The Secret to Interstellar Flight

© Ken Omega 2006

It was just before the turn of the millennium. I was having a morning cappuccino in a small town in northern Italy near the Swiss border. Waking before dawn that day, I had gotten dressed and made my way along the old stone road to a nearby café. For some reason or another, I peered up as I walked, just in time to see a beautiful shooting star streak across the dimly lit sky. I froze in my tracks for what seemed like an eternity, yet was only a moment or two. Incidentally, in the amount of time I paused to take in what I had just witnessed, man can travel to Mars and back at least three times at the speed of light. Light-speed however, may or may not be the limit of our speed capability. Perhaps it has simply been the asymptote of our imagination for the past few decades.

I entered the old café with the thousand-yard-stare of a black operative. I snapped out of my trance long enough to greet the attendant and order the coffee along with a brioche – a jam-filled croissant. Taking the food and drink to a nearby table, I sat down to an early morning breakfast, and slipped right back into reverie.

The events of the past twenty-four hours swarmed my mind. It had been a long night. I had gotten little sleep. An aerospace conference had taken place the day before in Geneva. A prominent speaker at the event had been a Dr. Claus Vanderberg. He was an astrophysicist who was well known and respected in the international scientific community. Remaining until well after the lecture had ended, I listened to the barrage of questions and remarks from skeptics that had been hurled at the man regarding his theories.

The scientist suggested that a certain isotope of the element Strontium (Sr), could be manipulated to produce a reaction he called, ‘hyperphotonic’- a burst of light which was several times more intense than a nuclear explosion. The reactor for this isotope – if made portable enough - could essentially be implemented as an engine in a spacecraft. The doctor’s final insinuation had been that a prototype for this reactor or engine as it were, could come to fruition within the next five years. And that truly was Dr. Vanderberg’s final assertion. Because by eight o’clock that evening, just an hour after giving his presentation, the astrophysicist had been found dead in his hotel suite.

Interpol, along with local law enforcement, had descended on the convention center as well as all surrounding hotels, office buildings and train stations. By nine PM, there was no way in or out of the city.

Fortunately, I hadn’t planned to stick around in Geneva after the lecture. My only purpose for attending the conference in the first place was that I happened to be in Zurich on business and while there, had become interested in a railway advertisement that caught my eye. The ad showed photos of satellites, rockets, the United States space shuttle, and renderings of what looked like new designs for various spacecraft of the future. Being a pilot / wireless consultant, anything that pertains to the sky interests me.

The information on the poster stated that this Aerospace convention was taking place that same day. I had planned to travel South - to Milan - in any event, to visit an acquaintance there. Geneva was somewhat en route. So I decided to attend this convention, get some insights on the latest developments in air and space technology, and then go see my friend.

It was one forty-five on Wednesday afternoon. I bought a calling card from a nearby newsstand and phoned Rossella - the person I had been planning to visit in Italy. I explained to her that I would be arriving later than I had originally anticipated, due to an event I wished to attend. I said I would contact her that evening when the function had ended, with the exact time to expect me. I put the receiver back in the cradle and glanced around the railway station for the nearest timetable. A female voice resonated over the public address system in French and then English, with information on departures and arrivals. Walking toward the ticket window, I read the huge train schedule that sat flickering on the wall just above. There was a high-speed train that would have me in Geneva in two hours.

As I had concluded my business in Zurich and already checked out of the hotel, the timing couldn’t have been better. I bought a one-way ticket on the two o’clock train to Geneva, and moved on in the direction of track seven where it would depart. The sleek machine sat humming like a jet as I approached. It’s modern white cars with black tinted windows, vanishing hundreds of feet into the distance beneath the superstructure of the Geneva Station. All the while, commuters ambled about.

I walk along until I reached one of the central cars. And, upon embarking, padded my way through the plush interior to a seat by a window. The Departure time was nearing. Low melodic tones chimed intermittently as the train’s crew performed various system checks. I glanced over an article in the newspaper that I had bought earlier, and noticed that NASA had postponed all shuttle launches indefinitely. Just then it occurred to me how mundane the public’s perception had become concerning this incredible display of man’s capability. The article itself, occupied only a small area of the fifth page.

