CIRCUIT BUG

CIRCUIT BUG

by

Albert Woods

 

"Your flight should board in about twenty minutes, Mr. Causton," the girl said, when he chased matters up at the Swissair desk.

 

He wandered away, and slumped on a grubby leatherette sofa, perspiring. Dressed in his best pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, a tie that was as black as his shiny black shoes, and beige camel hair coat, he looked just another typical executive on another typical business trip, patiently awaiting the announcement of his flight in the main passenger terminal. There was nothing about the forty-something physicist that would beg a second glance; he was not a particularly good looking man, and had no strikingly poor features either. His was merely another face in the ever-changing sea of faces that ebbed and flowed through the busy departure lounge.

 

But he was sweating: a clammy, cold sweat that persisted in breaking out high on his brow, streaming in vein-like rivulets down his face and temples. Using his free hand, he repeatedly brought up his damp handkerchief to mop the uncomfortable wetness. He felt ghastly.

 

Years before, he had vowed that he would never again venture abroad. At one time, he had been a seasoned traveller, putting in at least ten transatlantic flights a year, to say nothing of the countless hops over to the Continent for lectures and conferences. He had been so sure of himself then; able to go wherever he pleased, meet anybody, face any group of his peers, debate, discuss and hold his own with some of the finest scientific minds. Yet now he was reduced to this: cowering on a seat, utterly mortified by the prospect of what? He didn’t know.

 

 

The last time he had been to Geneva was to hear his old friend, and mentor, Professor Karl Doorman's presentation that the articulate man had entitled 'Einstein: A Counter Proposition'. Doorman had spoken impressively, and put forward extremely rational, and reasonable, challenges to what was, after all, still only a theory; and it had been most out of character for this painstaking perfectionist to leave any minute loophole for the cynics to burrow through. But he did, and they had.

 

The Institute was in uproar, with the baying hounds calling for blood. And what had sickened Michael Causton, more than anything, was the shameful fact that the subject matter had quite obviously become a secondary issue to the political ambitions, and professional jealousy, of Van Hansen. Van-sodding-Hansen, the self-appointed guru who, together with his acolytes, intended to stage-manage the coup that would lead to the swift erosion of the old order, make way for his own ascendancy to the council and, ultimately, the chair. It could be bloody or bloodless, as far as he was concerned; it didn’t matter to him. The Doormans of this world might be the true intellectuals, but they had no place in the administration, where cherry-picking the juiciest research grants and sponsorship deals was the order of the day.

 

Doorman had walked right into it. Van Hansen must have laughed to himself. All he had to do was reel out plenty of rope, then skilfully take up the slack, just as his victim carelessly paused for a moment with one foot encircled by a stray loop.

 

Well, there would be no stray loop today. Like his friend before him, Michael was to address the Institute, but this would be different; so different that to liken Doorman's submission to his, would be tantamount to comparing a single seed of an idea with a million tons of the harvested crop. For, today, the most significant, fantastic and mind-boggling discovery would be unveiled to an awestruck world - and nobody could deny him the credit. The concept, and what would accrue from it, were all his.

 

The anticipation, alone, was like a drug to Michael; a good drug. Allowing himself to even consider the events of the next few hours sent him soaring on an ecstatic flight of self-satisfaction, bordering on euphoria; almost obscene really. He must not take another fix, he told himself. He should try to maintain his composure, at least until after the deed was done - when he would be beyond criticism.

 

How, he asked himself, would he come to terms with the fame, the publicity? Not really his cup of tea at all. But the wealth; the splendid wealth - oh yes, he could live with that all right. It would be an incalculable fortune, growing by monstrous proportions during every second of every minute of every day; round the clock, non-stop, forever.

 

What useful purpose could be served by attempting to keep count of it? None; because it would amass at a rate to challenge the mathematical capability of even the most powerful of computers. In time, and not long, every living man, woman and child would be paying him royalties. The world would be a very different place. Better, hopefully; though impossible to exist in for those not equipped. And Michael was about to be the sole supplier of the wherewithal.

 

Then there was the power. Influence he had dismissed; after all, who could there ever be who would be above needing to influence him? No, just power: mine-loads of it. Nice, he had thought, but not to be abused. He would have nothing to prove, nor fight for; and he was certainly not going to introduce unnecessary complications into an otherwise perfect existence. The power would only be used to eradicate obstacles or irritating infringements upon his privacy and lifestyle, except, that is, for a few minor indulgences. A smallish amount would be expended in paying debts. Sinking Van Hansen, without trace, was high on that list.

 

Yet another cold bead ran down his face, onto his nose and halted on his upper lip. This time he wiped all round, including the back of his neck, where the saturated collar was beginning to leak down his back. Fumbling in his overcoat pocket, he located a glucose sweet, one of several that he’d grabbed earlier from his bedside drawer. Despite his intense discomfort, he could still manage to smile to himself, chewing over the irony of his predicament.

 

How could he be so irrational? About to embark upon a most handsomely rewarding journey; a fantastic voyage which would be akin to the start of an atom-splitting chain reaction, mushrooming, then engulfing the world in its cloud of sweeping change. The man who changed the world, he’d be. Better still, the man who defied nature.

 

To anybody else, the whole thing would be such a titanically daunting prospect as to cause paralysis at least, if not cardiac arrest. But not to Michael. He positively relished the thought. Surely a few drops of perspiration were the least to be expected. Not these though. He well knew that not so much as one microscopic dot, not one part in a million, was being pumped from his system in response to that stimulus.

 

 

It had happened before. He would never forget the last time he’d flown back to London. Not because it was the last time he had flown - that was not the sort of detail that would survive for long in his memory, taking up valuable brain cell room - but because it had been the day. He could think of no better way to describe it than the one in a billion chance moment when fate, God, Mother Nature, or whoever it is that decides these things, selected him as the receptacle for the equally one in a billion chance meeting of the essential ingredients that create the flashing spark when they collide; the ignition of pure inspiration.

 

Michael had been bored. Travelling always became tedious after a while, and that trip had seemed endless. New York had been a grind; days and days of marking papers at the University. Some of the submissions were mildly interesting, most had been dull, uninspired; though thinking about the better efforts was helping to ease the boredom of the flight home.

 

Sandwiched between a nun and a garlic-breathed fat man, he just reclined, and let his mind wander. More thoughts of the uni papers, plans for next week's work - the garlic kept bringing him back to reality. Was the man Italian or Greek? What did it matter; at least he had the sanctuary of his mind. In there, he could shut out the humdrum world. He reconsidered Karl Doorman's theory - so fascinating, but impossible to substantiate; quite impossible. But... but...

 

He had just reached that delicious moment as the conscious submits to the unstoppable pervasion of sleep, when the lightning bolt struck. His eyes opened with a start, his brow contorted in a frown, then relaxed again.

 

The stewardess was somewhat bewildered by the brusqueness of his sudden demand for pen and paper, but she dutifully obliged. The nun and the fat man succumbed to sly glances at the stream of calculations being frantically scribbled in-between them, and both looked astonished when, after some few minutes, the pen was hurled to the floor with a triumphant shout of, "Jesus Christ... that's it!"

 

He was animated; couldn't keep still. The stewardess had barely served his first large scotch before the second was ordered. He chuckled to himself, and sometimes out loud. The nun looked on disapprovingly, and declined his offer of a drink. He finally settled down in a silent daze of excitement, mixed with disbelief.

 

Under the stark, clinical light of his workshop, Michael set about re-checking his figures, now with the aid of a micro, and an old reliable calculator. He lost track of the number of times he'd gone over it. The same answer kept appearing; and even he, with his deep-rooted scientist’s scepticism, had to eventually admit that it was proof; proof positive.

 

Next day, all engagements were cancelled; from lecturing a bunch of bolshy long-haired undergraduates, to dining at the Savoy with some high-ranking, equally bolshy ministers and their PA's: off! - all off at a phone call's notice. Now he had to devote every waking moment to constructing, and perfecting, the 'Circuit', as he baptised the invention whilst in its embryo stage.

 

It was going to take a lot of hard work and midnight oil to bring this one to fruition; but it would be worth it, no matter how demanding it was, or how long it took. First off, he would need the best facilities and, most importantly, isolation. There was only one place he knew of where these criteria could be met. Giles Blisset, an old roommate, worked, virtually alone, in a superbly equipped laboratory on a small island off the coast of New Guinea. It belonged to Amalgamated Electronics Research Corporation, who were funding Giles' latest project.

