If You Could See What I See

If You Could See What I See:

A Probe Fan Fiction Episode

by Paula Koziol, Oct. 2011

1.       Introduction

It was another clear-blue desert morning in October, already promising to be warmer than average at 10:00 a.m. Mickey Castle arrived at work at the expansive warehouse Austin James called home, and on various occasions, “the universe.” The property took up a good 3 acres. It contained a large, concrete building with a simple, unmarked entrance and three loading docks. It was surrounded by a gravel lot, with a chain link fence around its perimeter. The building was much like Austin himself. It had a simple but impressive façade, a well-fortified structure, and lots of interesting stuff inside.

Working for and with Austin was an uneven experience. Unlike most secretaries, Mickey found herself involved in a good deal of field work which made her reluctant to wear heels. Austin enjoyed solving puzzles and serving humanity in his own, offbeat way, which ultimately caused him to gravitate toward murder investigations. She once suggested he could make a new fortune investigating historical murders and publishing books about them, which would be less dangerous than solving them in real time. He’d accused her of being no fun.

But in between Austin’s extracurricular work came long stretches of relative calm, even routine. Often she would arrive at his warehouse to find him engrossed in his latest invention, or experiment, or cosmic analysis of some sort. Always, he worked against the backdrop of a steady stream of classical music. He said it helped him think.

In the early weeks of her employment, Mickey had discovered that there was little point in arriving for duty much before 10:00, as Austin liked to take a mid-morning nap somewhere between eight and nine-thirty. With an over-synapsed mind that put him somewhere on the grid between ADHD and schizophrenic, he tended to take his sleep in short blocks of time several times a day, mostly at night. He snoozed inside a souped-up tool cabinet he called his “sensory deprivation tank,” and he didn’t wear much of anything he wasn’t born in.

When she arrived post-nap, Mickey could find him clothed and ready to lay out his agenda for the day. She would spend most of her time fielding and managing his abundant correspondence. He had acquired a modest amount of fame in certain scientific, technical, and business circles. Once in a while, even the popular press sought him out, prompting Mickey to dub him in half-jest, “The Great Austin James.”

Yesterday, Mickey had received a letter from Genevieve Dyson. She was a young college student who had gained some notoriety a few years ago for her talent in locating missing persons by extrasensory perception. It was a talent in which Austin had absolutely no faith. His favorite expression regarding the phenomenon was “bunk.” The first two letters Mickey had discarded without any mention to Austin, although she did not share her employer’s disinterest. The third letter, however, had been difficult to ignore. Genevieve again pleaded her case. She needed the objectivity and skepticism of Austin James to help her write a paper about ESP that carried sufficient scientific rigor. But she also added that the matter was becoming pressing. “There is only a little time left before a meeting between us would serve neither one of us anymore,” she had written, and begged for an interview.