The Control Station

By Marten Jensen

Carl Erickson (Eric) is killed when his plane crashes. He finds himself at Termination Control Station No. 95, where he is told that his death was a mistake. Since it cannot turn back time, the Station endeavors to fix the mistake by transferring Eric’s brain to a smart, young boy who would otherwise be scheduled for termination. Another mistake is made and Eric becomes Frank Tourman, a racecar driver, who eventually is killed when his car crashes during a race. Eric finds himself back at Station No. 95 where he is informed that they will try again. This time, he becomes Lawrence Lorenza, a pit boss at a casino in Las Vegas, where he catches a computer team that is beating one of his roulette wheels. One day, he is accidentally shot dead in the course of a bank robbery. Eric is now back at the Control Station. By now, he has seen too much and the Station can no longer erase his memory. He is transferred to a young (34) electrical engineer, who they think is mentally stable enough to deal with multiple memories. The transfer finally works and he becomes Steve Orway, who is employed by a research firm in Las Vegas. He is married to Amy and quickly finds out that years ago she lost all interest in sex. His office mate, Barry, is an expert programmer, and Steve suggests that he try devising a roulette program in his spare time. Steve tells him all he knows about the roulette computer team from his memory as a pit boss. Barry decides that it is a feasible project and starts work on a design. Steve’s project manager, Susan, has had her eye on Steve. He takes Susan to dinner, followed by a drive to her husbands houseboat on Lake Mead where she seduces him. This becomes a weekly event. She explains that her husband, Ed, only uses the houseboat to play poker with his cronies every Sunday night. The roulette team tests the software at home and gets excellent results. They take it to the Riviera casino and win money. A week later, they play again and win even more money. Next time at the houseboat, Steve tells Susan about the roulette team, and she tells him to be careful because her husband is a shift manager at the Riviera. When they leave the boat, Steve accidentally leaves a half bottle of wine in the refrigerator. On Sunday, Ed finds the wine bottle. He checks his hidden nanny cam and sees his wife with Steve. He remembers seeing Steve in his casino beating roulette, and this infuriates him. The following week, Ed lays in wait at the houseboat. When Steve and Susan arrive, he disables them with a stun gun and dumps them into Lake Mead. Steve finds himself back at the Control Station, where he is restored to his original state as Carl Erickson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marten Jensen
• Release date: Apr 12, 2014

Book preview

PART ONE — Carl Erickson

Chapter 1

Buzz–buzz–buzz. Eric rolled over and hit the snooze button. The alarm interrupted a very pleasant dream and, for the next ten minutes, he tried to return to it.

BUZZ–BUZZ–BUZZ. The alarm finally woke him completely and he shut it off. He was so groggy that, for a few moments, he couldn’t remember why the alarm sounded in the middle of the night. He finally recalled that he had to get up in order to catch an early flight to Dallas.

* * *

Yesterday, when Carl Erickson returned to the office from a late lunch, Bonnie called out, Eric . . . Tony on line two. Even though Carl was his given name, everyone called him Eric.

Thanks, Bonnie. Eric punched 2 and picked up the phone, Hi, Tony.

Eric, Dave is stuck in Chicago. You've got to cover the contract review meeting for the EDC project in Dallas.

That's tomorrow, isn't it?

Yeah, but the meeting doesn't start until one, so you can make it if you fly over in the morning.

"Thanks a lot, boss. I'll take care of it."

Eric frowned as he hung up the telephone. Then he called out to Bonnie, Tony wants me to cover the Dallas meeting for Dave.

I thought that would happen, guessed Bonnie. I better call travel right now.

Bonnie was one of the best secretaries Eric had ever worked with. She not only was a crackerjack typist, but she corrected any grammatical errors she encountered and, sometimes, rewrote complete sentences so that they would make sense. Handling travel problems was almost second nature to her. Eric found her to be indispensable.

Try to get me a flight out of Ontario or Orange that gets to Dallas by eleven or so. And reserve me at least a mid-sized car—it's a 40-minute drive from DFW.

What about your return?

Shrugging, he replied, Anything that leaves Dallas after eight-thirty will work.

Tony knew that he could depend on Carl Erickson to handle any situation competently, even with short notice and no preparation time. This wasn't surprising. At age 42, Eric was a sharp negotiator with many years of technical contract experience to rely on. Widowed five years ago, he was raising his only daughter, Lisa, who had just turned twenty and was a math major at Cal State.