My thoughts began to drift as I considered how far we’ve come in the roughly two thousand years of our history. Then I pondered the fact that certain ancient civilizations, particularly the Egyptians and Sumerians, had existed for similar lengths of time – if not longer. Incidentally, Sumer – the oldest known civilization - was located in what is now Iraq. I entertained the notion that, perhaps the United States’ interest in that part of the world goes beyond its thirst for oil. Then the train began to roll. And for the rest of the trip I struggled to take in the scenery that whizzed by at 150 mph.

I reached Geneva at four-oh-two PM. I made my way through the railway station and out to the street. There was a taxi stand nearby. I got into the first of four cars that were parked there and sat back, once I had told the driver where I was going. The Montblanc Convention Center was not far from the station. I arrived in under-ten minutes.

It was four twenty five PM in Geneva. I jammed my newspaper into the flight bag I was carrying, paid the fare and exited the cab just a few feet from the Exhibition’s main entrance.

Once inside, I couldn’t help recollecting my boyhood love of planes, helicopters and spaceships as I meandered through the various aircraft displays in the exhibit hall. Every manufacturer from the Aerospace and Defense sectors must have had a display. There were jet engines, Night-Vision Systems, Forward-Looking Infrared (FLIR) systems, military helicopters, executive helicopters, and even private jets – all actual size, brought in just for the show. These were billion-dollar corporations. And they spared no expense to promote their wares.

Time being a constraint, there was simply too much to see. I opted to visit only those displays that stood out to my subjective eye. One in particular, was the booth of a corporation called StarJet. This was a lesser-known firm founded by three graduates from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. They were in the business of developing space propulsion systems. And had several scale models of their latest satellite launches on display. StarJet had recently gained Wall Street’s attention as having been the only company to decrease the cost of getting a satellite into orbit to below two million dollars. They were also apparently interested in the research of a particular scientist - one, Claus Vandergberg. The StarJet booth was the only one in that area of the show that advertised Doctor Vanderberg’s specific presence at a forum that was taking place that afternoon. The discussion was scheduled for four thirty PM. I checked my watch, which now read four fifty-two.

“Maybe I could catch some of what this scientist had to say,” I thought.

Asking directions from an attractive young woman who promoted an executive helicopter design, I made my way down a long carpeted corridor to the conference room where Vanderberg was to give his presentation. I slipped quietly inside and remained near the door.

I hadn’t missed much. The scientist stood near an overhead projector, which hadn’t yet been turned on. He had a thick German accent. But I could still, with some difficulty, make out what he said. The lights dimmed suddenly, and moving in and out of the light of the projection device, he began to lecture on Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, Speed, Time and Light. Time being the fourth dimension; ‘Light,’ claimed Dr. Vanderberg, ‘was the fifth…’

And so went what many would consider a drawn out demonstration based on concepts that are, at best, difficult to grasp. I personally managed not to get too caught up in the terminology. Instead, I simply waited for the scientist to drop his proverbial bomb. If he did so however, no one – including myself seemed to catch it at the time. The lights came back on a few moments before the lecture was finished, and the PhD concluded his presentation on an erasable white board that stood nearby.

The silver-haired scientist, with rolled up sleeves, smiled contentedly. Leaning his extended arms on the tweed blazer that he had draped over the back of a chair, he rocked slowly fore and aft while answering questions, and countering attacks from the bewildered assembly. Eventually, the audience thinned. Only a few diehard colleagues and skeptical students remained.

They - as well as many attendees who had already left the proceedings - simply wouldn’t accept the Scientist’s hypotheses without further clarification. Being somewhat detached from the commotion however, I deduced that a key aspect of Vanderberg’s points, was the idea of nonlinear thinking – or thinking ‘outside the box’ as the expression goes. I was convinced of this after the astrophysicist’s closing remarks, where he encouraged the spectators to ‘consider the implications from all sides’.

The Strontium isotope and it’s alleged potential was another major point of contention. But I also saw that traveling at speeds close to that of light was not necessarily the crux of Vanderberg’s Theory. It was almost as if he had included that section of the lecture to placate the common mindset. Speed, in and of itself, was not the jist. Vanderberg was on to something bigger. And based on how quickly certain individuals had left the proceedings, I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

I left the Montblanc Convention center at six thirty in the evening. I was quite hungry by that time. So I stopped in a nearby bistro and had a sirloin steak, some mixed vegetables and a glass of wine. It was seven fifteen when I left the restaurant, and as I traversed the small piazza right outside, the cold wind began to rattle my bones. I looked around the deserted square for some sort of transportation. I had another train to catch.

After scanning right and then coming back to the left, I noticed a charcoal gray Mercedes sedan idling by the curb. A man in a dark colored suit with close-cropped hair got out. He appeared to be in his late twenties. The lean definition of his face, along with his athletic physique told me he had probably been in the military. My background causes me to recognize the type immediately. As I’m sure, they do me.

“Taxi?” he called over to me with a half wave, as he continued lighting the cigarette he had retrieved from his pocket while rounding the hood of the car.

“I need to get to the train station,” I responded as I walked toward the man.

“Oui.” was the man’s polite French response as he opened the rear door with his right hand and directed me inside with his smoking left. The Frenchman closed the sedan door after me and walked behind the vehicle to the driver’s side. He took one last drag of the cigarette before pressing it out with his foot and reentering the car.

We pulled away from the curb, circumvented the piazza, and entered the main road. The way this guy drove, it shouldn’t have taken long to get to the railway station. But for some reason, several minutes had passed, and I saw no scenery that was recognizable. The Alps sat massively in the distance, their snow-covered tops reflecting the moon’s stark illumination. But they should now have been on my left. Instead, they still lay on my right. The same side they had been on when I had come to the convention from the train a few hours before.

“You’re taking me to the station, right?” I asked. But the Frenchman pretended not to hear. Instead, he drove on at a hurried pace. I tried both windows and doors. But they were locked from his position. Without a second thought, I leaned back and kicked the glass out of the far side. The driver swerved violently - startled by the abrupt noise. He slammed on the breaks, and the car skidded and turned for some distance - ultimately doing a complete three-sixty before coming to a stop on the dark, lonely stretch of road.

I had gotten half way through the window during the frantic deceleration. And now struggled to get my lower body out of the car before the wheelman could get to me. I felt his hand grab my right ankle. But I broke free and toppled out of the window onto the two-lane highway. Momentarily, the body of the automobile was between us. And by the time driver emerged on my side, I had gotten the second or two of a head start that I needed.

I stayed low and dashed quickly – disappearing down below the shoulder on the opposite side of the road. Two gunshots rang out and ricocheted off the pavement right near me. A lone pair of headlights glowed in the distance. I rushed into the wooded area beyond the road. I could barely see where I was going. Another shot sounded and snapped a branch just above my head. Knowing that the Frenchman was now in the woods behind me, I decided to make a break for the car, which had been left running.

I moved as fast as I could – tripping over the uneven terrain, and getting marred all the while by twigs and branches. When I reached the gravely roadbed, I clawed my way up to the pavement. The Mercedes was now a good fifty yards away. A fourth shot smacked into the gravel just behind me, sending tiny rocks flying in all directions. The lights of the oncoming vehicle drew nearer now.

I ran toward the idling car at top speed. I could faintly hear the Frenchman surmounting the gravel just a few yards behind. I sprinted harder still. I was half way to the automobile now. Ten more seconds. That was all I needed. I saw the open driver door as I neared the sedan. Another shot shattered the rear windshield. And the next two pieced the trunk. I leaped into the front seat, and lowered my body for cover until I could get a handle on the controls. The tires screamed as I popped the clutch and spun desperately into second gear. I leaned my body upright just in time to miss a fully loaded eighteen-wheeler carrying fuel.

As I swerved and disappeared around the far side of the truck, the Frenchman must have mistakenly thought he could get that one last shot off. The rig exploded into an enormous ball of flame. In the rearview mirror of the Mercedes, the entire countryside was briefly illuminated. And the French gunman was no more.

It was unfortunate about the trucker. But I couldn’t worry about that just then. Anyway, I hadn’t pulled the trigger. And why had this French guy in a suit been trying to kidnap me and kill me? I figured, if there were any answers to be obtained, they were back in the direction of Montblanc center. Which, from what I could determine, was also the direction for the train to Milan.

It was eight fifteen now. After turning the car around and retracing the route we had taken from the center of town, I had almost made it back. I noticed a couple of signs for the airport along the way and considered flying to Milan. It would surely be quicker. Rossella had to have begun to get worried by now. She was supposed to be meeting me at Milan’s central station when I arrived. I weighed my options. But what I saw next, made the decision for me. The road ahead was completely blocked. Police lights flashed everywhere. I would have to fly.