 

Michael’s telegram prompted a swift and welcoming reply so, with his home affairs all put in order, he had set off for the airport on a cold, grey November morning. He arrived with time to spare, checked-in, and sat down with a much needed cup of coffee. Then he began to sweat and, with an overwhelming nausea growing in him, almost fainted. As he suspected it would, a few moments out in the winter air revived him, so it was back to the departure lounge to prepare his documentation for inspection.

 

But the sweat returned. It was worse this time. Outside, once more, he checked his watch. He was now cutting things fine. Still, at the third attempt he managed to step onto the tarmac before, just feet away from the boarding stairs, reeling, vomiting and collapsing.

 

Flight nerves, was the duty doctor's diagnosis when the casualty came round. Michael knew that, of all things, it wasn’t that. There was no further flight available that day, so he stayed over in a nearby hotel, and woke early to start the journey again. He felt fine, at least until he reached the main terminal. The sweat was back.

 

Another day wasted, and one further abortive attempt, he cashed in his ticket and made for the docks. This time, he actually set foot aboard the liner before it happened once more; though it did look as though he might make the trip, albeit in the sick bay. The ship's doctor was having none of it, however: the Sovereign Princess sailed without him. There was no time for hanging around the land-based hospital for results of tests. He'd not travel, he decided. He'd work at home; even if the distractions of London life would add months to his labours.

 

The task was bedevilled with setbacks, as well as interminable interruptions. Three years of hard slog, disappointments and little sleep had aged Michael considerably. There had been no doubt in his mind, from day one, that the 'Circuit' would work, but orchestrating the imperfect man-made components to function with a near zero tolerance of error proved difficult, yet he succeeded.

 

Latterly, much time had been spent in miniaturisation. Technology had more than kept apace with his work and, with chips and other micro-components now freely available, he needed to scale down. What had started as a floor-standing unit, the size of a small domestic refrigerator, was now a discreet capsule that clipped neatly behind the ear of the user. One day, he could imagine, it would again be reduced in size, when it would be permanently implanted in the brain. Of necessity, the hand-held remote control was the larger component, in order to facilitate the selection of modes, and programming, by clumsy fingers.

 

 

Both device and control were now tucked into a compartment of the briefcase that was chained to Michael's wrist as he sat perspiring, pre-flight to Geneva.

 

"Are you all right Causton?"

 

Through the glistening, stinging, salt water that flooded his eyes, Michael looked up to see a familiar figure. His heart sank further. "Oh, Van Hansen," he nodded. "Just a bit queasy," he lied. He felt terrible.

 

"Don't mind if I join you on the flight," this was stated rather than asked.

 

"No; course not," Michael lied again. He minded very much, but felt in no fit state to respond right now.

 

"Well I must say we're full of anticipation, old chap. Seems you've really come up with something."

 

Michael nodded once more. Yes I have, he thought; and this time you won't make capital out of flaws. There aren’t any, you bastard!

 

The unwelcome companion continued to poke, and probe. Michael stopped listening. He could have made his announcement in London, and avoided this trip. Van Hansen had got wind of something big, even though the preliminary paper to the Institute had been vague, with little detail. Yes, it seemed that the buzz was already going around, as Michael had hoped it would. At least, the eminent members would all attend the Geneva meeting, whereas few would have made the trip to the UK on the strength of such sketchy information. That would have been unsatisfactory; his moment of glory diluted.

 

How he longed to see their faces; watch their doubting eyes popping out of their knowledge-crammed skulls. He would let Van Hansen spool out the tripwire. He'd tease them, let them think he’d gone off half-cocked, perhaps feign some uncertainty when questioned: let Van Hansen ridicule him a little. Then he'd grasp the rope with both hands and yank the swine straight off his pedestal. He'd demonstrate the 'Circuit Bug' - as he now called it - and they'd be silenced for good. He had to make this trip; it was vital to him. The sweat continued to flow. There was no let-up. He prayed for help.

 

It was at that moment when, for the second time in his life, fate, God, Mother Nature, or whoever it is that decides these things, pointed the finger at Michael once again. There was a way he could get there, and it had been staring him in the face. With his obsession, and eagerness, in perfecting the Circuit Bug, he'd completely missed its application in his own peculiar circumstances; leaping through time and space in milliseconds, getting there and back before having the time to even think about it.

 

Without excusing himself to his fellow traveller, Michael went to the men's lavatory and locked himself in a vacant cubicle. Why hadn't it occurred to him before? He didn't know. Still, that question could be asked of his first major brainwave; simple once you’d thought of it.

