Choose The Sun

By Kent Safford

"Choose The Sun" follows a rampant non-viral pandemic that first grips young adults and places them into a coma. The mysterious disease eludes medical experts, who fail in the face of the nearly instantaneous onset of the disease. While those victims who survive are in perfect physical health, most find themselves in severe shock, depression, and PTSD which impair their ability to transform their lives as they struggle to rebuild their world.

Lawrence Williams, a university academic dean, and Edgar Marten, a physician and genetic scientist, anchor a team to improve victim rehabilitation and prevent suicide as a solution to ending misery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098331153

Book preview

1

Accident

December 14, Monday, 7:16 AM, The Residence

Mrs. Farrell - MRS. FARRELL! Lawrence shouted as he ran up the steps to the front porch. Mrs. Irene Farrell, Edgar Marten’s long-time Irish housekeeper, had left the front door open, which signaled the situation she described on his phone as urgent and there was no time to waste with her customary formal greetings. Once he burst inside, he came to a dead stop in the middle of the entrance landing overlooking the great room. Although the timing of his arrival matched the first light of morning, he didn’t expect the room to be dark.

As his eyes adjusted, he completed his visual survey in less than three seconds. On his immediate left the closed door in the alcove to Edgar’s office with its arched shape, like a pointer, guided his eyes upward to the second-floor balcony. The glow from the early sunrise falling through the skylight transformed the protective railing struts into sprites, their arms crisscrossed and holding hands as they descended down the wide curved staircase opening onto the main floor below. Beyond that far-left corner, he could make out the hallway with its access to the library, the half bath directly across and, next door, the shortcut into the kitchen.

He scanned through the forest of pole lamps, side tables, leather chairs, the three cushy sofas arranged in a U-shape in front of the oversized fireplace and glanced to his right in the direction of the baby grand before the long legs on his 63-year-old, six-foot four-inch frame—in one leap—carried him over the three steps down to the sunken hardwood floor toward the back right corner. Mrs. Farrell was nowhere in sight.

He picked up speed as he moved toward the massive dining table with its twelve chairs. Lawrence thought she might be somewhere in the back of the house. Again, he yelled, MRS. FARRELL. This time she came running into the dining room from the kitchen. Her mostly white, long thick hair was piled neatly on top of her head and her slender frame was clothed in her customary casual slacks and sensible shirt with the sleeves folded up to her elbows. Her presence caught Lawrence off guard as she appeared wearing the additional accessories of a long white apron, yellow rubber gloves, and a scrub brush in her right hand.

Oh, Dr. Williams, thank the lord you’re here. I didn’t know who else to call.

I came straight over. Where is he?

They just took him away, they did—the paramedics. Not even a half-minute ago. Didn’t ‘cha see ‘em? Satisfied with her brief answer, she quickly turned and gestured with a wave of her hand for Lawrence to follow her back into the kitchen. Once he got past the dining table, he stopped at the pass-through when he asked her again, Mrs. Farrell, where is Professor Marten, what happened?

Ahh, hospital emergency room I ‘spose. It’s the closest. Hardly a stone’s throw—

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? demanded Lawrence.

I was reportin’ for duty, seven o’clock sharp, same as always. Sixteen years I’ve been workin’ and never missed a day and never been late. It’s a good thing too ‘cause I walk in and the first thing I smelt was smoke, comin’ from the kitchen counter next to the sink. The toaster was burned up. I musta’ walked in right after it happened. I made my way and found the Professor right over there—on the floor—all crumpled in a heap, he was. Of course, I checked his pulse, so I knew he was among the livin’. That much I was sure of. First chance I’ve had to put my nurse’s trainin’ to use in quite a while, you know. But he was out cold and not much I could do. So, I call 9-1-1 and let ‘em know the Professor had an accident and his hair was all in a smolder. After I hung up, I called you. He’s got no family you know, none at all. You’re his closest friend and since you’ve been his boss and all, I figured—

Yes, yes, you did the right thing. What did the paramedics tell you about his condition?