I killed the headlights – hoping that I hadn’t been noticed – and pulled to the side of the road to think. I had committed no crime. If anything I was the victim. But I couldn’t afford to be detained in Switzerland trying to explain myself. Furthermore, what if the police were the bad guys? The Frenchman could sure have passed for a cop anywhere in the world. No. I had to contact Rossella… set up alternate arrangements… find another way into Milan.

I flipped up the armrest. Bingo! A cell phone! I keyed the international dialing code, and then Rossella’s mobile phone number. It took a couple of moments to connect. Then a series of intermittent beeps sounded, indicating the line was ringing on her end.

“Come on…pick up!” I muttered to myself - the tension and anxiety growing steadily.

“Pronto.” She answered in her warm Italian voice.

“Rossella.”

“Yes! Ken!” She recognized my voice. “Where are you? I was getting worried-”

“It’s alright.” I interrupted sharply. “Listen! Stay home! Wait for me there until I call. I can’t explain now. I’ll be there soon - tonight.” My tone was urgent. And without my realizing, had been growing steadily louder as I had begun to compete with an increasingly loud background noise. I now recognized the unmistakable sound of a helicopter, and knew I had to hurry.

“But why -”

“Not now! It’s too dangerous!” I cut her off for a second time. “Stay home! I’ll call you later.” I waited nervously for her to indicate that she’d understood.

“Si.” Came the reply. “Be carefu-” But I had ripped the phone away from the base before she could finish. ‘Si’ was all I wanted to hear. I flicked the headlights back on, made a squealing u turn, and raced the Benz toward the last airport turn-off that I had remembered seeing. Once I had driven a minute or so, I tossed the cellular receiver out the window.

By the time I reached the junction, the helicopter was almost on my tail. I turned onto the airport access road and could see planes in the distance. The chopper was upon me now. From the thump of the rotor system, I was pretty sure it was a military type craft. Then, the machine gun fire that strafed the road right next to me confirmed that suspicion. With the next burst, the helicopter’s gun blew out the front and rear tires on the driver’s side, sending me out of control, shooting sparks until I ended up off the road and among the evergreens. The helicopter zoomed past at about fifty feet off the ground. So much for driving - the Mercedes was destroyed.

I reached into the back seat where I remembered I had left my flight bag. I yanked it into the front and took out the GPS unit that I had bought in Zurich the day before. I quickly tucked it down in the inside pocket of my windbreaker, and pulled the zipper up almost to my neck.

The helicopter had spun one hundred–eighty degrees now, and was making another run at the car. This time the strafing was dead on centerline. I shoved the mangled door open, took four quick paces and dove to the ground. The vehicle was riddled with bullets. It exploded. As I lay face down in the brown pine needles I could feel the heat from the blast. Damn! I liked that flight bag! I had to get away from that gun ship!

The helicopter circled back and landed in a clearing a few yards away. I had maneuvered my self into a pretty good hiding spot and could see two men jump from the ship and make their way toward the explosion. Whoever they were, they either wanted something they thought I had, or wanted me dead…or both. But this was the break I needed.

A typical warbird carries, at most, three men. That meant the pilot was now alone. And he had to keep his hands on the controls or the aircraft would topple over. If I could neutralize him, the helicopter would be mine. I could fly it from the co-pilot’s position.

I wasted no time. While the two tacticians moved toward the burning car, I bolted along inside the tree line toward the waiting chopper. If the pilot were using Forward Looking Infrared, the heat from the recent explosion would surely buy me some time. It did. I came abeam the chopper and burst through the trees at the pilot’s blind eight o’clock. Dashing the twenty or so yards, I rushed vacant left side of the ship. Helicopters are flown from the right side. By the time the pilot saw me it was too late. I had jumped through the left cargo door and come up on his position from behind. There was no way he could have heard me either. He was flying a UH60 – also known as a Blackhawk. The noise of that aircraft is thunderous.

The first thing I did was reach around pilot’s head and rip his helmet off. The helicopter listed as he struggled to maintain control after being stunned. The aircraft operator’s expression was that of a deer in the headlights as he saw my fist reign back over my left shoulder. He couldn’t take his hands off the controls or the ship would capsize and disintegrate under the force of the main rotor. I broke his nose. He let go then – grabbing his face and screaming in pain. The chopper whined. But I was ready. I reached over and stabilized the aircraft from the co-pilot’s side. And then kicked the bleeding man through his cockpit door.

