Origins

Copyright 2013 Gerald Koenig.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This book was created in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-2621-9 (e)

Trafford rev. 01/07/2013

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

In the Neolithic Age—By Rudyard Kipling

In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage

For food and fame and two-toed horses’ pelt;

I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,

And I sang for all we fought and feared and felt.

Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring

Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove,

And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg

Were about me and beneath me and above.

But a rival of Solutré told my tribe my style was outré—

By a hammer, grooved of dolomite, he fell.

And I left my views of Art, barbed and tangled, beneath the heart

Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed Full,

And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;

And I wiped my mouth and said, "It is well that they are dead,

For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong."

But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came,

And he told me in a vision of the night:—

"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

And every single one of them is right!"

Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me

Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;

And I stepped beneath Time’s finger once again a tribal singer

And a minor poet certified by Tr—l.

Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow,

When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;

When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,

And our only plots were piled in lakes at Bern.

Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak and rage,

Still we pinch and slap and jabber—scratch and dirk;

Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide—

To show the fellow-savage how to work.

Still the world is wondrous large,—seven seas from marge to marge.—

And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;

And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu

And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.

Here’s my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose

And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night:

There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right.

Glossary for In the Neolithic Age:

PROLOGUE

By the late 1980s Steve Kantor felt he had spent the last trimester of his life tethered to the academic community of the University of Texas, at Austin. Following his undergraduate education he spent six years working toward advanced degrees while complementing his time with various teaching positions, mainly in the fields of computer science and information services. He married his wife Carol in 1984 shortly before earning a Ph.D. in computer science.

In 1988 he transferred to the computer research department at the university. He continued to teach, but only one basic course to undergraduates. He valued student interaction and felt it added perspective to his research.

Carol Kantor gave birth to two boys during the first three years of their marriage. Aside from helping raise the family and his work at the university, Steve Kantor’s only other passions were weekend golf and small private airplanes. He one day hoped to own an aircraft, large and comfortable enough to travel extensively with his family. Once the boys were in school, Carol was able to return to her career as a medical researcher, specializing in oncology. The Kantors lived in a moderate size, post war home not far from the university in downtown Austin until 2002.

Steve Kantor’s research career started with only a modicum of success, but vaulted to unexpected heights within only a few years. Although such lofty measures were generally understood and respected by industry peers only, Steve had a unique ability to draw on his lifetime experiences, including academic, social and personal interests, to create what would be considered new and important applications for the rapidly developing tools of his industry. His percipience led to a torrent of discoveries. Rivals would merely call them software developments; but they were genuinely much more than that. Kantor envisioned and devised ways to program high speed, mega-memory computers to anticipate future needs, much in the same way a right fielded would use innate knowledge of the calculus to predict the path of a fly ball within a micro-second of an opposing batter’s swing. In the context humans playing baseball, this feat may seem relatively mundane; but it still lies well outside the contemporary abilities of man-made, bipedal robots. Kantor’s accomplishments, though limited in scope to the field of communication, were in a class by themselves, not unlike those of a very talented right fielder.

Boiled down to basics, Kantor’s developed means to decipher, stratify, segregate, analyze and optimize all communications, whether verbal, non-verbal, numeric or otherwise. He was even able to develop his adolescent interest in quantum cryptography to a fully comprehensible text. Feeling professionally fulfilled, Kantor never expected material recognition for any of his work beyond the laboratories of international, academic research. He would often muse, Widely published, but read and understood by few. This interpretation of his accomplishments remained unchanged until shortly after an unexpected phone call in the fall of 2001.

The call came late on a Friday afternoon. A male voice on the line introduced himself as Jim Allsbury, a self-described, Washington D.C. headhunter, specializing in senior level placements in major hi-tech industry positions. Kantor kept an open mind to the caller, but had a little trouble discerning whether Allsbury’s intent was any different than what he had heard before, generally some nameless, or to be named organization looking to attach his name and résumé to help achieve their political action or fund raising goals. Kantor’s concern was somewhat assuaged once Allsbury told him that he had been singled out as a prospect for a very important project and that if he turned out to be the right candidate, he would be handsomely rewarded. Allsbury insisted on flying to Austin to discuss the opportunity directly with Kantor.