Not so much, it was like tryin’ to push a billiard ball through a buttonhole to get ‘em to talk. You can be sure they had plenty of questions for me. I didn’t say much because I couldn’t. I didn’t know what happened. Still don’t. There was blood on the back of his shirt collar, so when he fell he musta’ cracked his head on the floor. He was unconscious, you know. They did say his hands, face, and chest had second degree burns, and they got him all dabbed up with a clear salve from a big tube. They made me sign some papers after I gave ‘em his ID. That’s when they told me where they were goin’. Anyways, the next thing I knew, he was strapped good and tight on the cart. Then off they went—sirens blarin’. You came in right behind. I’m surprised you never heard—

All right, I need to make a quick phone call before we try to figure this out.

Lawrence thought if news of Edgar’s medical situation should leak to the media, a formal press release needed to be prepared to neutralize any trouble the leak might generate. He could only leave a heads-up message with Harriet Johnsrud at the Office of Communication and Public Affairs that Physician and Nobel Laureate in Genetics, Professor Emeritus, Edgar A Marten, MD, PhD, had suffered a fall in his kitchen and had been admitted to the Stanford Medical Center to be examined. An incomplete story, but truthful. Before the piece could be finalized, he knew he had to talk to Edgar’s physician. Ms. Johnsrud should expect a visit from him by midmorning.

Although Edgar’s notoriety would likely qualify him for the anonymous VIP security protocol, Lawrence included a request for Harriet to double check and make sure it was in place. Since Edgar’s retirement from teaching in July, Lawrence was the only one who knew he was working on a personal project demanding absolute secrecy. Edgar had always been obsessively nervous and fearful when it came to the safeguards surrounding his confidential research. The last thing he needed was a swarm of press snooping around.

Mrs. Farrell, did you move or touch anything in the kitchen since the accident?

Why no, Dr. Williams, I barely had time to put my lunch in the fridge. I was down on my hands and knees tryin’ to figure out how to get the blood off the floor when I heard your holler.

Good, said Lawrence as he opened the camera on his phone. I want to record the room and get close-up shots of the blood on the fl—

Why on earth would you want to do such a thing? The place is a mess. Give me a chance to do a wee bit of tidyin’ and—

NO. Lawrence raised his voice. What I mean is…I’m sorry. Please let it be until I photograph the room. We both know how the Professor is. He’ll want to see the room as it is—rather as it was right before he fell. You know, in case he has to remember a detail of what he was doing before the accident—for insurance purposes?

Oh, right you are, Dr. Williams. I’ll wait until you give me the say-so.

Lawrence took pictures from every angle. He didn’t have much time as he wanted to get to the hospital.

Hmmm, Lawrence mumbled, had to be an electrical fire…started in the toaster—

What’s that you’re sayin’ Dr. Williams? I can’t quite make out—

If the toaster caught fire, why didn’t the smoke alarm go off?

Lawrence walked over to the burned-up appliance to get a better view. He followed the cord to the electrical outlet wall plate and noticed the flaring of several spiked scorch marks. No other smoke damage to the wall or ceiling was apparent. He was beginning to doubt there ever was an actual fire. However, something caused the white granite counter top surrounding the toaster to turn black. He flipped the switch to the hanging pendulum lamp for more light. Nothing happened.

Mrs. Farrell, do me a favor and hit the light switch on the wall behind you. Again, nothing. She opened the refrigerator door. The motor was silent, and the inside bulb refused to cooperate. They both tried other switches and it was clear the power was out on the first floor.

Okay, it’s time to leave and check on the Professor. Maybe the toaster shorted out and caused the outage. After I leave, try the circuit breakers. If that doesn’t work, please call an electrician. I promise I’ll come back by noon, one o’clock at the latest. Lawrence was skeptical that a simple electrical short would cause a large-scale power outage. Information was missing. Edgar was the man to ask. Unfortunately, he was in the emergency room.

8:02 AM, Emergency Department, Stanford Hospital

After passing through the security station and metal detector, Lawrence was escorted to an area of the intensive care unit where he could look in on the old man from the hallway through the glass wall of his treatment bay. It was as close as he could get since the burns increased the potential for infection. The salve Mrs. Farrell mentioned was being applied to his hands and arms. Edgar remained unconscious while his body was connected to several pieces of equipment. A man in blue scrubs authoritatively approached Lawrence from behind.

Sir, excuse me? Oh, Lawrence Williams, I’m Frank Silva. We met last summer at Edgar’s retirement party. The admit nurse told me someone insisted on seeing our patient, but she didn’t say it was you. Edgar and I have known each other for nearly twenty years. Up until his retirement we would work Emergency Department shifts together one or two Saturday evenings each month.