Jumping into the left seat, I felt for the pedals and checked the gages. All of the indications were green. I pulled up on the collective control in my left hand as muzzle flashes burst from the assault rifles of the two men in the distance. The helicopter sprang into the air. I could hardly see once I was airborne. But I knew the layout of the clearing. Based on that information. I put in a small right pedal turn, and climbed out toward what was most likely the North, and away from the gunfire.

I reached back quickly and grabbed the former pilot’s headgear and put it on. Luckily, the cables were still plugged into the ship’s electronics. I pulled the Night Vision Goggles down over my eyes and climbed to about four hundred feet as my eyes adjusted to the new condition. The terrain below scrolled by.

Getting accustomed to the feel of the ship, I increased speed, and brought her about in steep right banking turn. I leveled out in a direction that was roughly southeast. The time on my wristwatch read just after nine.

Reaching into my windbreaker, I pulled out the GPS device I had stored there. I thumbed the power switch. And while the unit searched for satellites in order to get a location fix, I continued flying. Everything appeared green and black in the NVG, but was still well defined. As the Alps drew nearer, I had to continuously climb to maintain altitude above the terrain. The ship’s altimeter was approaching three thousand feet.

By now, the GPS had come online. I punched in ‘MIL’ for Milan, and flew the arrow. Navigation has gotten extremely simple with today’s technology. Actual flying is different -particularly someplace like the Alps. And at night no less. It would be very easy to collide with the terrain, or get snagged on a ski-lift cable if one weren’t careful.

At about six thousand feet, I was able to fly a gorge that got me across the huge mountain range. I flew along at one hundred and ten knots. Forty-five minutes or so into the journey, I had crossed the Italian border. The indication on the GPS showed my position as over Omegna, Northern Italy. Using the zoom feature on the device, I enlarged the city of Milan and scrolled through the landmarks on the color display. One I was sure would work was Parco Sempione. I had been there before, and was somewhat familiar with the area. I knew that it contained at least one open field - an ideal place to land. The park would also be deserted at this time of night - even better. It was now just after ten.

I descended out of the mountains, following the terrain as best I could to now maintain five hundred feet above ground level. Removing the Night Vision Goggles and glancing down at the GPS occasionally, I had last seen that Parco Sempione was just twenty miles away. If I continued to fly the heading: one–three-zero, I’d be there in just a few more minutes. Then, how to park this pig and contact Rossella would be a whole new dilemma.

Through the NVG, Parco Sempione came clearly into view. There was a sparse section that appeared to be open grass on the park’s north side. I looked for any sort of landing obstructions. The area seemed clear. Still, I continued to check for obstructions as I got on glide to the spot. Why get careless now? It was bad enough I had no idea what the wind direction was. But a bird the size of the one I was flying can handle some pretty rough breeze. I eased down the collective control with my left hand, and worked the cyclic back with my right to lose altitude and bleed off speed. I was over the treetops now. And pretty sure I was making one hell of a racket. Wake up, Milan!

I flared the helicopter and slowed into hover dead center over the field. I applied a bit of forward cyclic to level out the ship, and brought her down like a baby on the soft green grass. I kept the NVG on long enough to plot an escape route, applied friction to hold the controls somewhat, and tucked the GPS back into my pocket. With that, I cut the engines, hopped out and bolted for the trees.

The Carabinieri – Italy’s military police arrived on the scene in jeeps just after I had made cover. I had been wearing all black. So fortunately, the dirt from the night’s chaotic events wasn’t all that visible. I emerged from the park on the northwest side and stepped out onto the street.

The helicopter had by now rolled over, and was beating itself to pieces in the park. That kept the police busy as I slipped down Via Agostino Bertani. I jumped on the first tram I saw in an attempt to get out of the area as fast as possible. At that point, I realized that I had no Italian currency. I pulled a US Dollar out of my wallet and showed it to the streetcar’s operator. But he simply shrugged and waved me toward the seats.

It was ten thirty at night. After riding the tram for a few more minutes, I reached an area where there were some cafes and bars open. I got off the trolley, and as it pulled away, I passed behind and crossed the street toward a bar called “Vittoro’s”. There I was able to wash up and get a chicken panini with a glass of coke. I devoured the sandwich, and chugged down the soft drink like I had just been let out of a starvation camp. When I noticed the bartender staring at me, I just smiled and said, “Man you can cook for me anytime!”

