said, holding up a hand. “It’s far different to my understanding of time. You know, time is this,” and he tapped on his wristwatch. “What specifically is your perception of time?”

Dal clapped softly and Bell gave an approving nod.

“That question requires a most complex reply, Agent Blake,” Beckman said. “My perception of time divides events - moves them apart from each other. Things around us are continually changing. People around us change, weather patterns change. These changes are all beyond our control. We are unable to meddle with changes that take place around us each day, whereas physical events are real, they are intrinsic. Your reference to measuring time by using your wristwatch is valid. You can change time simply by changing the settings, which alters the pace a person may arrive at a point. They can arrive five hours late or even an hour early, but that’s not physical transference. Only motion affects time.”

A sense of doom swelled inside of Blake as he waited for continuance. Beckman took a seat alongside of Bosch. He nodded at Dal and said, “Einstein proved this very theory by showing that the time on an atomic clock when sent around the earth on a jet is slower than a clock that remains on earth. The clock on board the jet cannot catch up with the earth bound clock.”

Dal, appearing to follow along, asked, “How dangerous is this time travel?”

“It presents no danger, Agent Dallas,” Bosch said. “As long as you do not confront your grandfather and kill him. That is known as the Grandfather Paradox. Of course, in the event of such an unlikely event, we would not be sitting here having this discussion, would we? The Grandfather Paradox is not an issue. You will be traveling back into a different universe. Your arrival in September of the year 1356 cannot affect your existence in our 2015 universe.” Bosch gave an assuring series of quick nods. “Do not be concerned with your safety, you will all safely return.”

“How can you be sure?” Blake asked, studying Bosch’s face for a long ten seconds. “I mean, that thing, that uh, Particle Accelerant Chamber, how do we know for sure that it’ll get us back here?”

“Quite simple, Agent Blake, because you are all here now – are you not?”