The two agreed to meet and set a 9:00 A.M. appointment for the next day at Kantor’s home. Allsbury steadfastly refused Kantor’s offer to pick him up at the airport. Steve, however, did agree to be home alone at the time, which wasn’t a problem; Carol had already made plans to take the boys for haircuts.

Allsbury, a grossly rotund, balding man in his mid-forties appeared as scheduled the next morning. He was dressed in a black business suit, white shirt and conservative tie. Kantor greeted him at the door. Although Steve noticed that Allsbury arrived in a black, unmarked van with tinted rear windows, driven by a man wearing what appeared to be a baseball cap, he ascribed no particular meaning at that time to those and other questionable circumstances. Allsbury was pushy and wanted to get right to business. When asked, he revealed only that the name of the prospective company was General Informational Services Systems, G-I-S-S, or as he liked to call it GISS. He only said that it was a start-up operation with deep pockets, being positioned to perform contractually for both the U.S. Government and certain unnamed private corporations.

Kantor was prepared to give Allsbury copies of his research work and published articles; but the offer was quickly refused as being unnecessary. Allsbury couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer very many questions about the company or what Steve’s specific responsibilities would be. He would only disclose that it involved computer technology, information gathering and sorting. Kantor became more than a little frustrated by the terse replies to his questions. The bright headlights of the proposed compensation package, however, quickly blinded his frustrations and concerns. Within thirty minutes, Allsbury said that he was fully authorized to offer Kantor a five-year contract starting at two million the first year with guaranteed $500,000 annual increases. The proposal caught Kantor with his guards down. He normally would have been more leery, but was soon numbed, shocked and ultimately floored by the most unorthodox of Allsbury’s courtship rituals.

Without allowing time for Kantor’s response, Allsbury excused himself saying only that he had a little surprise. The portly man struggled to get up, walked through the dining room into the kitchen and returned with the cordless telephone. He then asked Steve, Do you want to phone your bank, or would you like me to do that for you?

Kantor replied, I can do it. I have all the numbers in my wallet; but why do I need to phone my bank?

That’s where the little surprise is. Let me help you. You don’t need the numbers in your wallet, Steve, just touch memory five followed by memory six. Don’t you remember? Carol programmed the phone for you. By then Kantor was more than a little pissed by Allsbury’s apparent familiarity, first with him—and then with his wife, but nevertheless, curiosity caused him to follow Allsbury’s instructions. He pushed memory five, followed by memory six and put the receiver to his ear, soon hearing a familiar feminine voice, an electronically synthesized sound, welcoming him to Wells Fargo Telephone Banking. Allsbury then told him through a shit-eating grin to access his money market savings account and request the debits and credits. Kantor acquiesced and within moments discovered that a $100,000 electronic deposit had been made to the account on Friday. Without even waiting for Kantor to put down the phone, Allsbury informed him that the money was his whether he accepted the position, or not. He referred to the payment as a token of their good faith.

Steve Kantor was never actually interviewed by anyone from the company. Allsbury remained his only contact until well into his contract with GISS. Steve quickly surmised that GISS was established as a reaction to 9/11 and the War on Terror. It really didn’t make much sense to him in any other context. At least that notion helped him rationalize his role on the new job. He otherwise, soon became disillusioned with much of what was going on at GISS.

He was not surprised by the aura of secrecy; that was to be expected, given his interpretation of the circumstances. Most of what Steve experienced during his first six months on the new job seemed normal, the daily security checks, required both upon arrival and before departure and the nondescript vicinity and appearance of what simply came to be known as the Location, the code name for GISS’s Austin facilities. But other things troubled him. All employees were strictly prohibited from interacting with other employees off-site, whether socially or otherwise; they were required to forgo using their real names for simple, three letter pseudonyms. Steve Kantor became Lex and Allsbury, who soon became an employee of GISS as well, was referred to as Vat. Steve was assigned a young male assistant who he knew only as Nug. The only other person having daily contact with Steve was Vim, a thirty something female who was the Administrative Supervisor.

