Six (10 page)

And all Dr. Banks had to do was press it.

“Begin the second avection,” said Bowveld.

With his back to the audience, Dr. Banks took a deep breath and with his sleeve wiped the sweat now lining his brow. His hand trembling slightly, Dr. Banks reached out and pushed.

Beep.

The humming started up again. Dr. Banks held his breath, and then he did something he had never done in his entire career: he crossed his fingers.

Please work,
he thought as the humming grew louder in volume. One minute passed. Two minutes. Then . . .

BOOM!

The green line went flat. The numbers stopped rolling. The pig disappeared from the screen.

It was done.

This time there was no commentary from Bowveld, only a heavy silence that followed Dr. Banks as he walked back over to the first Avectron.

Lina was standing next to it, ashen-faced and visibly trembling. Neither of them spoke. Dr. Banks knelt down to face the front of the machine and, as he did so, he saw that Lina was also crossing her fingers.

This is it,
thought Dr. Banks as he turned the handle and pulled back on it slightly. Then, with the door slightly ajar so that only he would be able to see, Dr. Banks peered around into the Avectron. Polly blinked back at Dr. Banks. And then she opened her mouth and began to squeal.

“Eeeeeeeek!”

Upon hearing the pig, the entire room erupted into thunderous applause.

“Yes!” shouted somebody from the crowd.

“Bravo!”

“Turn the screen on, Miss Chan!” said the director, his voice ecstatic. “Show us the pig!”

The audience joined in. “Show us the pig! Show us the pig!”

Lina picked up the remote control next to her, then hesitated. She looked down at Dr. Banks's crouched figure.

“Did it really work?” she whispered.

In response Dr. Banks opened the door a little farther, just enough for her to see. Lina, on seeing the pig, gasped, and Dr. Banks's face broke out into a wide grin.

The audience continued to chant.

“Show us the pig!”

Dr. Banks stood up as Lina pressed down on the remote control and the image of the pig appeared up on the screen.

There, hanging docile in her harness, was Polly the pig, looking quite content and—more important—intact. Aside from the fact that she looked purple from the ultraviolet lights, she looked exactly like a regular pig. Four legs, check. Snout where it was supposed to be, check. The pig was fine.

The pig was fine!

The room erupted into thunderous applause and loud cheering.

Dr. Banks turned to Lina.

“It worked,” he said in disbelief.

Lina stared at him, as if still trying to process what had happened, and then she burst out laughing.

“We did it!” she shouted, and flung her arms around Dr. Banks in celebration.

*  *  *  *  *  *

The entire room was still hugging, cheering, and clapping as Bowveld strode out from behind the safety glass and picked up the microphone.

Dr. Banks looked at the director, who, with a wide grin on his face, gave him a thumbs-up in approval.

And then it hit him.

Sarah was going to come back. His wife was coming home! His children were going to see their mother again!

His eyes filled with tears as Bowveld turned on the microphone and addressed the audience again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you'd better start packing! We are going to SIX!”

Loud whoops and cheers filled the room, and then a voice called out through the crowd.

“We want Polly!”

Bowveld gave a booming laugh. “Yes, of course!” he replied. “Dr. Banks, let the guest of honor out for her victory lap!”

Dr. Banks bent over and reached in. He pulled down on the hanging belt until the pig was standing on the floor of the dark enclosure, and then he opened the buckle. The harness fell off the pig but, though free to move, she remained still.

“Come, Polly,” said Dr. Banks gently.

Lina's hand appeared, holding a carrot, and Dr. Banks took it from her. He held it out.

“It's okay,” he said gently. “You're safe.”

Polly wriggled her snout a few times, gave a low grunt, and then, slowly, she edged forward and emerged from the darkness of the Avectron.

Only then, under the bright unforgiving lights of the laboratory, did it become evident that something was very wrong.

Everybody in the room, Dr. Banks included, gasped.

The avection had failed.