Edgar often told Lawrence that the most interesting cases came through these doors on Saturdays, especially late at night. However, today was a Monday morning and now it was Edgar who was the patient.

Silva continued, How did you know he had been admitted?

I got a call from his housekeeper. By the time I arrived, the paramedics had already taken him. We were thinking there was an accident with an old toaster. Maybe it shorted out and had something to do with his burns.

His burns have completely surrounded his hands and extend above his wrists. The severity matches identically to his face, ears, and the front of his neck—almost as if he fell asleep under a sunlamp and somehow managed to evenly rotate his arms 360 degrees. The strangest burn is the one on his chest the EMTs found when they cut away his undershirt. It’s a perfect seven-inch circle located precisely over his heart. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn whatever caused the burns may be related to his unconsciousness. One idea is that he came in contact with an electrical surge similar to when an individual is struck by lightning. We’ll know more when he wakes up. I can assure you this was not caused by a shorted-out toaster.

Three people coordinated a complex series of procedures while attending to Edgar’s body. The fast paced energy of expediency along with the well-orchestrated protocols reminded Lawrence of a cross between a special teams unit on a football field and a highly rehearsed ballet troupe on stage. Fascinating to watch. Nevertheless, he was worried.

This looks serious. Why is he still unconscious?

We don’t know, said Dr. Silva. It’s obvious he took quite a jolt. That alone might have been enough to knock him out temporarily. He should be up and around by now. Technically, he’s not in a coma. From what we can tell, he’s in a deep sleep. When they brought him in, he opened his eyes very briefly when I spoke his name.

What about a concussion? Lawrence asked. Mrs. Farrell said there was blood on the back of his head and I saw it myself on the floor where he fell. Could we blame the bump?

Might be a combination of causes. For the sake of argument, let’s assume a powerful electric shock knocked him down and out. It doesn’t explain his unusual burn patterns. Also, despite the fact his brainwave activity tells us he’s sleeping, we’re unable to keep him awake, meaning we have a mystery on our hands. Remember, Edgar is 75 years old. A man half his age might recover more quickly. The good news is he’s breathing on his own, his X-Rays are negative, his pulse is strong, EEGs, EKGs, everything—all the tests look good so I’m not ready to put him in the ICU. We’ll keep him here for the next few hours and assess his status then. Meanwhile, there’s no point in you staying around. I’ll call your office if there’s any change.

Would you mind calling my cell instead? We’re winding down for our holiday winter closure and I know they can spare me for a few more hours. I want to go back to his house and take another look around, try to find anything to help solve the puzzle.

Before returning to the Residence, Lawrence drove to the medical center news bureau. Ms. Johnsrud was able to confirm the security blackout was in place. Although the reason behind Edgar’s condition was unknown, she and Lawrence were able to prepare several versions of an acceptable story for the press.

11:41 AM, The Residence

This time when Lawrence arrived, he parked in his usual space near the garage and entered through the side portico. Mrs. Farrell had the place, especially the kitchen, more than a bit tidy.

The electrician has been here and gone, said Mrs. Farrell. Has the Professor come to yet?

No, not yet. They’ll call me as soon as they know anything. What did the electrician say?

The wiring in the wall outlet melted and fused itself together. That’s what shorted out the power. He made the fix and replaced the outlet cover. A coat of paint for the scorches and we’re as good as new. But the poor white granite, this is more than I can clean. She was pointing to the black spot where the toaster normally sits. The back end of the appliance had been evenly sheared and reduced to a lumpy puddle of plastic and metal that had fused itself to the surface.

Whoa. Hold on, said Lawrence. What the hell…? He had missed it because the morning sun was stingy and kept the secret of the damage within the dark.

The stone is ruined, said Mrs. Farrell. It’s no good to anyone the way it is now. He’s gonna have to replace it. And look at what else I found—this was inside the toaster. A pair of tongue and groove pliers.

Let me check on something, said Lawrence. He walked over to the connector door to the workshop between the kitchen and the garage and down the single step directly in front of the tool pegboard above the bench. OKAY, Lawrence spoke loud enough for Mrs. Farrell to hear him, on the top row, there is an outline of the pliers you found. On the bottom row there’s another outline for regular pliers.

