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The Tickell Arms, North Road, Whittlesford Cambridge. 7:53 pm, July 27, 1926.

“That'll be a shilling,” said the bearded landlord as he placed the second foamy beer on the bar.
A young man slid the silver coin across to the bar keep and picked up the two pewter tankards.

He made his way over to a table in the corner. The young man was clean shaven, had black hair and tanned shin akin to his Greek heritage.

He placed both jugs on the table and slid one across to a man in his thirties. This one had a moustache and dark brown hair in a neat cut. Both wore suits that were off-the-rack. The moustachioed man had removed his jacket and loosened his tie.

The pair had come in five minutes previous and joined the three older men who already occupied the table.

"Well, gentlemen," one of the older men said, raising his glass in a toast. "Good to see you all looking so well. Here's to our future endeavours.”
They all took a drink.
"I wrote to Dr Lung in Shanghai, and he has replied," said Dr Dash, an aged portly man who still sported mutton-chop sideburns.
"His translation of the texts has been most useful. He was intrigued by our interest in such a, and I quote, ‘whimsical subject’. I feel obliged to extend him an invitation to join the Society. Do you all agree?"
There were nods and murmurs of acceptance all round, until a voice spoke up.
"Well no, actually, I'm not,” the voice of Dr Nathaniel Chase said.

Dash, who had been looking rather pleased with his efforts suddenly looked furious. Dash was not a man used to people telling him no.

His position at St Mary's Teaching Hospital was a senior position in the medical profession, and he was used to students and junior doctors hanging on his every word.
This young upstart opposite him, objecting, was not something Dash was expecting nor did he like it.
But, one could not ignore a leading Harley Street surgeon who had operated on the King himself. And, Dash noted with annoyance, nor were several of the other doctors.
“You have an objection Dr. Chase?" Dash asked as civilly as his ire would let him.

Dr. Nathaniel Chase mused to himself.
Dropping the “I” meant Dash wasn't happy. "We should be cautious about whom we invite into the Society. Firstly, we have no idea how good Lung's translation is. And secondly, if we invite him in and our theory, theories, turn out to be fruitless, then the Society will appear like a collection of Whimsical old men clutching at fantasies. Both are grounds for rumour, and the latter could discredit much of our work outside of the Society."
There were grave faces around the table now.
Dash looked crestfallen, but nodded solemnly.
“Bloody hell, Chase, my boy. You're right, of course!"
Chase have him an apologetic smile.
"But should we be successful, then yes, invite the eminent doctor,” Chase placed a metaphorical bandage over Dash's wound. With the group conscious of the potential of their discovery they subconsciously decided to avoid talking "shop" and chatted amongst themselves about all sorts of things.

The Hermes Society was initially formed of like-minded doctors and physicians who sought better understanding of medical practices, utilising medical knowledge from across the globe. These like-minded men and women soon became friends as well as colleagues and were happy to talk about anything from movies to cars, to foreign travel.
All in all, Chase thought as he and Dr. Alexandros Petrou made their way home."That was actually pleasant."
He was even feeling very confident about the ceremony that was planned for the weekend.