Steve’s early assignments were well within his range of capabilities; he even felt underemployed. That feeling changed once Steve Kantor’s research lab was refitted with extremely modern, one could even say futuristic, equipment. Steve’s assignments changed too. Once the new equipment was installed, he was charged with the responsibility of refining and maximizing all systems’ capabilities. His revised assignments were more consistent with the skills he developed at the University of Texas, systematic categorization and stratification of vast amounts of information. This time, however, it was to be done on a scale that even stretched Steve’s imagination.

Exciting at first, the assignment didn’t relieve Steve from feeling unfulfilled. He felt he was little more than a cog in an immense system. He, as probably all others, was treated on a need to know basis only. He wasn’t even privy to the output of his own systems, which shrouded in secrecy, was left for others to decipher. Beyond his feelings of frustration, lay yet a minefield of treachery, mystery, madness and the unexplained.

CHAPTER ONE

The morning of his 30th birthday, an intrusion of bright sunshine woke Ryan Christopher. He was hung over from the previous night’s celebrations. He hadn’t had that much to drink since his college fraternity days at the University of Texas. He briefly recalled his 1998 graduation and his anticipation of an event scheduled for his 30th birthday in 2004—the opening of the time capsule bequeathed to him by his great-grandfather on his father’s, father’s side, a patrilineal family tradition for more than 300 years.

Once out of bed he contemplated his reflection in the bathroom mirror and decided to trim his beard back a little. His self-image reflected what he thought to be his only distinguishing characteristic; he had it since his freshmen year at U.T. Otherwise, he believed he was just an average guy in all other respects—height, build, weight, intelligence—and even love life. Ryan had only four hours of sleep, but was invigorated with anticipation that morning; he had an eight o’clock appointment at the law offices of Osgood, Miller, Binder & Sommers. Duncan Osgood, an estate-planning attorney who oversaw the Christopher Family Trust, was to give Ryan his capsule that morning.

Ryan dressed quickly and boiled water for coffee. He briefly thought of the check he’d also receive that day, the first in a series of payments from the family trust. He wasn’t sure of the amount, but knew that whatever it was, he could use it. The balance of his bank account had dwindled since he lost his job in a corporate restructuring more than a month earlier. Osgood’s offices were across the street from Ryan’s third story, loft condo near the center of downtown Austin. While sipping coffee he recalled his late father, Daniel Christopher, and the opening of his capsule. Ryan, only five years old at the time, still remembered his father’s 30th birthday and the anxious anticipation and ultimate disappointment that date brought. The benefactor of Daniel Christopher’s capsule, Ryan’s great, great-grandfather, Elias Christopher, had lived a rather mundane life in rural Pennsylvania where he taught school and raised a large family—thirteen children in all. He died at the age of forty, in 1870. Daniel Christopher’s capsule contained voluminous materials on family genealogy, several small coins dating from the eighteenth century, some oil portraits of apparently notable people and an essay covering the life and times of Elias Christopher.

Ryan’s benefactor, Thomas Christopher, Elias’ first son, was born in 1850. He served for a short time as a boy soldier for the Union during the Civil War. Thereafter, he became an adventurous world traveler who scoured some of the world’s most remote and unexplored places. He didn’t marry until the age of sixty-five. He fathered his first and only son, Thomas Jr., Ryan’s grandfather, in 1919, at the age of sixty-nine.

Ryan hoped that on this 17th day of July 2004, he would open a passage to the past. He was clueless what it would ultimately reveal.

Ryan descended three flights of stairs from his condominium to the steamy Austin summer morning. Within thirty seconds he could feel the sweat from his torso flooding his freshly laundered shirt. He felt concerned over what old Osgood would think of his appearance, but it was already five minutes to eight and he hadn’t the time to do anything about that.

Osgood had been very close to Ryan’s father. He was a good looking, but stern man in his late fifties. A Navy Seal specializing in covert intelligence during the Viet Nam war, he had become a trusted family fiduciary, handling most of the family’s legal matters for over thirty years. Ryan knew that Osgood would be dressed in a conservative business suit, starched white shirt and tie from the early 90s. He knew as well, that he would be somewhat intimidated by the man.