Lawrence tried to recreate the scene in his mind. He always selected the precise tool for the job. So…he comes down here, climbs onto the workbench on purpose to reach his oddball pliers. Edgar had inherited his short stature, five-feet five-inches, from his petite Korean mother and his equally small American naval officer father. Lawrence returned to the kitchen. As he closed the door behind him, he looked at Mrs. Farrell and said, The question is, what was he doing with pliers?

Fixin’ somethin’…the faucet? said Mrs. Farrell, as she shrugged her shoulders and raised her forearms, palms up. I can’t imagine what he was doing, said Lawrence. Maybe he slipped or tripped, and the tool sailed into the toaster. I don’t know.

Lawrence’s phone rang. It was Dr. Silva calling back to report Edgar Marten awakened momentarily before he lapsed back into sleep. They decided to take him off the critical list and downgrade his condition to serious, but stable. He was moved into a private room where they could monitor his burns. Lawrence decided he would check back early in the morning. Dr. Silva was confidently hopeful. Lawrence was not. Looking down toward his pocket while he put his phone away, he was able to avoid eye contact as he relayed the message to Mrs. Farrell. He didn’t want to show he was worried and quickly changed the subject.

Would you mind calling around for bids to replace the countertop? They’ll have to do it right away, a rush job, probably cost extra. When you finish, why don’t you go home? Tomorrow when you come in, please call the contractors again. Be proactive. It’s right before the holidays and you might have to be a pest about it.

I’ll bet Peter Samson would do it. His company did the renovation for the kitchen a year ago and he put in pocket doors for all the upstairs bedroom closets last spring. He was always good to the Professor.

Perfect. Maybe he could do the touch-up paint as well. My gut feeling tells me the Professor will be back by Thursday or Friday. It would be nice to have everything in order when he returns.

Not true. His gut wasn’t telling him any such thing. So, he lied. Not the kind of lie designed to be malicious and cause trouble or misdirect guilt. And certainly, it was not the kind of boldface lie that runs contrary to the facts at hand and could never even fool a child. Lawrence wanted to assemble a calm and optimistic demeanor to support one of his more masterful performances to convey, most convincingly, a well-dressed package of self-assurance. He had few close friends and was careful to disguise his fear that Edgar might not ever wake up. Ordinarily, Lawrence would prefer to say nothing at all than to be less than 100% honest. Instead, he gambled that his word choices, spoken confidently and in a positive tone, would be enough to thwart any jinx his imagination might manifest.

For him, however, it was still a lie. His guilt for having uttered it made him feel uncomfortable to remain at the Residence. He said goodbye to Mrs. Farrell and left. While driving to work he remembered when Edgar had supported him during his personal tragedy over a decade earlier.

His wife, Janet, had been cycling west on Sand Hill Road and had barely crossed the I-280 overpass when she was struck from behind by an SUV. Death was immediate.

The news reached Edgar within hours after the accident and he dropped everything to support Lawrence. He took it upon himself to contact Lawrence’s only child, Gregory, who had been living and working in Albuquerque. During the funeral, Lawrence had shut down and was unable to comfort anyone.

It wasn’t that death was unfamiliar. When it came to processing his emotions, he was lost and highly dysfunctional. It made no difference whether it was a friend who had died, a neighbor, a relative, or the family pet. His routine was predictable. He would go into seclusion for a brief period followed by announcing a contrived task requiring his urgent attention. It could be anything as long as it served as his excuse to simultaneously sidestep the dreadful reality while numbing himself into oblivion. He handled his wife’s death in the same manner— ignoring everyone close to him.

The normally haughty and surly personality of Edgar Marten softened considerably as he stood by Lawrence throughout the funeral. He even supported Gregory when Lawrence could not. Edgar had outlived his two wives and understood what both men were going through.

Avoiding Gregory and grief, Lawrence found himself in an awkward paralysis as distance and years widened the gulf between him and his son. It was Edgar’s accident on this day that awakened him into realizing he had to heal his relationships with the living. Not only would he do everything he could to help Edgar, it was also time to mend the damage he caused by withdrawing from his son. He pulled out his phone and called Gregory. He had to leave a message. An hour later he called again and followed with a text. No response. He sent an email. Silence. Despite his lack of success, Lawrence was determined to connect with him no matter how long it would take.

