Free The Far Time Incident by Neve Maslakovic Page B

the hallways, lab to lab, building to building, all around Sunniva Lake. Only it wasn’t. The chief had instructed me over the phone to keep Dr. Rojas’s finding under wraps for now.
    Chief Kirkland’s eyes swept the lab. Last time, he had taken it in with the curiosity and interest of a first-time visitor to STEWie’s home; this time, it was done slowly and with care, like he was a researcher rolling up his sleeves prior to commencing a particularly tricky experiment whose outcome was uncertain.
    “It’s cold in here. Was last time, too,” he said when he finally turned back to me.
    “It always is. There’s cryogenic equipment under the floor, to prevent STEWie from overheating. Our Minnesota climate helps to keep the building cool—though our electrical bills are quite large in the summer.”
    “I had a feeling that there was more to this case than met the eye,” he went on.
    “I didn’t,” I said quite honestly, wondering if he was just saying that or if he’d really had a feeling all along that this was more than just an accident. Then I remembered how the chief had taken an unobtrusive seat in the back of the conference room the day the professor’s molecules had been spread over time, and listened as the professor’s colleagues talked about him. Well, perhaps he had had a feeling after all.
    As if he could tell what I was thinking, the chief explained, “It’s my job to expect the worst from people. While hoping for the best, of course,” he added as Dr. Rojas hurried back into the lab. He looked like he had splashed water on his face but was still wearing the same set of rumpled and slightly smelly clothes. He had a granola bar in one hand.
    Chief Kirkland, wasting no time, said to the professor, “STEWie and time travel. Tell me more about how it works.”
    Dr. Rojas, looking somewhat taken aback by the security chief’s abruptness, sank onto a lab chair and said, “Where to begin?” He absentmindedly unwrapped the granola bar and took a large bite as if it was the first thing he’d eaten all day (which it probably was), then waved the security chief over to a second lab chair. Chief Kirkland shook his head and indicated to Officer Van Underberg that he should sit. The officer plopped himself down and readied his spiral notepad and pencil.
    I noticed that Jacob Jacobson had followed the professor in. The ginger-haired youth had taken a seat at a desk by the lab lockers, propping a textbook open in front of him. Jacob’s parents ran the town bookshop/antique store, I’d found out, so he biked home every night. I’d also heard that he was having trouble in some of his classes and had requested extensions to finish all of his projects. I could see his fingers moving behind the textbook, like he was typing something. I wondered how the chief intended to keep the happenings in the lab quiet. I thought I’d better inquire, “Chief Kirkland, do you want me to limit the audience?”
    “What? I mean, I beg your pardon, Ms. Olsen?”
    I indicated Jacob with a nod of my head.
    The chief turned on his heel. “Didn’t see him there in the corner. Yes, let’s get the students out. I’ll get to them later.”
    Jacob, who had heard the exchange, scurried out the door, head down, phone in hand, fingers still moving. I suspected he was in the middle of tweeting something along the lines of,
Kicked out of STEWie’s lab, what in the world is going on???
    Dr. Rojas, having finished off the granola bar, sent the wrapper flying into a trash can in a gentle arc. “Time travel. You wanted to know how it works. Hurtling yourself into a time period not your own and then finding a path once you’re there—well, it’s like trying to navigate a tricky maze with high walls.” He seemed to be choosing his words with care, like he was explaining time travel theory to a journalist or a potential donor. “First you need to find a maze entrance—that is, a place to step out of STEWie’s basket.” I couldn’t