Page 1 (Erenthal)
It had all begun, as so many things often do, with a letter. A very nice letter to be sure, highgrade paper in an expensive envelope, the smell of ink and refinement oozing of the off-whitesurface. It simply read, in fine thin handwriting:
You are hereby cordially invited this Fridayto witness a scientific marvel of the highest degree. Signed, Dr. Donovan Calvin, PhD.
Farther down the paper, added in a more hasty hand, it said:
PS: Refreshments will be served.
At first you were a little surprised. It had been years since you last heard from Dr. Calvin,following a brief and vigorous period of contact after you¶d graduated. He¶d made no secretthat he had considered you his favorite student, and you had held him in similar regard as amentor. But as time went by and you settled into your new post-graduation life, adjusting tothe grind and drudgery of corporate IT, the letters and calls got all together more infrequent,to the point where they finally ceased entirely. Thus, when the invitation arrived, you jumpedat the opportunity to rekindle your friendship, even though the whole thing sounded rather mysterious and vague.But, and this was one of the rules by which you lived your life, never say no to an eventwhere they serve refreshments. And now, here you were, about two hours out of Seattle,forcing your piece of shit wreck of a car up a winding snowy road that looked like it would bemore at home in rural Russia than the eastern seaboard of the United States, while both thesun and the temperature outside the window was dropping to unfathomable lows. Yousuppress a sudden shiver, then turn down the volume on the car stereo. Maybe the Twin Peakssoundtrack wasn¶t the best choice after all.A few sidetracks later, confused from unhelpful conversation with an inebriated local, and tencigarettes poorer, you find yourself standing outside the (rather large and ramshackle) houseof your old mentor. You ring the bell, but receiving no reply you try the handle. Finding thedoor unlocked, you cautiously step inside. Looking around, you notice that place is a mess.Stacks of magazines litter the floor of the room, mingling with empty take-out boxes and dirtyglass jars. You swear you saw a rat scurry past.³Mr. Powell!´ a voice exclaims, and you turn around to see an older man walking down astaircase towards you, arms extended. With his (at least at one point in time) white coat andunruly head of graying hair, he was almost a living breathing parody of the mad scientist.³Dr. Calvin, good to see you!´ you respond, nervously embracing him. A faint smell of moth balls greets your nose. ³Still sporting the Emmet Brown-look?´ you add, smiling. He looks atyou, uncomprehending. Then the moment passes, and his eyes begin to sparkle. He grabs you by the arm, leading you through the room.³I thought you were the people from the Nobel committee at first, you know? They¶resupposed to be here any minute now. Finally, I will get the recognition I deserve!´³Recognition for what?´ you ask, but his grip just tightens.³Oh, you¶ll see, soon enough. Through here, if you will.´
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