Phase Shift (7 page)

"Are you coming to bed at all tonight,
Moll?" Palmer asks me. "Sun's up soon."

"I will," I say. "Shortly." I clasp my hands
together and stretch, eyes closed. Before I can relax the pose,
Palmer’s made his way across the room. He kneels between my knees,
and runs his hands under my breasts and around my back. He buries
his face between my breasts and inhales deeply.

“You’re wearing the perfume,” he says. I
nod. It’s something he bought for me, a Just Because gift, a few
months back. He stays still for a few breaths more. Each breath
feels like an eternity. While I love being with my husband, feeling
his warm embrace, he often chooses the most inopportune times to
show his affection. Such as at this very moment, when all I want to
do is to be left alone to make sense of Stanley’s papers.

"What are you doing here anyway?" He finally
pulls away from me.

"Reading Stanley's papers,” I tell him.
“They read like a science fiction novel. This guy Prescott? He was
hired by the U.S. government during World War Two on some long
range missile defense project. When his contract was finished, he
returned to Canada and began teaching Physics at the U. of T. His
specialty was solar radiation and sunspots which he extrapolates to
include Quantum Mechanics—"

"That's the study of time travel and
alternate realities, isn't it?" He pulls himself up, using my legs
for leverage, with a grimace. "Like Sam in 'Quantum Leap'."

I nod. "That's exactly what this is. That's
why I say it's like reading science fiction. These papers (God,
there must be at least a hundred of them here) are full of
scientific notation, most of which I don't understand. Other parts
I've just skimmed through so far talk about other worlds and his
theory about how you could..." I pause long enough to sift through
some of the yellowed documents. "Here it is," I say once I find the
exact one I’m looking for.

"Okay. So it talks about how you could 'use
solar radiance to generate an energy bubble'. This...bubble was
theoretically supposed to help you...slip...between this world and
the next."

"Pretty bizarre stuff, huh?" Palmer
says.

"There are also measured drawings for a
number of artifacts I've never seen and blueprints (floor plans,
really) for weird buildings. What's strange is none of them are
square. None of them seem to have any corners."

"It sounds like maybe this Prescott wasn't
dealing with a full deck."

I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know. Wasn't
it Frank Lloyd Wright who was famous for his weird geometric
building designs? And he's still hailed as one of the geniuses of
architectural design."

"What are the chances this guy Stanley wrote
them?" he asks. I knew he’d have problems with the whole thing.
Take my course at the University for example. You’d think there’d
have been a minimal amount of red tape I had to cut in order to
bring that little course of mine to fruition, given my relationship
with the Department Head. Rather to the contrary—because we are
married, Palmer sees me as an extension of himself. He believes
anything I do reflects back on him. And because he views
Pseudo-archaeology as frivolous, he was worried the University
would think the same of him for allowing the course. Now that it’s
been so well-received by the student body, Palmer’s one of my
biggest supporters. As far as what Stanley’s papers detail, I
believe they are for real. At least, I think I do. Given enough
evidence, given the right amount of coaxing, Palmer’ll eventually
come around, too.

I shake my head. "Stanley Hume doesn't
strike me as the kind of man who would know how to perpetrate a
hoax this thorough and far reaching. He'd have to know I could do
research on this Spencer Prescott and find him out if he did.

"I mean, take this for example, this map in
Stanley's collection?" I search through the documents, to find a
scanned copy of the map from the silvered cigarette case-sized
artifact. "At first I thought it might be a page from a book,
something about earthquakes, maybe. An artist's projection of what
California might look like after the next big quake, right? So I
Googled it. I searched for ‘future maps’ and ‘San Andreas’ and
‘California’, and I found this." Once more I rifle through my
papers. Where is that geological survey map? When I find it, I show
him Stanley's map alongside the geological survey printout. Palmer
positions himself so he can study the maps over my shoulder.

"They look alike," he tells me. He’s still
not convinced, but to his credit, he’s still listening, as if he
wants to believe. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that if
I could find the map on the Net, why couldn’t Stanley have done the
same.

