The Traveler's Companion (10 page)

Iverson’s hand slipped and the pointed end of the blade went into his thumb. He cursed and dropped the knife. He grasped his finger and cried, “Don’t you people knock?!”

“Sorry, Doc,” Go said, cringing apologetically. “Are you okay?”

A drop of blood came out of his thumb like an inflating balloon. “I’ll live,” Iverson said, sucking air through his teeth.

“I can heal it for you,” Go said, reaching out for him.

Iverson jerked his hand away. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“At least take this,” Go manifested a package of bandages and handed it to him.

Iverson took out a bandage and tried to remove the wrapping with his teeth.

“Can we observe normal visiting rituals in the future? Knocking at the front door, in particular,” Iverson said. The bandage became soaked with blood as he wrapped the finger, forming a dark stain. He hoped it would stay material long enough to stop the bleeding.

“Of course. I’m sorry,” Go said.

“I brought you something.” Go tossed a map of San Francisco onto the kitchen island. “I noticed a few discrepancies in the city.”

“Is that so?” Iverson asked.

“You’re the one who said it had to be perfect. I thought you might be interested in comparing it with the real thing,” Go said.

“You said all manifestations are autobiographical. I fail to see any of my personality in that.” Iverson pointed at the view. “Looks like San Francisco to me.”

“I suggest you tour the whole city.”

Iverson picked up the map and gazed at the cover. On the top right corner, above a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge, was the Auto Club stamp. “This is real?”

“ ‘American made. Built to last.’ ”

Iverson unfolded the map on the kitchen island. He picked up his pear and took a bite.

“You’re aware you don’t actually have to eat here, right?”

Iverson didn’t respond, chewing, keeping his attention on the map.

“Our bodies are maintained by the Zone’s energy. No need for food, water, not even oxygen.”

“When I woke up, the city was gone,” Iverson said. He turned the map so it would face the direction he wanted. He looked out the window, as if lining it up.

“I manifested Paris once. I had the Montmartre district almost perfect. Took me what felt like weeks. I tend to get somewhat obsessive with my mental projects. Anyway, when I took my attention away from it, the whole thing was gone in a matter of hours.”

“Sounds like lots of work,” Iverson said.

“Yeah. If only it would last.” Go took a moment in reverence of this idea and then said, “It’s easy to get lost in here.”

“What do you mean?”

Iverson was running his finger along the map. He found Lombard Street and followed it to Russian Hill.

“This place totally opens up your creativity in ways you didn’t think were possible. Suddenly you feel connected to everything. It’s easy to forget about reality. After a few days here, you don’t want to leave.”

“I’m not the creative type, Mister Go. My goal as a scientist is to understand how life works, not create a facsimile of it.”

“I understand what you mean, Doctor Iverson. But creativity often facilitates discovery. Keep in mind this is not a diorama of life. This isn’t some papier-mâché course at the learning annex. This
is
life. You can crash protons together until you’re blue in the face, but the Zone is where the universe began. You’ll learn more about the origins of creation here in a day than you would in fifty years in a laboratory. Trust me on that. I’m sorry if that makes me sound like some kind of zealot. That’s why I’m reluctant to talk about this kind of stuff. It always sounds so kooky, but I truly believe, here in the Zone, we can understand God,” he said with a shrug.

Iverson smiled at him to defuse his intensity. He overtly changed the subject. “Where’s Angela?”

“She’s with the director. I have to say, Doctor, she’s quite a woman. Smart, attractive, talented. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you manifested her rather than fathered her. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her. You’ve done a good job. Must have been difficult without her mother.”

Iverson kept his attention on the map, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with Go’s attempt to forge a bond. He wondered if the young man was looking for some type of approval from the father of the woman he desired.

“You may be right about getting lost in here. Do me a favor, Mister Go. . . .” Iverson said, turning the map over to see the other side. This side offered downtown only. “Would you mind keeping your eye on Angela for me?”

“Of course, Doctor Iverson. Actually, I was just about to go find her. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine,” Go said, moving toward the door.

“Thanks for the map.”

“No problem. I’ll check on you later.” Go opened the kitchen door, revealing the carport and the front end of the black Mercedes. “I’ll make sure to knock next time.”

Iverson smiled at him.

Go shut the door. Iverson listened for footsteps in the carport, but there were none. Go was gone. Completely gone.

* * * * *

Teleporting himself to various parts of the city instantaneously seemed like a waste of the perfectly good Mercedes in the carport. It was a 1973 280SL, a sporty box-shaped two-seater. He tossed the Auto Club map onto the sun-damaged dashboard and sat down in the driver’s seat, the leather creaking under his weight. He started the car with his mind, put it in reverse, and backed down the driveway. A button on a console near the gearshift got the electric sunroof to open, revealing a cloudless sky overhead. He took the map from the passenger seat and looked it over. This would be a day of simple exploration. He would see how close the city resembled the map and how far it actually went. Maybe the city was bordered by the blackness, an island in a sea of dark matter.

Dark matter?