The only suitable flight out of Ontario is fully booked. reported Bonnie, Travel says your only alternative is to fly out of LA.

I was afraid of that. Bonnie, you know I hate to deal with LAX. Isn't there something out of Orange County?

No. But Sally, in travel, will keep checking for cancellations. You know, she doesn't depend entirely on her reservation computer, but works the phone as well.

Eric stepped over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Then he turned to Bonnie and said, We better make a reservation out of LAX, just in case.

Eric actually lived closer to LAX, but preferred to drive the additional 10 minutes and fly out of Ontario, or even Orange. The convenient shuttle bus service at either airport usually got him to the check-in counter in ten minutes or so.

About three p.m. Eric got a call from travel. Sally had picked up a cancellation for a flight out of Ontario and ordered a ticket.

I must have called at just the right minute, Sally said, because I jumped the wait list. Maybe it was because I was ready to buy a ticket. Anyway, your e-ticket will be on your computer in five minutes. They wouldn’t issue me a boarding pass, so you’ll have to get that at the airport.

After Sally hung up, Eric said, Bonnie, when I return, remind me to send Sally a box of candy.

This was an early flight—6:05 a.m. Eric was not an early riser so he didn't allow much time for contingencies. During the drive home from work, Eric began to calculate when he had to get up in the morning. Assuming no delays at the security checkpoint, he figured that he would have 15 minutes to spare if he left for the airport at 4:30.

As he walked into the house, a voice called out, Is that you, Daddy?

Yes, dear, Eric responded, as he headed for the kitchen.

George Shearing was playing on the stereo. Eric liked Shearing almost as much as Lisa did, although he had a preference for earlier jazz. Armstrong and McPartland came to mind and he also had a liking for novelty stuff such as Fats Waller.

I'm just starting dinner, said Lisa. It ought to be ready in ten minutes, or so. I'm just heating up some leftovers. How was your day?

A little hectic, replied Eric as he walked over and gave his daughter a hug. I'm flying to Dallas early in the morning and almost didn't get a seat out of Ontario.

How early?

Got to leave for the airport by 4:30 a.m.

Bummer, said Lisa, knowing her dad didn't like getting up that early. Tomorrow's my late schedule so try not to wake me, she snickered.

Take that damned smirk off your face or I'll rattle around in the morning like a bull elephant, said Eric, jokingly, as he loosened his tie and sat down at the kitchen table.

When are you coming back?

Tomorrow night, late. Probably won't get home 'til midnight. I'll leave you a copy of my itinerary.

Lisa was a pretty girl, with the same naturally-blond hair and bright blue eyes that her Scandinavian mother had. She was rather on the thin side, a bit taller than average, and was somewhat of a bookworm. Clothes weren’t her thing, so she dressed very casually—almost sloppily—when she went to school. In her own defense, she said, That’s what all the kids wear. When her father took her to a nice restaurant or to an affair of some kind; however, she would dress up and look very presentable.

So, how did your math test go, today?

I aced it. Will you have time to review that English paper I have to turn in tomorrow? asked Lisa.

Sure. Was that the one about the negative effects of poor self esteem?

Yep. Except that it’s restricted to the male sex. Poor self esteem in women has been analyzed to death.

Well, that ought to be interesting, said Eric. I'll read it after we eat. How are things going with your new boyfriend? You haven't mentioned him lately.

Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think he's intimidated because I'm a straight-A student. I guess I've been kind of avoiding him.

Well that didn't last long. Why did you give him a tumble in the first place?

To tell the truth, Daddy, he's kind of a macho guy and I was intrigued by that. I guess I learned my lesson.

That’s the best way to learn.

What’s the best way?

By experience. If I gave you social advice, you would just ignore it.

Really, Daddy! Then Lisa proceeded to change the subject, I need your help to kick off a new paper I’m going to write.

About what?

Dreams, replied Lisa.

Uh-oh. Tricky subject. But, why ask me?

I remember that a few years ago you read a book on the subject of dreams and got so interested that you kind of studied it for a while. I thought that maybe you would get me pointed in the right direction.

I probably could, but why did you pick that subject in the first place? asked Eric.

To get extra points for originality. My professor said that he’s weary of reading essays on current politics, religious arguments, abortion, legalization of marijuana, and so forth. He suggested that keeping away from tired and overdone subjects could benefit our grade.

Fine, but let’s eat first. How's dinner coming?

It’s ready, replied Lisa.

For the next few minutes, they both concentrated on their meal and then they commented on some current events. When they were finished eating, Eric got up and cleared the dishes away, rinsed them in the sink, and left them there.

Let's go in the den where we can be comfortable and I'll start my amateur discourse on dreams, said Eric with a grand sweep of his arm.

Settling into his chair, Eric asked, Where do I start?

Just talk to me like you always do, Daddy. You said that it’s a tricky subject. What’s tricky about it? asked Lisa as she curled up on the couch.

It depends on what facet of dreams you want to cover. Do you want to discuss why humans dream in the first place? What about animals? Do they dream, as well? Maybe you want to talk about how dreams affect people—or do they? How about dream interpretation? Is it useful? Maybe you want to restrict your research to lucid dreams. I would also add: ‘Or all of the above,’ except that you’re not writing a book.

I didn’t realize that there were so many aspects to the subject, said Lisa. I suppose I should select one item to concentrate on.

That’s a good idea. Which one do you think you would like?

"How about dream interpretation? That sounds interesting.

Now you’re getting into one of the tricky areas, warned Eric. "Dream interpretation falls into the same category as astrology and palmistry because there are so many ways to decipher a dream. If you really want to explore this angle, you should start off by reading what Freud and Jung had to say about it. They disagreed with each other, by the way.

Okay. Let’s put that aside for a moment, responded Lisa. You mentioned lucid dreams. What’s that?

Sometimes, when you dream you may be aware that you are in a dream and can actually manipulate the events. If that occurs, it’s a lucid dream. This is an aspect of dreaming that has seen quite a bit of scientific exploration. It would probably make for an engaging paper.

Yes, that does stir up my interest. Where would I start?

The web. You might look up Celia Green. She did one of the early scientific studies on lucid dreams. Sorry, I can’t remember anyone else. By the way, the scientific study of dreams is called ‘oneirology.’ Casually mention that term in your paper so that the professor knows you really did your homework.

Oneirology? exclaimed Lisa. That must be Latin for dreamology.

Actually, I think it’s Greek. Now, since I have to get to bed early, I better start reading your paper on self esteem.

And I better get the dinner dishes washed, she said as she stood up and walked out of the room.

Chapter 2

Eric actually got out of the house and on his way by 4:20 a.m. Three blocks down the road, he almost rear-ended a car that braked hard to avoid a dog. He missed the car by wrenching his steering wheel to the right and nearly hit the dog himself. After taking a deep breath, he continued on to the freeway entrance, taking the I-10 eastbound. If he had to go to LAX, he would have gone in the opposite direction and then taken the 110 south. As he expected, the traffic was still moderate—he could maintain a steady 70 to 75 in the fast lane and was thinking that he’d have some time to kill when he arrived.

About halfway to the airport, Eric sensed a problem with the steering and started changing lanes to the right. Not wanting to stop on the freeway shoulder, he took the next off-ramp, made a right turn, and pulled into a supermarket parking lot. When he got out of the car, he realized his suspicion.

Oh, shit! he said aloud. A flat tire.

The tire was not yet down to the rim so he drove to an all-night service station three blocks south where he got the spare put on without dirtying his hands. As quickly as this was done, it still caused a 20-minute delay, wiping out most of his time cushion. He was glad that he left ten minutes early.

That was when he heard the train whistle. Between the service station and the freeway entrance was a main-line railroad track. A block away, he could see the crossing gates drop down, and by the time he reached them, a slow freight train was rumbling by. Although it took the train only five minutes to pass, it seemed like twenty. It’s almost like someone is trying to keep me from getting to the airport, thought Eric.

Finally, he was back on the freeway and noticed that the traffic had gotten much heavier. It was now five a.m. and the rush-hour slowdown was fast approaching. Eric took the Archibald off-ramp and a few minutes later pulled into the airport parking lot, thinking: It's gonna be tight but I can still make it.

After finding a parking space, he only had to wait three minutes for the next shuttle bus to show up. There were just two other people on the bus and no further pickups, so he wasn’t too apprehensive. When he entered the terminal, Eric glanced at his watch and it showed 5:40. He endured a short wait to get his boarding pass and quickly stepped to the end of the security check line. Ten minutes later he passed through the metal detector, thinking that he was home free. Not so: an agent pulled him aside and told him that he had been randomly selected for a pat down. He had to remove his belt and hold his arms out before the agent began the procedure, which seemed to go excruciatingly slow. He was surprised that they didn't want to inspect his briefcase—it was that kind of a morning, but it wouldn’t have mattered because he was certain that he had already missed his flight.