He took the short walk to the office tower, which housed the Osgood firm on its penthouse floor. Having been there many times before, he knew to take the express elevator to the 19th floor. He soon was greeted by an attractive young receptionist.

Hello Mr. Christopher she said with a smile. We’ve been expecting you. Please have a seat in our conference room and I’ll let Mr. Osgood know that you’re here.

Ryan entered the room. He remembered the cherry wainscoted walls, the expensive artwork and the large Remington statue depicting the Sooners of early Oklahoma fame that sat in the middle of a cherry and marble conference table. He remembered in a flash that it was the same room used three years earlier for the reading of his father’s will. Osgood, accompanied by the young lady from the reception area, soon appeared at the east door of the room. He carried a large, tubular metal container.

Osgood greeted Ryan with a smile, Happy Birthday! I guess you’ll be partying today?

No Mr. Osgood, I did all I needed of that last night.

Osgood insisted that Ryan call him Duncan and then introduced his companion Sally Erickson, who doubled as a receptionist and paralegal. She was present to witness and authenticate Ryan’s receipt of the time capsule.

Duncan remarked, I believe you’ve met a little while ago. Sally heads our paralegal team.

Ryan went through the niceties of greeting Osgood and his companion, and rejected the standard offer of a soft drink or ice water, even though he felt somewhat parched. He extended his arms to receive the capsule. Duncan instead placed the container between Ryan and himself and took a seat at the head of the table.

Osgood informed Ryan, I can give it to you as soon as you verify that you’ve received and inspected the capsule and can tell that the lead seal joining the container and its lid is original and unbroken. We’ll need to verify your identity for our records and that you received the capsule intact.

Ryan nodded. He stood up and carefully examined the metal container. It looked fine to him. The seal certainly appeared old; he was sure it was original and said, Let’s go with it; it looks okay to me. Osgood glanced at Sally who then passed a document to Ryan.

Once the paperwork was done Duncan pushed the container in Ryan’s direction and asked, Do you want to open it here or at home?

No, I want to do this at home. He got up, put the capsule under his left arm and extended his right to shake with Duncan.

Duncan smiled and asked, Aren’t you forgetting something, Ryan?

Ryan sat down and returned the smile; he had momentarily forgotten it was also the day he would start receiving annual distributions from the Christopher Family Trust. Whatever the amount was, he could use it. In the past he could tap the Trust only for emergencies; he did that just once. I guess you have a check for me?

Yes. Duncan then opened a manila folder and passed Ryan an envelope. Ryan tore it open and removed its contents, a check made out to him in the amount of $34,596.04.

Terrific! That’s great; I sure can use it. I’m sort of between jobs right now.

Duncan said, You’ll get one of these on your birthday each year until you’re thirty-five; then you’ll be entitled to access your entire trust account.

Why is it such an unusual amount? I thought it would be an even number.

You know your father was a stickler for numbers. It’s inflation adjusted annually since the date he last amended his will.

Ryan thanked Osgood and his assistant and then proceeded to return home. Outside the office tower the air was hotter, but much dryer than earlier. He walked deliberately, overwhelmed and saddened by a rekindled memory of his father. He had long hoped to share this special day with him. He also thought of the seemingly endless, bloody war against terrorism. His emotions had become callus to the often biased and repetitive reporting of the far-off horrific events of slaughter and treachery. Following 9/11 he tried to enlist in the Army, but was rejected because of a rather minor medical problem.

Once home, Ryan cleared the glass dining area table of the debris that had accumulated since his dutiful maid Marta last cleaned the condo. He stared at the capsule; its size impressed him. It was much larger than his father’s. He needed a tool to break the seal. His all-purpose utility knife would do the trick. He used the small rasp located in the knife’s handle and began to saw. After a few minutes he was able to dislodge the capsule’s lid. He then tilted the capsule toward the tabletop and began extracting its contents. One of the first items was an envelope generically addressed to him. Through his peripheral vision Ryan could see that the capsule contained a number of interesting and unusual objects, but felt he had to read the letter first out of a sense of respect for his family heritage.