The pig was white.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Polly, completely ignorant of the fuss she was causing, grunted as if to say,
Give me that carrot.

The pig was not just a slightly paler version of pink—she was white. Pure white. And her eyes, brown at the start of the presentation, were now pink. Under the ultraviolet lights of the Avectron it had been impossible to tell, but now there was no doubt—the pig had lost all her pigmentation. It would have been funny had the consequences of it not been so terrible.

“Please calm down,” said Bowveld, though clearly panicking himself. “It's just a small glitch.”

“A small glitch?” shouted someone in the audience.

“Yes,” replied the director, trying to sound breezy. It wasn't working. “Easily fixed. Isn't that right, Dr. Banks?”

Dr. Banks nodded robotically.

Someone in the audience—a woman Dr. Banks didn't recognize—realized that they all had microphones on their armrests and turned hers on. Her voice, tight with anger, came through the loudspeaker.

“Bowveld,” she said, “do you think there is a single person here who would allow themselves to be teleported anywhere without a one-hundred-percent guarantee that the process was safe—”

“It's just a slight loss of pigmentation,” interrupted Dr. Banks, leaning into Bowveld's microphone.

“I'm quite happy with the pigmentation I have, thank you very much,” replied the lady. “And who knows what might go wrong next time?”

There were shouts of agreement from the crowd, and Bowveld motioned for them all to calm down.

“The process will be perfected before we would ever allow anybody to be avected. And that will happen by next month, I guarantee it.”

“I don't believe you!” shouted someone from the back of the room.

The prime minister of a European country, seated in the front row, turned on his microphone.

“Warren,” he said, then paused as he waited for silence from the audience. “I think I speak for us all when I say that this is what you Americans would call the last straw.”

“But—” said Bowveld.

“Let me finish!” interrupted the man. “You have had your say, and now it is our turn.

“We have invested millions—no,
billions
—into this venture,” continued the man. “Money that we could be using to solve global warming, famine, housing crises, and who knows what else, is being given to you. We will not be made fools of any longer.”

“But you have seen the teleportation for yourselves!”

“Yes—and that has been enough for us to invest in your company for over thirty years. But now we have to ask, where is this utopia you promised us? Does it, I think we are all beginning to wonder, even exist?”

Wade Huckley—a wealthy Texan entrepreneur well-known as much for hosting a popular talk show as for his considerable wealth—joined in. “If we find you've been pulling a fast one on us, Warren, you're going to be moving into a cell quicker than a striped lizard on hot asphalt.”

“I am not lying!” insisted Bowveld, his voice desperate and pleading. “
Please
. I can prove it to you. Another month. Just one more month.”

There was no answer. Instead Wade Huckley switched off his microphone and turned to the people behind him. Dr. Banks and Bowveld stood rigid in silence as the group whispered amongst themselves. Finally there were a few nods, and Huckley turned back to his microphone and flicked it on again.

“You have one month, to the day.”

Bowveld closed his eyes and breathed deeply in relief.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much. I won't let you down.”

Dr. Banks gritted his teeth. One month? It might be possible—but he couldn't make any guarantees.

“There are conditions,” continued Huckley. “You don't see another penny from any one of us until you can prove that the process is safe and nobody here is going to be coming back with five eyes or a leg sticking out of his head.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Bowveld.

“Good. The demonstration needs to be completely successful.”

“It will be,” said Bowveld.

“We need to discuss this,” whispered Dr. Banks. Bowveld ignored him.

“And, to give you a little incentive, we've decided we want to see a person being teleported.”

There was a pause.

“You.”

Dr. Banks's eyes widened.

“Excuse me?”
whispered Bowveld.

“We want
you
to teleport yourself to SIX and back again. While we watch.”

Bowveld, his mouth open, began to splutter. “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Good. That's what I thought. One month. Now, if you don't mind, I have some business to attend to.”

Huckley stood up and strode over to the exit. The rest of the audience stood up silently and followed him.

