‘Oh fuck this’ he thinks and opens up the box. The gush of rotting comes out to nauseate his nostrils. He feels his stomach churn inside, and a sourness runs through his throat. But more than that, the failing disgusts him to the core. 37th iteration was never supposed to fail. He puts on his rubber gloves and reaches out into the box, slowly and carefully, pulling the matter of concern, out. 38th attempt will have to have a punctured hole on the walls of time.
“Doctor, we do not have time!!” the vice chancellor speaks out after listening to his most promising Doctorate for half an hour.
“It’s really close. When you look at the probability of chances, we’re almost there.. It’s promising.. I just need..” The recently accentuated Doctor stops in his words, as he sees the chancellor striding quickly towards him
” Doctor, please.. I urge you to keep your voice down..Corpses are what you need..?” the ageing Mentor almost broke into a whisper “… And I’ve been doing enough for you as it is.. You ever heard of the factor called Risk..3 corpses is going to bring hell to my office, you realise that ”
” But, Professor, I just need one more.. And it doesn’t even have to be a… Well, anyone can do” the Doctor pleads as intently as he can in a whisper. The professor deep in his Mind always knew that his protege would bring one out of the box. Literally.
The young man interference is what the Doctor terms it. The secreted hormones and the rapid metabolism rate are at fault, he deduces. This factor he never brings up in his equation and therefore the last corpse which he is allowed rotten’s up. The challenge to beat time is lost again. Iteration 25, has a promise in its number but has no fortune in its rewards.
The university disavows his activities. A curious maid’s misplaced whiff of the Doctors experiments shakes up all of the little conservative county and throws it into an ethical frenzy. University is the first to deny any association and family, comprising of an ageing farmer of a father, and two little brother’s, come in second to do so. 27 iterations later the Doctor feels the first sharp pain in his heart. A very tangible shivering in his nerves resonating through his mind. But within his chaos, there comes a moment, where he comes across a question. A question which dangles a dangerous obsession in front of him. Do they want to see me fail? They don’t understand death do they like I do? They are just normal people, who can’t think beyond? After all, this is responsibility. My ideas are my responsibility.
He lures the dog into the pavement, promising it a bone. He places the bait at the far end of the alleyway. And just as it reaches there, a dart of tranquilizer is shot. The doctor was getting good at this. If he wasn’t being given Corpses to study so, heck he’d make them.
His theories move from coffin’s to boxes which are less grand and more affordable. The rate of mortification is easier to watch in boxes, he thinks. Dog’s , rabbits, pigs, all are brought in. Simple fluctuations in the readings but nothing worth while. After 40th iteration, one thing becomes really clear. He wants one particular human to help him out here. He writes a letter to his chancellor. To observe. To proove.
The chancellor and his little furry cat come visiting the one they call the Mad Doctor. Of course, he is Mad. The wisdom was in knowing he was desperate too. The 43rd iteration requires a larger test object. The Doctor invites his mentor in, and offers him one of his finest wines. They talk merrily about the good old days. The Doctor is vehemently trying to remain Sober. Time comes. And he knows. The Doctor carries the Professor to his lab and places him on the observatory table.
The cat, which was purring and scratching in the corner till this time, is Of course placed in the box. SandBox. A time Sandbox. Time heals. Time kills even, don’t you think?.
‘What have you done?’ The Professor wails as he wakes up after a few hours. He is tied up to the bed, as he realises, and his cat is nowhere to be seen. Before late, his eyes fixate on a box placed near his feet.
“You know, Death can be predicted and Time can be quantifiable. By the frequency of chances you have for it. I couldn’t solve the equation, but it needs to be solved. You are the most intellectual person I know, and therefore, I need you help” The Doctor says in practisedly calm voice. The aging professor struggles in his binds, but eventually gives up. He realises that he has no other way out.
“So now, tell me Sir… Is your Cat Alive or Dead inside that box. The facts you know are pretty simple, I brought the cat inside healthy and hearty. I also placed a delicious muffin inside which is laced with Nitrous Oxide derivatives. It’s been two hours. Tell me Sir, will the cat stay hungry and stay alive then?” He says, picking up a steel dagger in his hand. One swift motion and he cut his wrist. The professor starts thinking. His mind races around zillions of equations, and common sense narrows his effort to all the presentations his protege had shown him over the years. Blood and Time drip down his wrist. There must be something. The Doctor would not answer. The cat would have an equal probability. The ducts of air, meant only the muffin could cause death. The blood starts draining from his face. And before long, Erwin Schrödinger faints to the ground. His last words suffocate everything alive around him “Aren’t We All Corpses Thawing In Oxygen Chambers” The cat stays in the Melting SandBox of Time. Assuming. Unless opened. The time equation unsolved unless and until it’s time for it.