The envelope contained a single page of linen paper. Once unfolded, he could tell the letter had held up very well over the years. The top of the page was embossed with the letterhead of the Mount Nelson Hotel, Cape Town, South Africa. He was surprised to see that it was dated 13, January, 1901, a date that preceded the birth of Ryan’s grandfather. He also noticed that the date was stated with the month following the day, a format not traditionally American. He then read the letter:

Dearest Son: I write this letter now as a consequence of my declining vision" Ryan knew that his great-grandfather was totally blind by the time he died in 1925.

I will soon return to America to pursue those endeavors I have yet to attend. I must find and marry a wife and rear a family as required by our tradition. My first son will also be named Thomas. My travels have taken me to the great expanses of southern and central China, the subcontinent of India, the jungles of South America and most of southern and central Africa. I have spent the last five years with the Bushmen of German South-west Africa, observing and trying to understand their culture and the evolution of their language. I have come to believe these innocent, harmless creatures may be the progeny of the earliest modern humans; and their language, with its many unusual sounds, a vestige of perhaps the earliest forms of human speech.

The contents of this capsule encompass many of the antiquities I have collected over the last forty years. There is one exception, a brightly coloured disk shaped object, given to me by my mother’s father. He was also an explorer and probably the font of my own wanderlust. My grandfather told me that he found the strange disk in 1799 whilst in Phaestos on the island of Crete. I have carried it with me all these years and have not been able to unravel anything of its content. Hold it up to a bright light, observe it closely and you will see.

My collection may not mean much to you, but each item has special significance. I will catalogue them and revise this letter at a later date, willing my vision improves.

Thomas Christopher

Ryan quickly refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope before scanning the tabletop. He was confronted with a large array of objects. Everything at first appeared to be very old. He had not yet observed that brightly colored disk referred to in the letter. He did see many precious, or perhaps semi-precious, stones. Maybe some are diamonds? he thought. The stones were all uncut; most were colored, some were nearly clear. Ryan examined each of them closely before placing them in a pile. "Either they were real—or not" he thought. Thomas Christopher was rumored to have died penniless. Ryan soon realized that it was unlikely that any great value resided in the pile of rocks and for a moment felt a little disappointed.

His eyes were then drawn to the remaining items strewn about the table. He picked up a slender branch-like object that tapered to sharp tips at both ends and was widest at its center. It had some kind of a string wound tightly around one end. Ryan quickly deduced that what he thought was string, wasn’t. It was woven out of either sinuous animal gut or plant fiber. Of course, he suddenly realized it was a small, unstrung hunting bow. There were also several wooden arrows with perfectly sharp bone or animal horn tips mounted on thin fore shafts. Ryan figured these came from some early African or South American tribe. He recognized a set of old drumsticks and realized they were likely his great-grandfather’s from Civil War days.

There were numerous dark, opaque stones that appeared to be ancient hand tools. They generally had one or more sharp surfaces; one was almost round and had no sharp surface at all. Ryan skipped over the many other rather small items and reexamined the capsule. He reached toward the bottom and could feel a few objects wedged together. He carefully removed them; each was wrapped in burlap and cord. Ryan focused first on the largest of the packages. He used his utility knife to cut the cord. Once inside, a strange woody odor and an encrustation of sawdust shrouded the contents. He picked up the relatively heavy object and brought it to the kitchen to rinse it in the sink; the exercise quickly revealed a glimmering statue of gold covered with jewels. He recalled a movie he saw on TV years earlier and was quickly able to distinguish the origin of this find to South America, probably pre-Columbian, he thought. The gold was soft to the touch, obviously pure. The stones were mainly emeralds; some were quite large. The overall shape of the object was human, but the proportions of its limbs and other appendages, at least to Ryan’s eyes, were—not human. Ryan couldn’t fathom why his benefactor had not somehow converted this treasure to cash before his death. He then thought of his great-grandfather’s reference to a brightly colored, disk shaped object. Where was it? he thought. He hadn’t yet seen it. It must be in one of the other wrapped packages. He returned to the glass table. Of the two remaining packages, one clearly resembled the shape of a disk. He picked it up and hastily exposed its contents. There was no sawdust. He estimated the disk was nearly three inches in diameter. Its width varied from about one-eighth of an inch at the rim to nearly three-quarters at its center. It was shaped like a disk and was certainly very brightly colored, but not in any tint or hue of color that Ryan had even seen. The closest primary color was red, yet it also appeared to contain or reflect many colors and shades. It wasn’t iridescent; but that was the only word that Ryan could think to describe its strange appearance.