"No, they look similar," I say. "Look over
here." I point out a spot where the coastline juts in on one map
and juts out on another. "And here," I say, pointing out a small
island off the shoreline evident on one map, but not on the other.
I continue to point out at least five other discrepancies between
the maps.

"Okay, so the maps are different," he says.
"So what's your point?"

"My point is the map Stanley gave me,
Prescott's map, is unique. And Stanley doesn't strike me as the
kind of guy who would scan a map into the computer and Photoshop it
just to fool me into thinking there was something special about his
collection, that they came from another world.

"And while we're on the subject," I
continue, "why come to me with it at all? He could be sitting on a
potential goldmine. If Stanley knew what he had here, why not try
to publish it himself? I'm sure the tabloids would eat it up."

“He might not go to the tabloids himself
because he knows the papers are fake. If he’s perpetrating a hoax,
he wouldn’t want his name attached to it,” he says, deadpan.

I won’t lie and say the thought hadn’t
crossed my mind, but I discounted that notion long ago—the papers
are too brilliant in their prose. “Why would Stanley want to do
something like that?” I ask him. “Why me?”

“Because it’s what you do, Moll.
Conspiracies? Sci-fi as reality? You say you’re a skeptic, but if
Stanley could sway you…”

I shake my head and curl one leg under me.
“And humiliate a total stranger? I'm telling you, Palmer, I'm just
scratching the surface here, but half of what I read I don't
understand. I even went on the Internet to look a few things up but
I didn't understand what I was reading there either. Whoever wrote
these papers'd have to have been a genius, quite literally a
virtual rocket scientist. I didn't even know they knew about
sunspots and solar radiation in the forties. And Stanley? I don’t
mean to be rude, but Stanley doesn’t strike me as the rocket
scientist type."

Palmer takes a breath and then he says, "So,
coming to bed soon?"

"Yeah," I say. Insulted at what he implies,
that I could be that easily duped, that I could be that gullible. I
begin to rifle through the papers once more. "Soon."

"Look, Moll, you said there were at least a
hundred pages there, right? And since you couldn't possibly read
them all in the next hour or so, what's say you come to bed and
save the rest for morning?"

He’s right. I can’t possibly finish the job
before sunup, and I do have classes tomorrow. Standing, I start
gathering the papers into a neat pile. I slip the papers back into
the plastic freezer bag Stanley gave me and place them in the top
desk drawer. I manage to make it half way across the room before
realization strikes. "I wonder if I did an Internet search for
Spencer Prescott? I've been so busy looking up theory, I can't
believe I didn't think of this before, I—" I take a step back
toward my desk.

"Come on, Moll." He says. He lunges for me.
Catches me by the elbow. "I promise the Internet isn't going
anywhere. It'll still be there in the morning."

I smile and allow him to lead me out of the
room, but I can’t sleep. Stanley, Prescott and the papers burning a
hole in my desk drawer, call me every moment we’re apart.

Transcript of news report, 6:00 p.m.,
CityPulse News

Close up of picture of four year old south
Asian girl. Brown eyes, skin the color of honeyed-mocha,
black-blue, shoulder length hair tied back in two ponytails. She is
smiling.

ANCHOR

Still no leads in the Cecelia Mubari case,
now three years after her abduction. Today, on the eve of her
seventh birthday, police are releasing a composite sketch of what
she might look like.

Split-screen. On the left is the photo of
four year old Cecelia, on the right, a computer generated
composite.

ANCHOR

Police urge the community to be on the look
out for Cecelia, now seven, dark brown hair, brown eyes, last seen
wearing a pale blue gingham dress. Anyone with information as to
her whereabouts should call 222-TIPS. Calls are anonymous and any
tips leading to her recovery will be rewarded.

Cut to close up of anchor.

ANCHOR

Now we go south of the border where tourists
in Chicago have captured something unexpected on their home
movies.

Cut to female reporter, shoulder-length
brown hair wearing tan overcoat and bright pink scarf. Her overcoat
is cinched tightly around her thin frame. Both her hair and tail
end of her bright pink scarf are fluttering in the breeze. She
periodically breaks her stoic facade to brush her hair out of her
face or to tuck a few strands behind her left ear.

REPORTER

Simon Aldershot of Scotland got more than he
bargained for while shooting family footage to send home yesterday
afternoon. It was here, in this park, while shooting the Aldershot
family reunion, he captured something to write home about.

Cut to reporter standing next to man dressed
in light blue dress-shirt and tan pants. Man is in his mid-to-late
fifties, balding. His comb-over fluffs out in the wind. After
smoothing his hair down twice, he produces a baseball cap from
beneath the screen boundary and puts it on his head. He speaks with
a thick, Scottish brogue which is subtitled.

ALDERSHOT

We were filming the children flying kites, so
my camera was pointed skyward.

He points to the middle of the television
screen.

It appeared over there, over the tree tops.
It was black. Huge. Shaped like a pie wedge. It was suddenly just
there. It criss-crossed over the trees a few times and then
disappeared.

Cut to loop of fuzzy film footage depicting
a black, wedge-shaped object at dusk. The object flits across the
screen, shifting directions mid-flight. After traversing the screen
three times, the object darts up and disappears from view.

REPORTER

Voice-over

There is no word yet as to the nature of the
craft. The U.S. government is investigating the sighting as well as
the footage, although they have confirmed it is not a weather
balloon and there were no test-flights scheduled at that time.
April Sondheim, Channel Ten News, Chicago.

Cut to close up of anchor. She is
smiling.

ANCHOR

In other news...

If there is one thing Xander Morales is, it's
predictable. At least, that’s what Palmer tells me. Every morning
from 7:30 to 8:15, he sits at the same table in the cafeteria
sipping a latte, eating a blueberry muffin, and reading the morning
paper. Xander Morales is so reliable in fact, his students learn to
set their watches by him. Upon arriving at the cafeteria they look
for Dr. Morales. If he's sitting at his table, they know they have
enough time to finish their transactions before they need to head
off to class. If anyone but Dr. Morales is sitting at Dr. Morales's
table, the students take it as a sign they're late and have to skip
their morning caffeine fix and high-tail it off to class. Xander
Morales is so predictable, there's been talk of memorializing his
favourite breakfast table with a plaque.

Dr. Morales, Palmer and I sip lattes and
pick at matching blueberry muffins. Dr. Morales's ritual is one
generally carried out in solitude, but we had caught the man with a
full mouth and sat down before he could protest. Currently, we sit
in silence as Dr. Morales appears to contemplate the pool of latte
on the lid of his coffee cup, while I contemplate how I might begin
the conversation. And though Palmer sits next to me, we agreed I
must be the one to engage Dr. Morales in discussion—Palmer’s here
for moral support. This is my show.

Palmer places his hand on my knee and
squeezes. I suppose that’s my cue. "Dr. Morales?" I say. I feel
like we’re intruders. Like we’ve broken a sacred trust, even if it
is between a man and his breakfast. My better judgment says we
should get up, walk away, and give the man his space. But I need to
pick Dr. Morales's brain. He's one of the leading scientists in the
field of Quantum Science in Canada, if not the world. He's the only
man with feet large enough to fill Prescott's shoes. If anyone
could give me a sense of the validity of Stanley's collection—or
"The Prescott Papers", as we’ve begun to call them—it's him. "You
teach Physics, right? Quantum Physics?"

Dr. Morales smiles a rather humourless
smile. There is an unspoken hierarchy in the world of academia, a
prioritization of study, if you will. In the University’s
Department of Archaeology for example, the prehistoric
archaeologists pooh-pooh the work of the historic ones. In the
grand scheme of things, departments such as Mathematics,
Engineering, and Pure Science tip their noses at the lesser
disciplines of English, History and the Social Sciences. As a
result, Dr. Morales suffers our questions as an impatient adult
might suffer a child, curious about the mundane machinations of the
world around him. "Quantum Mechanics, yes."