“American?” Came the rhetorical question. And then his face just seemed to say, “Oh. Well that explains it.”

Before I left, I bought a calling card from the cashier at the front of the bar. Her expression was still one of disbelief. “Oh well,” I thought as I headed toward the door. “Better to make some kind of impression than none at all.”

It was almost 11PM when I got to a payphone in a secluded area a couple of blocks from the bar. Rossella picked up on the second ring. I gave her my exact location, and told her I would explain everything when she got there. After about twenty minutes, she pulled up to the payphone where I had made the call.

I looked around to be sure we weren’t being watched, and stepped up from a nearby set of stone steps which I had descended while I waited for her. They were part of whatever sixteenth century edifice that was adjacent to the street.

“Ciao. Mi amore.” She said when she saw me. “My God! What happened?”

“Come on,” I said kissing her on both sides of the face. “We need to get out of here right away.”

We got into the car and she drove back to her house in a suburb of that beautiful city. On the way, I told her about the events that had transpired over the last several hours. She was horrified at first. But still managed to spit out a laugh when she heard that I’d stolen a helicopter. Then she told me about the murder. She had heard about it on the radio. Suddenly the saga I had been through began to have meaning. But I still couldn’t figure out why Vanderberg had been killed. I became pensive.

“Would you light me a cigarette, amore?”

“Sure.” I replied a little exhausted. “Where are they?”

Rossella gestured toward the glove compartment directly in front of me. When I opened it, I saw the pack of Phillip Morris. I also saw a forty-five-caliber, automatic handgun. For the moment, I completely forgot about the cigarettes, and removed the weapon from the compartment.

“Where’d you get this?” I asked her.

“It’s my fathers. I thought you might need it. I had no idea what kind of trouble you were in. I was worried.”

“Aw, honey. You didn’t have to…” I stopped mid-sentence and gave her an intimate stare. She responded in kind. Then returned her eyes to the road ahead. “Thanks,” was all I could say. I put the pistol on my lap, lit a cigarette and passed it to her. The drive had become mostly rural for the past few minutes. “Are we almost there?” I asked her.

“I live at the top of this hill,” she responded referring to the incline of the narrow street we were now on. There were a few houses set back on either side. We pulled into her driveway, shut off the car, but remained inside for a few minutes - getting reacquainted. It had been almost a year since I saw her last. But her kisses were still sweeter than wine.

After a while, we decided to turn in. It was late – almost twelve. And all was quiet except for the sound of crickets. I still carried the gun as we approached the door and went inside the house. But it wasn’t needed. We were safe – at least for now.

That night, we did the things lovers do. With all the fire and passion of ones who’ve been apart for too long.

Now, It was early morning. I had left Rossella sleeping. She lay on her front, completely nude - save for the soft white sheet that covered her to mid-thigh. It was hard to leave her alone. She looked so beautiful with her olive skin and jet black hair. Her roots were Sicilian. And her body was like an hourglass. But I was preoccupied. The ordeal of the previous evening had consumed me. I struggled to make sense of it all.

I got dressed and slipped out to get a quick coffee and a bite to eat from the local café. I had been to her house before. So I remembered where it was. And it was in this café that I now sat – drinking the last of my cappuccino as things finally began fall into place.

The secret to interstellar flight had been discovered. Whoever murdered Dr. Vanderberg must not have wanted him to make his findings public. Anyone else who had attended the convention was fair game as well. That would include me. As far as the other attendees, who knows what side they were on.

Dr. Vanderberg however, stood for the benefit of all mankind. This was evident from his contributions to aerospace over the years. So it appeared that whoever had him killed was out for selfish gain. But they’d still be delayed. Unless they could look past the obvious and see the critical detail he intentionally omitted from his presentation. I got his message; Think outside the box.

What was the box? The speed of light perhaps. Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity suggested that as you approach the speed of light, time slows down. That could be the answer. Find a way to slow time. How? Get to Light-speed, and the method would most likely present itself.

But Light-speed would still be difficult to achieve without the right power source. And Dr. Vanderberg never revealed what that certain strontium isotope was. Or did he? “Keep your eyes on Starjet Corporation,” I thought.

I had to get back to Rossella. Neither of us would be safe here for long. They’d find us eventually. We’d have to keep moving; go completely under the radar if necessary. I could never let anything happen to her. We were one now. We knew the Secret.