He felt the surface of the disk. It was soft to the touch, but could be compressed only slightly by the strength of his hand. Ryan thought of his great-grandfather’s suggestion that the object should be held up to the light. He took it outside to the third story catwalk. It was nearly 11:00 A.M. and the bright summer sun was high in the sky. He positioned the disk in his line of sight to the sun. Although not transparent, he could determine that it was translucent near its rim. Inward in all directions the translucence transitioned to an opaque, dark, central core. Closer examination was needed.

Ryan took the disk to his guest bedroom, which doubled as an office. He set up the microscope, a gift from his parents when he entered high school. He turned on the bright light at the base of the instrument and slid the rim of the disk under the scope. At the lowest powers he could discern a maze of what appeared to be complex circuits and chips. He moved the disk slightly and focused on areas that were less translucent. He found that by changing the magnifying power and focal length ever so slightly, a new field of what looked like circuits and chips appeared. Each field differed only marginally in configuration and looked very similar to the previous field; but the dimensions of its components were smaller. At the highest power of his instrument the images still appeared—virtually the same. Limited by the constraints of magnifying power, focal length and diminishing light, he could observe only the outer regions of the disk. As he approached the horizon of the dark central core, everything started to appear fuzzy. Ryan sat back in his chair with a sense of amazement. He suddenly realized, How could he explain the origin of what appeared to him to be some kind of very advanced computer disk—unearthed at the end of the eighteenth century?

As he mused about the origin of the disk, Ryan remembered his father often spoke to him of time and space travel. He also marveled that the disk was in perfect condition, not even a scratch blemished its surface. Although somewhat pliable, almost like taut skin, he was unable to mar it in any way, even with the sharpest point of his utility knife. Ryan felt confounded; the strange disk was either, not of this world, or—from the future. He certainly knew it couldn’t really have come from the past. Ryan had never seen anything even remotely resembling this unusual object.

Convinced he was dealing with something having to do with computer systems he pondered, Where do I go with this? He knew some people in the information services businesses, but none of them very well. Then it occurred to him, Call Professor Kantor. Ryan thought highly of Kantor from his U.T. days. Kantor, primarily a researcher in computer sciences also taught at least one undergraduate class. He took a special interest in Ryan and taught him the basics of computer science over two semesters.

Ryan had a hard time with most of the sciences and a particularly hard time with computer science. He remembered Kantor as more of a tutor than a teacher. He spent some evenings and even a few weekend days with Kantor who provided personalized tutoring. Ryan passed the courses, each time getting a gentleman’s B, good grades for him. He knew Kantor was trustworthy and reliable and felt if could enlist Kantor’s assistance, he would have a better chance of understanding the strange disk.

Ryan recalled reading an article in the Austin American Statesman several years earlier. It was a press release announcing that Steven Kantor was leaving U.T. for a private sector opportunity with a hi-technology firm located somewhere in the vicinity of Lakeway. Ryan didn’t remember the name of Kantor’s employer, or even know if it was still in business. The whole hi-tech area hadn’t yet fully recovered from a major downturn, which started in the fall of 1999.

He’d try to find him anyway. He started by looking in the Yellow Pages under all categories containing the word computer. He hoped that something, perhaps a logo or description, would jog his memory—nothing did. He then decided to try the White Pages and quickly found what he was looking for—Kantor, Steven A. Ph.D. He also recognized the general location of the address, 4396 Belmont Park Drive. He thought, nice location. Belmont Park Drive had to be in the Davenport Ranch area near the Austin Country Club. All the streets in that area were named after famous horse tracks. Belmont certainly belonged in that class. Ryan instinctively reached for the phone, but quickly withdrew his hand. How could he ask Kantor for help analyzing a more than two hundred year old computer disk? He didn’t want to let the origin of the disk cloud Kantor’s objective opinion. Yet he didn’t want to be untruthful, but felt he had to at least come up with an alternate explanation.