December 15, Tuesday, 9:10 AM, Stanford Hospital

Before leaving for the hospital, Lawrence confirmed he had permission to meet one-on-one with Dr. Silva. Upon his arrival at the nurse’s station, Lawrence was told Silva was not available. However, Becca Drummond, the charge nurse, was summoned to answer his questions.

He was too busy talking with the nurses to notice the moment the elevator door opened, delivering Drummond to the floor. Before anyone realized it, she had firmly planted herself in the middle of the huddle, interrupting the conversation. The other nurses quickly backed away.

Seriously Dr. Williams, she said without apology, it is not necessary to come up here in person. Besides, you already know he can’t have visitors—his risk for infection continues. Dr. Silva gave us your private number. We’ll keep you posted.

She had taken command of the conversation before Lawrence could speak. Ms. Drummond was authoritative and firm but not dismissive. Lawrence, despite being impeccably dressed in his solid black, well-tailored three-piece suit and his elegantly coiffed red hair and beard, was no match for Ms. Drummond who was on her home turf and in a hurry to get back to more pressing matters.

At least tell me about his burns. How is he doing? asked Lawrence.

"Rather remarkable I’d say. The old skin on his chest is already beginning to peel. Fortunately, his clothes provided protection. His face looks like he suffered nothing more than a mild sunburn. The industrial strength antiseptic hydrating gel we’ve been using is designed to work in tandem with the body for a soothing and healing effect on skin injuries. It’s the first thing we reach for when burn victims come in. We call it our ‘all-purpose go-to-goo’—the name is way too long and hopelessly unpronounceable."

Hold on, Lawrence said as he straightened to his full height making his long body appear even taller. I have two advanced degrees and I’m fluent in five languages, so please don’t be shy. Simply tell me the proper name.

Very well, said Drummond as she turned slightly, squaring her shoulders in alignment with his. She leaned forward, looked up at Lawrence and, in practically one breath, calmly began delivering a rapid-fire salvo of syllables as easily as if she was ordering a slice of apple pie at a diner:

Thermomannoseoxydiolhexahamidemirphrytizine is the pharmaceutical name with a concentration of acemannan in a specific blend of the the polysaccharide glyconutrient, mannose, held in suspension by a lubricating preservative delivery system. Extremely slippery stuff and highly absorbable thanks to, believe it or not, Emu oil. The ingredient doing all the magic is found in a particular variety of a Mexican aloe vera. I understand there is something unique about the volcanic soil in which it grows. Of course, the mannose concentration is two hundred times stronger than what is found naturally.

Uh…right…of course, Lawrence stumbled. To his ears, it sounded like a real drug. He had no way to know for sure. He couldn’t help wondering if she was truly giving the correct name or pulling his leg in retaliation for his academic boasting. There was no sense in confronting her, as he had already forgotten it.

"So…um…the goo?…Does it need to be changed often?"

Only if he’s moving around in his sleep and accidentally wipes it away. He’s been calming down and showing signs of REM. If I had to make a guess, which I would never do, I would say this is a man who has pushed himself way past exhaustion. Sleep is probably a good thing. Dr. Silva has estimated he’ll awaken with full awareness within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. In a little while, we’ll slather him up again and apply a wrap to insure the ‘goo’ will stay in place, she said with a slight smile. Don’t worry, Dr. Williams, Professor Marten is in no danger of scarring. His hands are improving, and they are only slightly worse than his face. My recommendation is for you go to your office. He’s going to be fine.

9:43 AM, Lawrence’s Office, Humanities and Sciences

Where is everyone? Lawrence wondered as he entered his unusually quiet office, before remembering the staff had already carpooled themselves away for their annual holiday brunch. Upon his arrival, he planned to announce that everyone take the afternoon for holiday shopping. Before leaving for the party, he remembered to transfer the photos along with the video he took yesterday morning to Edgar’s personal email before he got distracted returning messages. The first email was from Mrs. Farrell regarding the bids for repairs to the kitchen. Although she was not specific, she said Peter Samson Construction had a unique idea for a solution to save both time and money. He wrote her back and assumed responsibility for approving the bid. He also gave her a brief update on Edgar and confirmed he would stop by the Residence after three-thirty on Wednesday afternoon.