Bowveld turned to Lina. “Leave,” he said. Lina hesitated and looked over at Dr. Banks, who nodded. She walked out.

Bowveld waited until the room was clear then slowly approached Dr. Banks. Bowveld's eyes were almost popping out of their sockets, and his usually orange skin had turned a mottled mix of purple and scarlet. Dr. Banks wondered if he was about to get punched.

“You . . . you . . .”
spluttered Bowveld.
“I'm going to . . .”

Dr. Banks watched as the director struggled to get his words out.

“We'll get it done,” said Dr. Banks. There was no panic in his voice—there was no time for that now. His mind was focused. “I need two more assistants,” he added.

“What you
need
is to fix this mess,” said Bowveld. He took a deep breath.

“I'm not going to argue with you,” said Dr. Banks. “The situation is as it is and arguing about it is not going to solve anything. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

Bowveld didn't respond. Instead he turned abruptly and began to pace the room. Dr. Banks saw his opportunity to leave.

“Come on, Polly,” he said.

The pig didn't look up from the bag of carrots that Lina had forgotten to take with her.

Dr. Banks looked at Bowveld, who was still deep in thought, and decided to just leave. Polly was content enough; he would return for her once the director had left the room. He walked over to the door.

“I thought seeing your wife again would be incentive enough,” called Bowveld, just as Dr. Banks was about to step out.

Dr. Banks turned.
“Excuse me?”

The director strode over, his eyes fixed intently on Dr. Banks. “I said, I thought seeing your wife again—”

“I heard what you said,” interrupted Dr. Banks. “I'm just not sure I understand what you mean. If you are suggesting that . . .”

“Do you know what my grandfather used to say, Dr. Banks?”

A ripple of anger ran through Dr. Banks. “With the greatest respect,
Dr
. Bowveld, I couldn't give a rat's ear what your grandfather used to say.”

“He used to say,” continued Bowveld, “that the word
impossible
was invented for the lazy man.”

As the words sank in, Dr. Banks felt his body begin to shake with rage.

“How dare you?”
he said.

Bowveld looked down at his hand and checked his fingernails.

“He was a very wise man, my grandfather,” he said, without looking up.

Dr. Banks clasped his hands tightly in an attempt to stop himself from using them to punch Bowveld.

“I've had
three weeks
!” said Dr. Banks. “I have worked every waking hour for you since I got here and I have achieved more in this time than your entire company has managed to achieve in years. And now you
dare
to call me lazy? I think—”

“How old are your children, Dr. Banks?” interrupted Bowveld.

“What did you say?”

“Parker and Emily. Is that right?”

“Emma,” corrected Dr. Banks, his voice slow and cautious.

“Emma,” said Bowveld. He smiled. “Of course. Sweet little thing. You must love them both very much.”

Dr. Banks felt his blood go cold. “What are you saying?

“I'm not saying anything, Dr. Banks.”

Dr. Banks took a step forward so that he was face-to-face with the director.

“Are you threatening my children?”

Bowveld didn't flinch. “What I am doing, Dr. Banks, is
suggesting
that you solve this problem. The stakes are high for all of us. You'd do well to remember . . .”

As the director spoke, the meaning behind his words poured rage into Dr. Banks.

“Don't you dare bring my children into this,” he said.

Bowveld watched as Dr. Banks's hand curled into a fist.

Bowveld looked down. “I don't think that would be a very good idea, Dr. Banks,” he said calmly.

How could it be, thought Dr. Banks with furious disgust, that this pathetic man should hold such power over him? It was a power, however, that had its limits.

“Do not underestimate what a father will do to protect his children,” said Dr. Banks as the director stood up. “Touch my children and I
will
kill you.”

Bowveld's mouth curled into a smile. “And then what will you have?
Nothing
. The choice is yours, Dr. Banks; your wife and children. Or nothing.” The smile disappeared. “The decision is in your hands.”