 

A quick check on his watch - he hurriedly prepared himself. They were now calling passengers for his flight on the Tannoy. He mopped his saturated brow, then paused to wallow in the glorious relief that was starting to sweep through his system. The sweating subsided, and his colour returned.

 

The Circuit Bug was pear-shaped, and fitted neatly behind his left ear lobe, secured by a small clip that lightly pinched and, painlessly, pierced the skin to make the vital contact. It was unnoticeable, though, in contrast, the remote control was bulky; an accessory more befitting a television set. 10.33, April 6th, Michael checked the watch again, and tapped in the data. Forty-eight hours, zero minutes, zero seconds. Tap, tap, tap.

 

A moment's hesitation: what about their faces? He'd miss the thrill of seeing them; the stunned disbelief; the ovation. No, of course he wouldn't; it would all have happened, and he'd remember every detail, just like he’d done on his last test 'leap'. That had been a good one. He had phoned a girlfriend in Belgravia and arranged an afternoon of sensual bliss with her. A seven hour leap found him still in his own room, recalling and relishing the memory of every delightful minute; nothing had eluded him. He could even smell her Chanel on his fingers.

 

'Activate', the button was labelled. He pressed it; momentarily blinded, a bright white flash, and ringing in his ears.

 

Though he would not have known, Michael's Cartier Pasha chronometer continued to faithfully tick away the seconds, minutes, hours and days at the same monotonous, mechanical rate as it always did. Life went on, and two perfectly routine twenty-four hour periods elapsed. But all he saw was the brief, blinding light, as though a photographer's flashgun had fired in his face. Blinking from the arc, he looked at the watch again. 10.33. April 8th. Thank God; it was over.

 

Something wasn’t right, though. He had no recollection of the time that had sped before him. The glucose sweets had all gone from his coat pocket, but there was a half-used packet of mints, now. That was new. So were the hotel bill and security passes for the Institute. The passport! he flicked anxiously through the pages. It had been stamped - just like it should have been - but, dammit! he couldn't remember a thing.

 

There was a man at the washbasins. He was shaving and, from his state of undress and the spread of his paraphernalia, must have been there for some time. He'd certainly not been there when Michael entered three minutes, or two days, ago. How about the watch that the traveller had left on the ledge? Michael used the cover of combing his hair to sneak a glance at the dial. 10.34. April 8th. There was no mistake. Perhaps the memories would flood back soon.

 

Returning his comb to his breast pocket, he made one last check. Now, the ticket folder only contained some advertising crap, extolling the virtues of the airline and its associated hotels. He blew his nose, using the hanky that was soaking wet. The fact that it was didn't register with him.

 

Outside the cloakroom door, the terminal was as busy as ever. Michael’s baggage was where he’d left it; beside the sofa. What the hell had happened in Geneva? He racked his brains as he made for the exit. Like those before him, he duly broke the beam that kept the door automatically shunting backwards and forwards. His first step beyond it was met with a blitz of flash bursts from the cameras of the world's press, whose reporters had been awaiting his arrival with bated breath.

 

He stood still, squinting, and confused. It shouldn’t be like this. At the moment, he had absolutely nothing to tell them. One photo journalist got right in his face; momentarily blinding him, a bright white flash, and a ringing in his ears.

 

There must have been about forty or fifty media jackals, jostling to reach him; microphones and TV cameras converging from all angles. Instinctively, he retreated and stepped back into the safety of the terminal building. The pack surged forward, now three deep, noses and lenses hard against the plate-glass. Michael walked away from it, settling into a steady, robotic pace. Behind him, on the outside, nobody was looking through any more. He didn’t notice that.

 

"Your flight should board in about twenty minutes, Mr. Causton," the girl said, when he enquired at the Swissair desk.

 

He sat himself down on a grubby leatherette sofa and began to perspire. The same perspiration that he'd mopped away two days earlier. The same perspiration that he had failed to wipe away properly. The same perspiration that had run into, and short-circuited, the Circuit Bug. The same perspiration that is doing so now, and will continue to do ad infinitum.

 

If he is aware of what's happening, Michael will, doubtless, be describing it as one of those one in a billion chance moments when fate, God, Mother Nature, or whoever it is that decides these things, has had second thoughts.

 

* *  * *  * *

© Albert Woods (2013)