He knew he could think more clearly if he had lunch first. It was already nearly one o’clock. He quickly made a ham and cheese sandwich, his favorite, with mayonnaise and mustard on rye bread and then headed for the living room. He felt uneasy having to concoct a story intended to mislead his former professor, but knew he had to come up with something. He’d have to ultimately divulge how he acquired the disk, but had an uneasy feeling about doing it over the phone. After a few bites he had a solution.

He tested his recollection first. He had to recall whether he ever discussed his father’s profession with Professor Kantor during any of their tutorial sessions. After reflecting, he reasoned not. He may have referred to his father’s early retirement and subsequent world travels and other things in a passing manner, but since Daniel Christopher retired two years before Ryan entered college, it was not likely that his father’s profession would have come up. Ryan, being young and somewhat disinterested at the time, didn’t recall exactly what his father really did. He knew he was an investment banker specializing in real estate for Drexel, Burnham something. Daniel Christopher worked with computers, but Ryan knew for sure his father never worked—on computers. This is where he felt he could embellish the story a bit.

Ryan decided to tell Kantor that his father gave him the disk shortly before his death. That seemed to make sense. By doing it that way he wouldn’t have to misrepresent anything about his father or his father’s profession. He was confident that Kantor had never met his father and that Ryan could make the logical assumption that his professor was unaware of most everything about Daniel Christopher. Ryan, after all, wouldn’t profess that his father created the disk himself, but that he simply gave it to him. That didn’t seem to too be much of a stretch.

He returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone, then, after taking a deep breath, dialed the number appearing next to Kantor’s name. Ryan was quickly greeted with a friendly, Hello from a familiar voice.

Ryan replied, Hello, is this Professor Kantor?

Yes.

I’m Ryan Christopher, I was a student of yours at U.T. about seven years ago. Do you remember me?

Of course Ryan, how are you?

I’m fine, suffering the heat of an Austin summer just like everyone else.

"I guess it’s been more than three years since I last saw you. Ryan, feeling a bit puzzled, thought it was more like seven years.

Ignoring the discrepancy, Ryan responded, Well however long ago, I’m glad to see you’re still in town.

At least for now, Ryan, how can I help you? I don’t mean to be impolite, but I’m just about out the door. I have a 2:30 tee off time at the club.

Ryan responded, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to inconvenience you. I have something I’d like you to look at. It seems to be some kind of computer disk. It’s not a floppy. It contains some strange circuitry, nothing like I’ve ever seen before. It looks kind of like a pregnant CD-ROM.

Where did you get it?

Ryan replied with an uneasy feeling in his gut, My father gave it to me more than three years ago, shortly before he died. He gave it to me with a bunch of things. It’s been wrapped up and I only opened it this morning. I’d like you to take a look at it.

How’s your schedule for tomorrow? If you can, come by here around 11:30. You can show it to me then. Afterward, we can have lunch.

That’s perfect.

Do you know how to get here?

I think so. I assumed from the address you’re out by the Austin Country Club and I know how to get there.

That’s right, just make the first right before you get to the entrance to the Club. We’re the third house on the left.

Thanks very much. I’ll look forward to it.

See you then.

Goodbye.

Ryan felt relieved having broken the ice with Kantor. He remembered the many times his father had taken him to the Austin Country Club for lunch, particularly the times after the divorce from his mother. The divorce was a terrible thing. Ryan didn’t like to think about it. His mother, Noreen Christopher, ran off with another man when Ryan was only sixteen. Even when he was a child, Ryan knew of his mother’s drinking problem and the difficulties that had caused with his father. Ryan had convinced himself that his father’s frequent absences resulted from his mother’s drinking. The loud arguments, screaming, slamming of doors and occasional sound of glass and china breaking were the real nightmares of Ryan’s youth. It always happened at night, at times he should have been sleeping. His parents seemed composed in the mornings when he went downstairs. If anything had been broken the night before, there would no remnants in the morning. He knew his father would likely have cleaned them up. He tried to suppress these thoughts, but never really could. As a young child he loved his mother very much. But his feelings changed by the time she left. What was once love became anger. After she left, Ryan never received a phone call, letter or even small gift from his mother.

