Chapter Two

The creaking of the stairs broke the silence as a figure slowly, stiffly descended. Driven forward through the darkness by hunger, every tentative cumbersome step is nearly a toppling, cart-wheeling fall.

Finally he reached the ground floor, where his eyes were immediately stung by the few shafts of light that snaked through the drawn blinds.

Dust particles appeared and as quickly vanished, dancing through the beams, his squinted eyes took no notice of them.

Shambling forward, mostly blind and hunting by scent, he closed on the unsuspecting target. Arms outstretched, fingers straining to reach his warm gurgling prey, Alden Wilkins grasped the coffee machine with a satisfied groan “Ooooh yeaaah.”

Without looking up he nudged open the nearby cabinet. Reaching in, he groped around, clanking the cups, till the handle of his trusty morning mug was in his grasp.

“Mmmm… so good” Alden mumbled between sips. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, then looked at his watch to see if more haste was needed.

Right on schedule, he thought. He had not been late to work in 3 years, not since the flat tire. It wouldn’t happen again, he now carried two cans of fix-a-flat in the trunk, and a Triple-A gold card.

Lots of people had fix-a-flat & Triple-A, that was not in and of itself a sign on OCD. Maybe thinking about it every morning and checking the cans every time he opened the trunk for any reason to make sure they hadn’t leaked out, was.

Alden didn’t care, being late sucked. He liked schedules and plans, and anything that ruined schedules or plans, like waiting on a tow truck, also sucked. It was not a mental disorder to want to be on time for things. He might have agreed to being a bit of a perfectionist, but really he thought of himself as someone who simply appreciated organization and planning.

He of course recognized that circumstances can be beyond one’s control but even then, a plan was still required to resolve the new dilemma… Quandary…

Alden’s thoughts swerved back to the subject that had occupied his mind, more or less singularly, for the past few months. Polynitrogen fuel, or more precisely the puzzle it was making the highly energy dense molecule behave like a fuel. It was barely metastable in any usable form, or too diluted to be effective in all previously attempted, fully stabilized compounds.

Most chemists considered octaazacubane to be akin to vaporware but Alden was determined to stabilize the molecule, and make it safe for at least ground transport fuel. He knew it could be done, he could feel it, like a word on the tip of your tongue or some dream you awoke from knowing it was good, but not exactly why.

The stability and the safety has to be achievable in one process, one compound that binds the nitrogen cubes, stabilizing them vibrationally, while restricting the oxidizing reaction… he thought for the millionth time.

Alden stared down at his coffee, as he took a bite of bagel. Thinking aloud “Caffeine?... or some other alkaloid as a binder?...”

He grabbed his keys off the counter, and spoke into the small digital recorder attached to the ring, “Check into the pseudalkaloids… or some alkaloid derivative…”

Looking at his watch again, he let go the record button, and muttered “Crap… Time to wake up, Sam”.