Chapter 3

Chuck limped down the stairs and headed for the parking lot. Graduation exercises were scheduled to take place in two weeks and he had not decided whether he’d attend or not. For the moment, he was thinking ‘not’.

He had no doubt that he’d find a job in a short time. His MS in Business Administration, coupled with a BS in Computer Science, meant that instead of taking the first offer he could, he could wait for a better one. Then, finally, he could put poverty behind him. The hitch he’d done in the Marines might also confer other advantages; Chuck was not only older, he’d held responsible positions and made decisions that held real meaning, characteristics that a future employer would value.

He had found few friends at UTEP. Compared with the marines he’d known, Chuck’s fellow students had no real concept of life outside of school. Video games, drinking, chasing the opposite sex? Was he supposed to hang out with them because they were fellow students? The idea was meaningless, even repugnant, after Fallujah. He’d been close to the men he served with, closer than brothers. Some were gone now, and the losses still burned.

Chuck had found the idea repugnant. The men were shallow, in reality no more than overaged boys. His fellow vets understood Chuck, but like him, they preferred their own company, their own private demons. He’d dated occasionally, but it made him uncomfortable. He had few conversational skills and as for dancing, that was out too. So he had reverted to his old habit, pre-service, of avoiding the company of others. The cause, lack of interest more than a conscious act of rejection. Occasionally, he wondered; was he suffering from some mild form of PTSD? He had no way of telling and no interest in contacting an ‘expert’ who might find the condition, whether or not it really existed.

No one would be there to watch him cross the stage, not even his grandfather. Chuck had no other close relatives, only an uncle he hadn’t seen in years and an aunt he preferred not to see. As for grandfather Morty, he was busy with his latest scheme. He had no time to watch an empty ceremony, but he had invited Chuck to come to the ranch after graduation. Well, why not? They’d been close once, before Grandmother Mary Ellen’s death. Morty had seemed cold at the time, but in hindsight Chuck realized he’d not yet come to terms with his wife’s loss.

He didn’t have a job yet, but the job hunt could wait; the small pension from his disability rating was enough for his few needs, and thanks to his part-time computer work for fellow students and faculty, he had an adequate cash reserve.

Should he go? Chuck had always enjoyed the old ranch; he had but two regrets, the death of his grandmother, and never exploring the cavern where the bats lived. But Morty had been adamant at the time, so Chuck had obeyed him. Even so, the cavern had fascinated him. He’d often ridden his favorite quarter horse to the hilltop overlooking the entrance and waited for the bats to fly. The mysterious feature and its population of bats, had wakened Chuck’s curiosity and given him a lifetime interest in science, even though he’d chosen other fields to work in. Science majors, after all, didn’t command the starting salaries offered to MBAs.

Did Morty really need him, or was this just another attempt to bring Chuck into one of his many schemes? Granted, some of them had paid off, but always in the past Morty had lost interest and sold his patent to someone who would market it.

Well.

They had been close, Chuck and his grandfather, so maybe the thing to do was spend time with Morty. That closeness, his only real human relationship, might still be there.

And who could say? Maybe this time he would finally explore that mysterious cavern!

Morty hung up the phone and smiled. He hadn’t told Chuck exactly what he was doing, but he had mentioned that the new device was working and promised to be a financial success. If, that is, they could work out the bugs. Chuck hadn’t commented, but Morty knew he’d gotten the message. Maybe Morty’s comment had been enough to convince him to visit the ranch.

“Working” was an exaggeration. Morty had gotten results, but they were not consistent, and the device, charitably, was not reliable. In fact, it was prone to self-destruct under stress, which had so far prevented even a full-power trial. He glared at the collection of motors, generators, and machines. How to balance the mess, how to ensure that this one wouldn’t do what the last one did, fly apart under the gee forces? He’d avoided injury, but controlling the collection was a headache.

How had Tesla intended to do it? Had he even gotten to that point, or had he been satisfied to make notes and move on to something else? From his writings, Tesla had decided instead to work on his broadcast power system. He might have intended to investigate the impeller later; there was no way to tell. As for Tesla, he had been more than an inventor. He’d also been a gifted machinist, at least for his time.