Earhart laughed beneath his glasses and sipped the last portion of his last cup. “I can see kids you enjoyed it.”
“Kids?” Judy repeated from her seat beside Wally’s desk, between Wally and Dwyer. “We’re all adults here, Doctor Earhart.”
“Please, Alan. No offense, but I was building better nukes for the DoD while you folks were still in diapers.”
Judy’s eyes drifted to the clock after Earhart’s observation. “There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Earhart glanced at a merry burst of laughter from the distant center of the room, where the nine other partygoers had just shared an unheard story or joke. He placed his hands behind his head. “Try me.”
“Well,” Judy sipped from her cup, “it’s really simple. Why can’t someone using the Box return?” Her brown eyes went from the floor of the room to the cube nicknamed the “Box.”
Earhart smiled, “Let me tell you, constructing the Box in this period has been difficult enough—”
“I know it wouldn’t be practical,” Judy snapped, erasing the professor’s smile. “But why can’t someone return in theory?”
Earhart nodded once with closed eyes, removed his hands from the back of his head, and reached to Wally’s desk for a sheet of paper. “A pencil, Wally.”
Wally produced one as Earhart pushed his rolling chair to the edge of Wally’s desk. Dwyer stood up from his chair to approach Earhart, and he, Wally, and Judy all leaned close to their professor as his pencil started to move across the page.
“It’s a very simple principle. The ‘Alternity Principle,’ I like to call it.”
“Alternity?” Dwyer asked.
Alternity, Chapter I: