Within the next few seconds Trevor will either experience a titanic swell of satisfaction–or die a gruesome death.
Let this be understood before we go any further: Trevor Cloud is a genius. He is too modest to admit it, and too engrossed in his experiments to even consider the possibility, but at the young age of twenty-three he possesses more intelligence than any other person on planet Earth.
'I'm a coward and a fool,' he muttered. 'Press the key and get it over with.'
His finger hovered one centimetre above his laptop "enter" key, hanging there while he gathered the nerve to jab. One simple jab and his creation would come alive; and nothing or nobody would ever be able to turn it off or stop it–that is, if his calculations were correct.
The trouble is, if he had miscalculated, he would die.
'Come on,' he said, 'do it, you know it will work.' His finger shook and sweat stung his eye. One jab. Life or death. 'Come on, do it.'
He knew it would work because he had made several miniature models.
Admittedly, the first model had remained dead; the next model had glowed white hot and melted; the third model had exploded leaving a huge crater in the ground and felled all trees within a ten-metre radius; and the fourth model had wobbled clumsily in the air until it shot off into the clear blue sky and headed for space, out of control and lost forever.
But the next model had worked better than he ever dared hope for. A simple-looking object the size of an ostrich egg, connected by straightforward radio signal to his laptop, the end result of passionate university study and hundreds of thousands of pounds from his bank account. It had floated in the air, manoeuvring perfectly; up, down, left, right, in any direction he wanted; silent and effortless, like a soap bubble floating in a gentle breeze.
Not much to feel proud about, you might agree, yet it would only move according to his command and no other influence could budge it, or damage it in any way or form. He had whacked it with his cricket bat and the egg stayed put and the bat snapped in two. He had tied one end of a rope around it, attached the other to his car bumper, and tugged until the rope snapped. He had given it both barrels of his shotgun, only to watch the pellets fall lifeless to the grass as if the egg had sucked all the energy from them.
Finally, he had taped a stick of dynamite to it, lit the fuse and hid behind a massive oak tree. Instead of exploding with a monstrous boom, the dynamite had made a pathetic "fut" sound. When the thick black smoke cleared, his model still floated in exactly the same position, its surface as clean and unmarked as ever.
The egg had still responded to his commands. No damage outside, no damage inside. Well that's it then, he had thought. My theories work, my calculations are correct, now let's get started on the real thing. With the experiment over, he had broken the connection with his laptop and watched the egg drop from the air and shatter on the ground.
If everything is so fine, he thought, why do I worry?
He worried because he now sat inside the full size egg; a structure as large as a barn and totally empty apart from the desk he sat at and a few essential items–like a fridge-freezer, a microwave oven, a sofa to sleep on, and a grandfather clock.
It has to work, he thought. He'd checked his calculations four times. They were exactly the same computations he had used on the models–except on a much grander scale. The only difference now was he could never turn it off again. There was no "plug to pull".
Once he plucked up courage to punch his battered key, his invention would become alive, drawing energy and life from everything around it. A huge indestructible egg he could move in any direction he chose. That is, if it didn't simply refuse to work, or explode, or melt, or shoot off into outer space.
A ball of sweat gathered on Trevor's brow and trickled down to his nose tip. It hung there for a second then dropped to the back of his poised hand where it stung like a needle stab. He closed his eyes and sighed, and with a gentle movement he pressed the enter key.
~*~
Approximately twenty-one kilometres away, something like the distance of a half marathon, Trevor's younger brother Russell, tall, fair and athletic like a Viking, bowed to his martial arts pupils and beamed with pleasure. The five panting lads were the remains of his last beginners' class, the devoted ones who would eventually achieve black belts.
'Well done, boys,' said Russell. 'You did very well today. Three more weeks until your next grading and I'm certain all of you will pass easily. See you all Monday. Have a nice weekend.'
Even the oppressive July heat hadn't put the boys off from coming–each of them dreamed of becoming a hero. They were all fans of Bruce Lee and action-crammed kung-fu movies. Russell chuckled; the late Bruce Lee was one of his own favourites. The exhausted boys thanked Russell, changed without showering, and left.
Alone in his dojo, Russell squatted in the lotus position and sighed. He wondered how he could make them understand the martial arts constituted so much more than a means of self-defence, or beating up a pile of thugs single-handedly.
He sighed again, deeper this time, and closed his eyes to meditate. Martial arts focuses our spiritual aspects, he thought, it increases our self-confidence, our assertiveness, and our concentration.
But Russell found it difficult to concentrate. The overwhelming heat and physically hard training session had left him feeling giddy and his thoughts wandered. He bounced to his feet, shook the tension from his limbs, sank back to the floor, and drew one deep breath after the other. He considered chanting, but settled instead on visualisation. He would visualise a downpour with cold water streaming down his face and neck, and his tongue catching huge rain drops…
Russell began to form the image in his mind, but a faint scratching noise by his right knee stole his attention. It sounded like a mouse nibbling a piece of toast, or a dry leaf rocking on a draft. He resisted the urge to open his eyes; such irritations were a trick of the mind, he reminded himself, so he set the sound aside and strove to focus his thoughts.
His daydream budded slowly.
Dark grey clouds gathered above his head; and with the clouds came a chilly breeze; and with the breeze came the pungent scent of rain. He held the image for a few minutes, letting it assume physical form like a phantom presence materialising before his eyes.
His images were always lifelike, but this was far superior to anything he had previously experienced. He gave himself a mental pat on the back and opened his full awareness to the perception.
The scratching by his knee started to annoy him, so he included the sound within his image and pictured the hazy outline of an insect rubbing its legs together. The insect fitted snugly into his scene and Russell drew his attention back to the gathering clouds.
The clouds billowed high into the sky, closing together and shutting out the blue. A brilliant flash of lightning forked across the clouds and Russell jumped. Something isn't quite right here, he thought. Where did the flash come from? I want rain, not lightning.
The scratching sound grew louder and more persistent. With a disapproving grunt, Russell gave in and opened his eyes. A long, slender, greenish-brown insect swayed on spindly legs, and Russell recognised it as a praying mantis. 'What are you doing here pestering me?' murmured Russell. 'You're supposed to be in the Mediterranean or somewhere warm.' Then he chuckled. 'Yes, I know, it is warm.'
As he spoke, the hairs on his forearm bristled and he shuddered. The room remained dark and cool as if the heavy clouds still hung over his head, and the scent of rain still lingered in the chilly air. A menacing roll of thunder rumbled in the distance and he supposed, at long last, that a real storm was on its way.
The six-centimetre mantis remained where it was, unafraid and unperturbed, and as Russell watched, he could swear the ugly little monster grew…
This is a bad omen, thought Russell. Something wasn't quite right here. Something unpleasant was about to happen. 'Are you real or am I still dreaming?' he asked the insect. 'If I wasn't such a nice guy I'd squash you under my boot.'
The mantis grew to the size of a cat. It sat back on four rear limbs and held a stout pair of front legs together in prayer, rubbing them gently as if looking forward to something. Dark circular points in the centre of each bulbous green iris glared at Russell–and now the mantis was dog size.
'What are you and what do you want?' gasped Russell, a quiver of fear in his voice.
The insect's front legs had sharp spines and claws. Behind them, its piercing eyes were now on the same level as Russell's. The claws twitched as they prepared to grab. Unable to move, the beginning of a scream gurgled in Russell's throat…