Ryan soon retreated to his bedroom, turned the TV on and began flipping channels. He settled on the Science Channel and a special on animal behavior. He would watch many more such shows that day in an attempt to divert his mind from dwelling on the strange disk. He finally fell asleep, quite late.

End of Chapter

CHAPTER TWO

After a restless night Ryan got out of bed a little after nine o’clock. He returned to the glass tabletop to reexamine the contents of the capsule. Astounded that he hadn’t yet opened the remaining wrapped parcel, he’d do that first. After cutting the cord and pealing the outer wrapping, Ryan again smelled sawdust, but not the same odor as the day before. Although neither bedecked in jewels, nor constructed of gold, this too was a strange figurine; it appeared to be made of red clay. He wished Thomas Christopher had updated that 1901 letter, but apparently he hadn’t. Ryan wondered if there was a reason that some of the artifacts were wrapped. Had the lengthy journeys of his great-grandfather been in some way inspired by the disk? Ryan couldn’t tell. He felt sorry that he would never know. He also felt guilty not telling Kantor the truth about the origin of the disk.

It was soon time to get ready for his meeting. He knew from the weather station, the one with the droning mechanical voice, that this day would be at least as uncomfortable as the day before. He considered dressing casually, but decided he’d better not since he didn’t know what Kantor had in mind for lunch. He wore tan slacks and a long sleeve blue shirt and took along his new blue blazer. Before leaving he put his microscope back in its wood case and slipped the disk and his great-grandfather’s letter in alongside. Although not quite eleven o’clock, Ryan decided to take the longer, but more scenic route to Kantor’s house. He hurried down the stairs carrying his microscope and blazer, leaving behind the remainder of his treasures on the glass tabletop. His car, a blue 1998 Saturn, was parked at the east end of the carport. It was a graduation gift from his father. He also had a big 1954 Triumph Tiger motorcycle that he restored during the mid-90s. He parked that and its modern luggage trailer in front of his car.

He wove his way out of downtown Austin on Sixth Street, passing stores, shops, bars and restaurants, many of which he had patronized over the years. Ryan turned left at the municipal golf course and was soon on Westlake Drive, an undulating, serpentine two-lane road that roughly followed the western shoreline of Lake Austin. He was getting into the high rent district of expensive, stone, brick and marble homes that lined both sides of the road and its many adjacent cul-de-sacs. He hadn’t taken Westlake Drive in more than two years and was surprised by the absence of new construction. When his father was alive Ryan took this route regularly to go to his father’s house or meet him at the Club. Back then homes seemed to spring up everywhere.

He soon reached Long Champ Drive, the turn-off to the Austin Country Club. As he approached the Club, Ryan started to look for Belmont Park Drive. He found it just before reaching the entrance to the Club. Ryan turned and proceeded, as instructed to the third house on the left, a massive, mostly brick, two-story home. He was a little early and decided to wait in the car for a few minutes. He noticed the large house backed-up to one of the holes on the golf course. His father often played golf there. He thought back to the time of his own first legal drink, on his 21st birthday. His father hosted the occasion in the Harvey Penick Room, the famous Men’s Only bar at the Club. That was a fun time even though most of the participants were two to three times his age.

It was soon time to meet with Kantor. He retrieved the box from the back seat, but left the blazer. As he strolled up the walkway he noticed a For Sale sign out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t attach any particular meaning to it at the time. Kantor answered the door with a pleasant greeting,

Hi, Professor Kantor. They shook hands.

Please, come in.

Thanks.

We’re going back to my office.

Ryan entered and followed Kantor through several hallways and rooms of the very large residence to an area that housed the professor’s personal office. To Ryan it looked more like a laboratory than an office. All sorts of modern, hi-tech equipment lined the walls. There was a small desk with two companion chairs in