A Hair of Delphi - 3 - Meeting Martha

Author's Preface:

A Hair of Delphi is not going to be like many of the Lovecraftian stories, written by Lovecraft or his followers. I am trying to avoid anything too off-the-wall, really. My own idea is off-the-wall enough for myself.

However, I do plan on making the story shift greatly into the Lovecraftian theme around half-way through. But that is for later developments.

To see previous installments, please check the index.

Until then, please enjoy "Meeting Martha"

June 19, 1998

I stood in front of the machine named Martha that covered the entirety of the north wall in Dr Jacob Abernathy's Lab. The Monitors, the sample chambers, it all felt like I walked into a terrible corruption of a medical viewing room. He brought me to test his machine and to view my samples. If this test was a success, he'd be in the papers, and I'd have a lab to use for the rest of my PhD track.

However, the test came at a significant cost: the sample that gets scanned is obliterated in the process. While the electron scan translates the physical essence into substantive data, the loss of the original sample harmed my future finding's credibility.

My question on the destruction of a genetic sample brought a deal of trepidation as I saw the man-size scanning receptacle. But my curiosity still managed to sway my decisions. “Yes. I have hair samples.”

“We'll run just one for now, so you can get the feel for the machine. Then, based on what you learn, if you decided to work with me on the betterment of both our projects, I'll teach you how to operate and maintain Martha. For now, may I have one of your samples?”

I handed him the sample of my hair from this morning. He placed the strand unceremoniously into the smaller chamber and pressed the large button above it. The button glowed green, and all of the monitors clicked on with small buzzes to alert their awakening.

After a couple of silent minutes—“Time to warm up,” he said—the machine began to breathe, cooling fans started to churn, making an odd semi warm breeze in the room.

I expected the machine to whir or shake, or even hum. But it sounded as still as before it turned on, with the only sound being the quiet breeze of the fans lining the bottom of Martha's wall.

A red laser shot from the ceiling of the chamber and began a sweep of the area inside. First horizontal every micron; then vertical; then a circling laser lighted through. Each side of the cube was scanned in this way, according to the video playing on Monitor 3.

Monitor 1 recreated a 3-dimensional image of the hair. The beam changed from red to blue, this time amping in speed, quickly sweeping the site of the sample selectively. While the first scan required nearly 10 minutes, the second used only 89 seconds by my wristwatch. The door to the sample opened as monitors 2, 4, and 5 brought up data clusters, and Monitor 3 switched to a second image of the hair. What was left of the hair—it looked like an ethereal shell—crumbled away to dust shortly after the fans' breeze touched it.

I marveled at the fading dust. Or maybe it was the utter destruction I was in awe of. I turned my head to the monitors again. The sample was now only in the computer.

“What now?”

Jacob Abernathy merely motioned at the machine. “Well, the clusters have realigned to their original natural state now, and we can work with our new data.”

“How?”

“What do you see on Monitor 4?” He pointed to the right most screen on the top row.

I read a clip from the mass of data strings: “G-A-T-C-T-C-A-G-A-T-C —a DNA sequence? It can read the code that fast?”

“Yes. Yes, and more. What do you notice about monitor 2?”

“It looks like a lipid compound: wax monoesters, triglycerides, fatty acids, and squalene . . . Is it oil?”

“The natural oil you persperate from the Sebaceous Gland. Good, you are quick to think and learn, as I suspected. And now, Monitor 3.”

“It is the image of the hair.”

“Yes. We can magnify it, stretch it, contort it in every way as if we still held it in our hands, and more even!” Abernathy showed me these options by inputting commands with his first keyboard and mouse. “So. What do you think so far?”

“I am intrigued, to say it lightly. However, you said that you also incorporated holographic and even—“ I stumbled as I got to the word, “virtual reality technology in this process,” It felt almost wrong to mention VR scientifically.

“Yes. But I think it would be best if we pause here for today. I can save this scan in the database. You can access it—oh wait,” He paused to rummage through a drawer in the corner cabinet, “Here, take this disc,” as he freed it from a mass of files and handed it to me.

“Install the program on your own computer. You'll be able to access Martha's mainframe—I'll put your Misk-U student ID as the log-in—and I can even load your other samples for you today. Spend the weekend looking at the data and come back around this time on Tuesday—I teach classes all day Monday—and I'll be glad to answer any more questions you think of and discuss this monumental opportunity—for the both of us.”

I thanked the doctor and left him with the other samples.

It is 4:06; I am writing this now in the car. I am not sure why, but I feel short of breath, as if I ran all the way across campus to the staff lot. I feel hungry again—or maybe sick.

I am not sure what to think of the machine, or the sample that was destroyed and yet preserved, or even the chamber big enough to put a person in. I have the disc he handed me sitting in the passenger seat.

I think I will wait until tomorrow morning to load the program.