Free Phase Shift by elise abram Page B

Palmer.
We're nearing the end of our nightly ritual. Said ritual begins
after our classes and daily paperwork is done. One of us finds the
other and asks that dreaded question we've both come to loathe:
'What's for dinner?' This is followed by a negotiation in which we
decide the specifics of the menu. Agreeing on what to make is
harder than it seems. Palmer's a die-hard meat and potatoes man,
while I prefer somewhat less starchy alternatives. The rules of
negotiation are precise and must conclude with a protein and no
less than two sides. After a trip to the local grocery, we retire
to our kitchen. Palmer's in charge of the protein, while I take
care of the sides. The meal is followed by the washing of the daily
dishes. Under ordinary conditions, I'd be complaining about the
drudgery of dish washing pausing only to fantasize about the next
house we'll own. I'd pass the time musing over a larger kitchen,
one with ceramic tiles, built-in dishwasher, and flat-top stove. I
can usually suck Palmer in to the fantasy if I include a second
bathroom and spacious third bedroom which we'll turn into a
permanent study. When he's had a good day, I up the ante and turn
the second bedroom into a canary yellow nursery. But not tonight.
Tonight I have something else in mind.
    "So I've been thinking," I say. I hand
Palmer a dripping salad bowl. It's a huge, wooden behemoth we got
as a wedding gift from which you could feed the world and then
some. It's too large for just the two of us, but we'd rather put it
to good use than see it gathering dust in the cupboard.
    "We're in trouble now," he says, smirking,
trying to be cute. Okay, so it's working. I smile back.
    "I spent most of today reading Prescott's
stuff and...well...what if what he says is true?"
    Palmer puts the dried salad bowl on the
dinner table and I hand him a wet pan. "I seriously doubt that,
Moll," he tells me, indulgent.
    "Hear me out, okay?"
    "Okay," he says, tentative.
    "Prescott's a normal guy, just like you or
me. He gives lectures, he co-authors text books, he's liked by both
faculty and students, but then something happens, some…epiphany—he
misses lessons, appears distracted—"
    "It's called senility." He puts down the pan
and I hand him a large pot.
    "Ha ha," I say in monotone. "Really—I'm
serious.
    “So he has this epiphany, right? And then
things change. He's distracted, misses classes, doesn't find
teaching fulfilling anymore. He spends his time writing copious
notes on this life-altering experience. Even his technical writing
changes—"
    "You read his technical writing?" He stops
drying and looks at me, like I'm Algernon or something.
    "I read the preface to a text he
co-authored." Palmer nods and resumes drying. "In his writing are
all sorts of thinly cloaked references to his alternative
world—remember? He called it 'Gaia'?"
    "Molly," Palmer says, as he puts down the
pot, "in all likelihood, Prescott probably just made up Gaia. That
guy from the token, too, what was his name?"
    "Reyes Prefect."
    "Prefect. Right. Look, lots of people
fictionalize their life's work and publish it. Maybe Prescott was
some kind of...frustrated sci-fi writer, and the notes you have
represent a...a fictionalization of his theories," he says,
assuming the role of devil's advocate.
    I shake my head. "He hid his writing under
the floor—"
    "So he was paranoid."
    I turn off the water, pull the dish towel
from his hands and use it to dry my own. "What you're saying makes
no sense, Palmer. Prescott was a published author. If he wanted to
publish something, he would have had the connections to do so."
    "He published non-fiction, Moll. Scientific
works? That's a far cry from—"
    "Prescott could have published an account of
his experience as non-fiction. He had the evidence: the silvered
case with the map, the device—that thing that looks like a garage
door remote. What did he call it? The modulator. He could have
called the government and convinced them to reverse engineer