When he reached the gate, he was delighted to see the door still open and the plane still there. As he handed the gate attendant his boarding pass, he asked about the delay. She replied, There was a minor maintenance problem. This is your lucky day because we almost gave your seat away. Hurry on board, now.

As he went down the boarding ramp, two men wearing orange coveralls emerged from the plane and passed him. When he entered the plane, he was aware of the cabin door closing behind him and the moment he dropped into his seat, the aircraft pushed off. He glanced at his watch. It read 6:20.

The plane taxied to the end of the runway and took off without further delay. Eric was a little irritated that, in his rush, he didn't have a chance to pick up a magazine at a newsstand in the airport. This was a long flight and he was stuck in a center seat.

Both of the people that Eric was rubbing elbows with were on the chunky side of the weight scale and completely incommunicado. A few minutes after leaving the ground, the seatback in front of him reclined, causing his knees to be jammed against it. While sitting bolt upright with his elbows pinned to his ribs, he began to muse about how the nature of air travel and air travelers changed over the years.

About an hour and a half after takeoff, while flipping through the pages of the in-flight magazine, Eric suddenly felt his ears pop and sensed that the plane was losing altitude. A moment later, the seat belt sign came on and then the captain announced, We have a minor problem, folks. The cabin is beginning to lose pressure and as a precaution we’re dropping the oxygen masks in case they’re needed. Meanwhile, I’m reducing the aircraft altitude as a safety measure.

Right now, he continued, we are crossing into New Mexico and will turn slightly north so that we can land at Albuquerque to try and correct the problem. Of course, this will delay our arrival in Dallas, but we’ll do our best to minimize your inconvenience.

Suddenly, the plane rolled to one side and felt as if it were falling. Plastic drink cups were flying all over. People started screaming. Eric glanced out of the windows across the aisle and saw the ground rapidly approaching.

Chapter 3

The room was gray. It was a medium shade of gray; not bluish-gray, not brownish-gray, just gray-gray. About as neutral a gray as you can imagine. The walls were gray. The floor and the ceiling were gray. The chair Eric was sitting in was gray.

The light was dimly diffused, and Eric tried to determine, without success, where the light was coming from. He didn't see any doors or windows. He couldn't figure the size of the room because everything was the same color. He concluded that this was probably a dream. Eric was about to stand up and begin exploring when he heard a voice from behind him.

Hello, Mr. Erickson.

Eric twisted around in his chair and saw a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair, wearing a gray suit. He walked up to Eric, shook his hand, and said, You may call me Mr. Gray.

If Mr. Gray hadn’t been so solemn, Eric would have thought that this was some kind of a joke. Mr. Gray walked over to a chair that materialized out of the grayness about six feet away, and sat down. Eric then realized that there was more furniture in the room—it was just hard to see because it was all the same gray hue.

How are you feeling? asked Mr. Gray.

Aside from his pale face, the rest of Mr. Gray seemed almost to disappear into the chair, since the color of his suit was the same shade of gray as the chair. His shirt, which was a shade lighter than his suit, was the only thing that kept his torso from disappearing completely. His feet were almost totally gone because his shoes were exactly the same color as the floor.

Mr. Erickson, he repeated, how are you feeling?

Pretty good, considering that I seemed to have survived an airplane crash!

Does your mind feel clear and alert?

Yes, surprisingly.

Well, Mr. Erickson, my purpose here is to explain just what happened to you. However, before I begin, may I try to answer your most immediate questions?

You sure can, retorted Eric. The first one is: am I dead, alive, or in a dream?

At the moment, you are, in essence, dead, replied Mr. Gray, but your death was a mistake that we will try to rectify. Another question?

Where am I?

You are at Termination Control Station No. 95, replied Mr. Gray. This will not mean anything to you until I give you a more complete explanation. Are you ready for that?

Yeah, but first . . . the last thing I remember was being on a plane that was about to crash. Did I die in that crash?

"Yes and no. The reason you appear to be whole is because we plucked you off the plane moments before it reached the ground. We had to do that because, as I