Writing for Fun
September 2018
The Endless Loop - Pete Norman
‘That I am, sir and the best you will find in these parts, I’ll warrant. That is how I have managed to overcome the mechanism of a very heavy and cumbersome lock with ease but I am afraid this door has additional security.’ As he tapped the woodwork with the end of his screwdriver he pointed at two distinct spots above and below the lock mechanism. ‘Here . . . and here you will find there are deadlock bolts, bolts which I would wager are most substantial.’
‘But I need this door open.’
‘Then if you will permit me and if you will sanction the damage caused I shall resort to brute force.’
‘Anything, just open the blasted thing.’
The locksmith rummaged in his bag and brought out a large steel crowbar which he deftly inserted into the door frame on the side opposite to the lock. He put his whole body weight behind it and with one herculean effort the bottom of the door broke free from its hinge. The top quickly followed. As the door swung inwards it disconnected from the dead bolts and crashed to the floor.
The Dean took one look inside the room and the sight that greeted him was beyond his worst nightmares. In the past he had never taken much interest in the product of the bewildered mind of Professor Applegate and had signed away his requisition submissions without a great deal of thought but he now realised the extent of his shortcomings for the scene that lay before him was bizarre in the extreme. He hastily ushered the other onlookers away down the corridor and then ordered the workman to repair the door.
Finally, alone and freed from the eyes of the curious he tried his best to make sense of the utter chaos in the room. It resembled more the reject segment of a scrap metal yard than the research laboratory of an apparently revered Science professor. On benches around the walls were boxes overflowing with detritus, unbelievably complex electrical devices and copious piles of papers and large, heavy reference books. The end wall was completely covered with a blackboard which itself appeared to be completely covered with the calciferous ramblings of a madman.
However, the principle focus of his concerns was the device itself. It occupied the majority of the central floor space and reached almost to the ceiling. Its core was an enormous loop, twisted in upon itself and formed of steel and glass and many other constructs beyond the limits of the Dean’s imagination. The device was connected to a power source with thick and heavy cables which reached through into the back room. A steady hum emanated from its core and lights flickered throughout the depths of its amorphous mass.
The Dean’s first instinct was to shut down the device but when he located the power switch a crude note affixed to it stayed his hand. It read, ‘DO NOT TURN OFF THE POWER.’
The Dean leaned against the desk to recover his senses and it was only then that the misgivings that had been troubling him since the initial time of his entry came to the surface. The door had been securely bolted from the inside and the only window was intact and fastened shut. Whoever had secured the room thus had not left it – and therefore must still be within.
He made a thorough search of the two rooms and despite the manic clutter he quickly established that he was truly alone but that was clearly an impossibility. He conducted a more thorough search and there on the floor right beside the machine he discovered a small sheaf of papers covered in writing which was almost undecipherable scribble.
He picked up the first sheet and began to read.
He has gone – Professor Applegate has gone and I must try to find him or find what has become of him but first I must implore you for the love of God and for the safety of Applegate DO NOT TURN OFF THE POWER.
The Dean was deeply puzzled but the urgency of the words and the inescapable hum of the device were overwhelming. He read on.
Professor Applegate was obsessed with Einstein’s theory, that the relativity between space and time depends on the motion of the observer who measures them.
The writing slipped off the side of the sheet as if it had been written with extreme haste. The Dean re-read the words, which made little more sense with the second time of reading and then he moved on to the next paragraph which was written in a hand more manic than before.
The world outside the window has changed. The landscape beyond has changed beyond belief – it has been developed with buildings the like of which I have never seen. Unlike the character in the novel of H G Wells I have no idea whatsoever of the date. His writings postulated a time machine which could navigate to a specific year and equipped it with a simple gauge with which to achieve this.
Once again the writing slid away down the page and there was a significant space before it resumed.
I know the date. By some unbelievable coincidence I know the precise date. The scene outside my window is now complete devastation. Not a single building has escaped unscathed. The Air Raid Wardens are running down the street blowing their whistles, the sound of the bombers retreating is growing fainter, the sounds of the fire engines approaching is growing louder – this is June 1917. Thank God I was not here at the moment when it happened but I do remember the date. I remember the date . . .
The writing stopped. The Dean shook his head in disbelief. The essence of the story was evolving but he was almost too afraid to read further for fear of what he might encounter, though read on he did.
Fields. There are just fields now, a simple pastoral landscape. I have no way of telling the date but this must surely predate my arrival here by many, many years if not millennia.
The Dean was struggling, the writing was scarcely legible now, it was as if the moment was so ephemeral, so transitory that the poor man was hurling his pressing plea for assistance upon the paper in desperate haste, not knowing when or if he would next have the opportunity.
There was one last paragraph, just a few scribbled lines, after which the crisp pristine whiteness of the paper lay in wait, in mute readiness for the next dramatic revelation.
I had to try; I had to try to find him but the machine is pernicious, it loops back upon itself randomly, endlessly and each time I have but moments to check upon the security of the door and to update my journal. If the bolts are withdrawn then that must of certainty be the particular incarnation in which Applegate has left the room. If I can only . . .
The words stopped suddenly. The Dean read and re-read the last paragraph. Though he could scarcely believe the words, the cataclysmic significance was undeniable and as Dean the responsibility rested firmly upon his shoulders. He searched the detritus on the benches around the walls for papers, for some further insight into their work; he scanned the blackboard for inspiration but found nothing more than seemingly arbitrary, disjointed scribbling. He truly was at a loss.
Then a sudden movement on the periphery of his vision drew his eyes away from the frenetic writing. A disembodied hand appeared from within the depths of the device, the stub of a pencil clutched between its fingers. It scrabbled around to locate the sheaf of papers and then wrote just two words . . .
Help me! . . .
Applegate was also obsessed with the work of August Ferdinand Möbius and the almost mystical Möbius strip he had created.
It was only when he combined the two concepts that the horror truly commenced . . .
I must go . . .
All of that had once appeared to be merely a naive storyteller’s conjecture, however Einstein’s theory has now lent an air of scientific legitimacy to the notion and Applegate embraced the concept with both hands.
He created a Möbius loop in his laboratory – a complex construction of obscure alloys and glass but the shape remained faithful to the theoretical ideal. Möbius had argued that if a half twist is placed within a simple strip of paper and the ends are then joined the strip becomes non-orientable. He said that it is no coincidence that the symbol for infinity reflects this very shape.
Oh, God, here we go again! . . .
I must concentrate . . . Applegate reasoned that if light was to flow through the endless Möbius loop it would follow that path through infinity but that if that light were to be restricted, constrained, if the photons of light were slowed by a massive magnetic field then space time would be compromised and the time within that event would slow at a rate in direct correlation.
That was his theory. He produced several different incarnations of the device, each one more massive, each one more powerful but he was unable to resolve the conundrum, to achieve success, so he was forced to resort to the employment of a research assistant in order to carry his experiment further.
Oh, no! . . .
I have no idea what is happening, what is going wrong with the device, why it is randomly looping but I have to persist in order to find Applegate, wherever he is, wherever he has gone. The device has taken him. On his initial trip he returned but a few moments later. He said that the time differential had been so slight as to be almost meaningless but at least it had proved to him that the theory and the apparatus was at least working. We diverted more and more power to the magnets and he ran the sequences over and again and then finally he simply disappeared from my sight. In terror I called out his name but to no avail – there was to be no acknowledgement . . .