December 16, Wednesday, 9:50 AM, Stanford Hospital

As Lawrence had predicted, a story about Edgar Marten appeared in the Palo Alto Daily News. He knew it was inevitable that something would leak out and find its way onto the media radar. Fortunately, it was lacking in detail thanks to a security system that had evolved from the days when there were local drug-related gang shootings. When the rival gang learned the victim was alive, they would go directly to his hospital room to finish the job. This gave rise to a procedure where high-profile patients, including politicians, celebrities, high-priced athletes, and presidents’ daughters were assigned an alias with a random patient number when they were admitted.

Moments before Lawrence arrived, Edgar became conscious. After the medical staff gave him the once-over, they began asking him questions. He refused to give details regarding the accident and said he would speak only to Larry Williams. A nurse approached Lawrence to review the visitation rules.

Keep him calm and don’t do or say anything that would excite him, she said, and you can only have ten minutes for the first visit.

As soon as Lawrence walked into his room, Edgar pointed to the door and said in a firm and domineering tone, Nurse, I need you to give me some privacy with Dr. Williams.

The nurse was barely out the door when Edgar became demanding, Larry, I’m so goddamned hungry I could eat a horse. Do me a favor will you? Bring me a pizza.

Edgar never cared for small talk. He was known for getting straight to the point and speaking his mind. Even as he was flat on his back in a hospital bed, he refused to offer any polite preamble banter to buffer what was clearly a serious situation. There was no, Hi Larry. What the hell happened to me and why am I in the hospital? or Hey Williams, thanks for coming, I’m much better now. So, how are you? Edgar had returned to himself, ornery as ever.

I’m not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what happened, Lawrence barked back, not allowing the infamous Edgar A. Marten ego to one-up him in the status department. Even though Edgar was no longer teaching, he maintained an office within the jurisdiction of the Humanities and Sciences, which positioned Lawrence to hold the authority. Lawrence ignored his hard-nosed hierarchical posturing. First of all, I want to know how you’re feeling, and then I want YOU to tell me why the hell you’re in the hospital?

Aye aye, sir, General Sir, Edgar said mockingly as if his sloppy attempt at using sarcasm could mask his gruff and insensitive overcooked arrogance and thereby erase any need to apologize. Edgar would go to any length to save face. He had to be the one on top or the one to place first and he would rather eat glass than come in second to anybody—with one exception, Lawrence.

Lawrence never played mind games and was too fast and too sharp to ever allow himself to be caught within the web of the Marten arena. Edgar knew Lawrence preferred an egalitarian relationship as opposed to the traditional academic ranking system. Lawrence responded to Edgar’s remark by not saying a word.

You got me now. Take me in. Edgar failed again when he further tried to smooth over his blunder by putting his bandaged hands in the air as if the sheriff had barged in and caught him red-handed in the middle of a crime. Lawrence stood his ground without expression and in silence.

On the verge of losing his own contest, Edgar was forced to change his tone, I feel miserable, as though I tumbled down two or three flights of stairs and landed in an inferno. My body is sore as hell, my hands and chest are burned, and apparently my hair caught fire. Other than that, I’m fine…I think. I understand I’ve been unconscious for a while.

Indeed, you were, Lawrence said. He proceeded to give Edgar a detailed summary covering everything during the past two days including a cover story for the accident and his theory about the toaster causing an electrical fire.

What did happen on Monday?

Larry, listen to me, Edgar said lowering his voice to a whisper. It wasn’t the toaster. It had nothing to do with the accident. I was working with the Emitter and—

Wait a minute, Lawrence said, interrupting, I thought you said you were going to turn it over to the Palo Alto Institute For The Future and have them farm it out for analysis.

Well,…yes and no, Edgar said with a slight hesitation. "I changed my mind. At my request the IFTF did assign a team to forecast a scenario about a worldwide, non-viral pandemic and by late October they presented their report. I needed additional time to complete my notes.

"I hadn’t touched the Emitter in weeks, I felt ready to pass it along. Actually, I intended to talk to you first—to see if we could find someone on campus to do their reverse engineering thing, discover what made it tick and whatnot. I was finally ready to get back to my original retirement project. I wanted one last attempt to open disc 3-3 before handing it off. I used two pairs of pliers to get the grip I needed to force 3-3 to open. And I was successful.

"I detected a faint humming sound and I could feel the Emitter vibrate when the tip began to glow, and a small bright dot of light rapidly expanded into a large globe, maybe twice