The wind came in hard off the Atlantic, sharp with salt and the promise of rain, tearing at coats and scarves as if the island itself wished to cast them back into the sea.
Dr. Nathaniel Chase leaned into it, boots slipping slightly on the wet, uneven ground. “Steady—steady, man,” he called over his shoulder, though his own breath came in visible bursts. His gloved hands were wrapped around one edge of the curved wooden segment he and two others were hauling.
“It is not steady, my friend,” came the strained reply beside him. Dr. Alexandros Petrou—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and perpetually unimpressed by British weather—grunted as he adjusted his grip. “It is madness. Scientific, yes—but still madness.”
“Then we’re in excellent company,” Nate said, managing a brief smile.
Behind them, another pair struggled with the second segment of the ring, while a third team laboured further upslope with the final piece. The terrain was brutal—rocky, bog-soft in places, and cut through with low heather that snagged boots and trousers alike.
They had been at it for hours.
Above them, the sky hung low and grey, pressing down on the island like a lid. Somewhere beyond the ridge ahead lay the site—the place The Hermes Society believed would reveal one of the mysterious Nexus Gates described in obscure notes tied to ancient Egyptian rituals.
If those notes were right.
If the device worked.
If they had not dragged half a ton of precision-engineered brass and wood across a forsaken Scottish island for nothing.
“Why here?” Alexandros muttered. “Of all places in the world—why must the doorway to infinity be in a place that smells of wet sheep?”
“Because,” Nate replied, shifting the weight as his arms trembled, “no one else thought to look.”
They crested the ridge just as the wind dropped slightly, as though the land itself were holding its breath.
The site lay in a shallow hollow beyond—a natural bowl of dark stone, scattered with ancient, weather-worn standing rocks. Some leaned at odd angles, others lay half-buried, as if pushed down by centuries of storms.
Nate stopped.
Not from exhaustion—though he had plenty of that—but from something else.
Recognition.
“This is it,” he said quietly.
Alexandros glanced around, eyes narrowing. “You feel it too.”
Nate nodded. There was no visible sign of anything unusual. No glow. No shimmer.
And yet—
The air felt… strained. As though something unseen pressed against it from the other side.
“Set it down,” Nate called.
One by one, the teams lowered the three massive segments onto the damp ground with heavy, metallic thuds. Several of the group staggered back, flexing aching hands.
From further behind, the rest of the expedition approached—men and women in heavy coats, carrying crates of instruments. Among them was Andrea Meaner.
Nate noticed her immediately, though he did not turn.
She moved with purpose, her nurse’s satchel slung over one shoulder, her expression as composed and cool as ever. Where others showed fatigue, she showed control.
She always did.
“Try not to collapse before the important part, Doctor Chase,” she called dryly as she drew nearer.
Nate exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do my best to disappoint you, Nurse Meaner.”
“Your consistency in that regard is admirable.”
Alexandros smirked. “Ah. The ice between you remains unbroken.”
Nate ignored him.
The assembly took the better part of an hour.
The three curved segments were dragged, levered, and coaxed into position, their edges aligning with painstaking precision. Bolts were driven home. Brackets tightened. The structure rose slowly—an immense ring of brass and darkened, aged ebony, nearly twelve feet high, standing upright against the bleak Scottish sky.
As the final fastening clicked into place, a hush fell over the group.
Even the wind seemed to ease.
Nate stepped back, wiping sweat and rain from his brow. “Power connections,” he said.
A pair of engineers hurried forward, attaching cables from a compact generator unit. The device itself—though elegant—was clearly experimental. Coils ran along the inner circumference. Small lenses and crystalline nodes were set at intervals, each one angled with deliberate care.
Andrea stood off to one side, arms folded, watching.
“You’re certain this won’t… explode?” she asked.
Nate glanced at her. “Not entirely.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Reassuring.”
“But I’m confident it won’t,” he added.
“That is marginally better.”
There was a pause.
Then, more quietly: “You should stand further back.”
Her gaze held his for a moment—cool, appraising.
“I’ll decide my own distance, Doctor.”
Of course you will, Nate thought.
“All right,” he called, turning to the group. “This is it.”
The Hermes Society—doctors, scientists, scholars—gathered in a loose semicircle around the ring. Faces drawn with exhaustion, lit with anticipation.
Years of research had led to this moment.
Nate moved to the control panel—a compact arrangement of switches and dials mounted at the base of the structure. His hands hovered for just a second.
Then he threw the first switch.
The generator coughed to life.
A low hum spread through the ring, deep and resonant. The coils along its inner edge began to glow faintly—first a dull amber, then brighter, threading with pale blue light.
“Voltage holding,” one of the engineers murmured.
“Stabilise the phase alignment,” Alexandros added, already adjusting a dial.
Nate flipped the second switch.
The hum deepened.
The air inside the ring shimmered—not with light, but with distortion. Like heat haze… but colder. Wrong.
Someone gasped.
“Do you see—?”
“Yes—there—!”
Nate leaned forward, heart hammering.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A shape.
Faint. Impossible.
A vertical plane, like a tear in reality itself, hovering just beyond the ring’s frame. It flickered, slipping in and out of perception—visible only when viewed through the aligned lenses of the device.
“Move it,” Nate said suddenly.
“What?” Alexandros asked.
“The ring—it’s not centred. The gate’s offset!”
Understanding flashed across several faces at once.
“Lift!” Nate shouted.
Groans of protest—but no hesitation.
Hands returned to the cold metal. Muscles strained anew as they shifted the enormous ring a few feet to the left.
“Stop—there!” Nate called.
The moment the ring settled—
The shimmer snapped into clarity.
A perfect oval of impossible depth hung in the air, framed exactly within the circle of the device. Its surface rippled like liquid glass, reflecting nothing of the world around it.
Beyond it—
Something else.
Colours that did not belong to Scotland. Shapes that did not belong to this world.
A collective silence fell.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Even Andrea, ever composed, had taken a step forward, her eyes wide despite herself.
“My God…” someone whispered.
Alexandros removed his glasses, as though doubting them. “It is real.”
Nate felt it then—not triumph, not yet.
Something deeper.
A door.
Not metaphorical. Not theoretical.
A door.
He glanced sideways.
Andrea stood close now, nearer than she had been before. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than he had ever heard it.
“You were right.”
Nate looked at her, surprised.
She met his gaze, something warmer flickering beneath the usual reserve.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added quickly.
He smiled, just slightly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Behind them, the Hermes Society stood on the edge of infinity.
And for the first time, the world felt… larger than history.
It felt endless.