“I could help you! I could be of assistance,” Doc wailed as he was carried out into the hallway.
Welles made a show out of considering this. “Perhaps. That was our intention, but now we’re not so sure it would be the correct action to take. Such an act might create a paradox, or it might not. Right now, my good man, I don’t care. So, buck up and allow me to give you my Christmas present.”
Welles had chosen four of the burliest men he could find to accompany him to Doc Tanner’s holding cell. His estimate was still off by two, since it ended up taking six of the security men to effectively pry their charge out of the room and into the waiting elevator, where Doc screamed, bit, stomped and yelled.
Welles had debated the advice of sedating Tanner, but finally decided it would serve his purposes to have his test subject awake for the process.
As for what his purposes might be…? Welles wasn’t sure of that, either. He did know he wanted Tanner to suffer, and a chron-temp jump into the future seemed to be the perfect way of assuring the man’s agony.
Welles took the entire Doc Tanner affair quite personally. He’d been on the committee to select Tan- ner, drawn up the plan to trawl him forward, push him back, overseen the man’s acclimation into Operation Chronos, and now, after the ungrateful bastard had rejected their offer, and on top of rejection had tried repeatedly to escape, Herman Welles was going to take immense pleasure in showing the skinny shit the door.
In other words, he had no desire to see his most famous failure make his last journey unconscious.
And then, they were out of the elevator, and moving at a fast jog down the corridor, Doc caterwauling the entire way. After entering the triple numerals into the entry keypad, Welles led the way into the massive chron-jump chamber control room itself, and past the consoles, past the monitors, past the banks of flashing lights, past the eyes of the watchers, all of them dressed in white lab coats. A few personnel turned away, distaste on their bespectacled faces, but most watched the scene unplay before their eyes with a mix of concern and horror.
Except for a figure lurking at the edges of the outer control room that Doc didn’t immediately recognize-a lean man, tall, yet solid and imposing, and with the same easy assurance and carriage as had been Doc’s in better days. Long silver hair was combed back from his forehead, giving his narrow face a severe look. His eyes were unreadable, hidden by the shadows and by a pair of imposing silver eyebrows.
The man appeared to be glacier cool as he stood apart from the others, alike in form only through the long white lab coat he wore. A raspberry-purple necktie was tied at his neck in a proper Windsor knot.
All of them save this new figure knew Doc personally. Some had engaged him in debate, seeking the viewpoint of a living anachronism in their midst, and none took pleasure in seeing him screaming at the top of his lungs while being brutally manhandled.
The only person enjoying the spectacle was Welles. In a display that would later bring him reprimands, the fat man was enjoying himself far too much. Even while serving as point man of the hour, he was eagerly awaiting the chance later to review his performance on the security tape being made on the redoubt’s elaborate security system.
The group was now within the anteroom that separated the mat-trans chamber from the central control area. The room was small, only ten feet by twenty, keeping the guards pressed close to the wiggling Doc. Welles stayed at the back, wishing he was taller in order to truly oversee the scene as it unfolded.
The unadorned white bodysuit that had been assigned as his regular attire after the second escape attempt was ripped from Doc’s struggling form, leaving him naked as a newborn. The fingernails of one of the security guards raked his arm, drawing blood as the suit was torn away. Doc felt his genitals shrivel up, trying to stay as close to his body as possible. Being nude just made the fate he was to suffer even more humiliating.