What was the Zone made of and why did it respond to the human imagination? When in its normal state, it was nothing but darkness. Pitch black, however, wasn’t quite the right description. He and Beth had once gone to Carlsbad Caverns where he couldn’t so much as see his hand directly before his face, but he could breathe in the crisp air, feel the ground beneath him, and hear the wind barreling through the caves. Even outer space had the decency of being unforgiving. Here it was pure nothingness.

He was also curious to know what caused the manifestations to dissolve so quickly. In reality, corrosion could erase almost all signs of modern civilization in a thousand years, but here buildings vanished in a matter of hours. Were the mentally erected buildings in the Zone made of the same bricks and mortar as the buildings of reality? Without the right scientific equipment, he couldn’t be sure. Angela would be helpful in this case, because she could isolate molecular structures and she possessed an atomic clock capable of precise measurements in any environment. But using her in this capacity was risky. C.C. Go would never be far off. As Gibbons had pointed out, privacy here was impossible.

Iverson navigated the crooked street until he got to the stop sign. He decided to go in the direction of the marina.

He went past the numbered piers, the boats in the harbor, and the plethora of souvenir shops. But why weren’t there any people? Did manifesting human beings in the Zone need to be a separate thought? A city with startling detail, but humans not included?

Go’s criticisms of the city seemed unfounded. To Iverson, it looked perfect. In fact, the authenticity was startling. He had no idea how he had manifested it. How could he have consciously recalled all of this? Had his subconscious mind been invoked? CIA case studies on hypnosis proved that amazing details of events could be extracted from subjects. Maybe this was similar.

But even if the Zone could bypass conscious filters and summon details hidden in the subconscious mind, it might not be enough to explain what he was witnessing. At this point, no explanation could be too bizarre or too farfetched. He considered the Copenhagen Interpretation, a theory introduced by physicist Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg explaining that the universe existed as an infinite number of overlapping possibilities. Matter could be in an infinite number of possible locations at once, but it wasn’t until it was observed that it became manifest. Maybe instead of observing possible realities, in the Zone they were created by thinking of them.

There was also the many-worlds interpretation. Rather than a determined future, reality offered infinite possible outcomes. All outcomes existed in a vast number of universes. With no space-time in the Zone, the future, the past, and the present could become a malleable kaleidoscope wherein he could simply choose the outcome of his pleasing. Was he now in a future universe, a future San Francisco?

Marina Boulevard eventually led to Highway 101. The toll entrance of the Golden Gate Bridge was ahead. The massive red structure was a staple of the city, and today it was beautiful in the midmorning light. He whizzed through the toll booth and onto the bridge. Looking west, the ocean seemed to go on forever. Was it just an illusion? Would sailing into the horizon send a ship over a great waterfall like on some type of pre-Columbus map?

Once he got to the other side of the bridge, he went past the Vista Point turnoff and decided to stay on the 101 to see how far it went.

A few miles north he arrived at the Waldo Tunnels. As he approached the entrance, he slowed to a stop. A rainbow was painted on the outer rim. He set the parking brake, kept the car running, and got out to look around. His footsteps echoed inside the tunnel, and he noticed that, oddly, no light was coming from the other side. Soon he came to a wall of blackness. He reached into it, his hand lost. The city ended here.

Iverson went back to the car and drove back towards the city.

* * * * *

He gunned it through a red light and parked in a red zone in front of Saks Fifth Avenue department store in Union Square. He snatched the Auto Club map off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car.

He went through the double doors of Saks and took a quick look around. As he had suspected, the store was stocked. This was Ladies’ Apparel. Lithe mannequins modeled the latest fashions, collars up, necklines low. No one was less knowledgeable about fashion than he; he hadn’t shopped for clothes in more than a decade. How then was he the creator of all this? He went by a rack of blouses and felt the soft silk. The sensation reminded him of Beth. This would be a treat for her, for many women, but especially for Beth.

He wasn’t much of a shopper, so he left the store. When he got back out onto the street, he wondered which direction he should go in next. According to the map, Chinatown was only a few blocks away. In San Francisco, however, a few blocks of its steep hills were tantamount to walking miles anywhere else. Teleportation would be faster, though there were safety concerns with this type of travel. The teleportation theoretically possible in reality worked by copying information, sending it, and then replicating the information in another place. The original used to make the copy would have to be destroyed to avoid redundancy. Gibbons never mentioned anything about a copy of himself. This type of teleportation also had a speed limit set by Einstein’s special relativity, but he believed that Gibbons had surpassed the speed of light many times over when he had materialized in his bedroom. Though it sounded just as fantastical as teleportation, he believed Gibbons had achieved superluminal speeds by traveling through wormholes.

Iverson closed his eyes and pictured himself in Chinatown. It didn’t feel like anything was happening, but when he opened his eyes he was standing before a Chinese archway guarded on either side by stone lions.

Oddly, the weather suddenly changed. A foggy mist rolled in and before long it was drizzling. Had he also replicated Northern California’s capricious weather? He folded up the map, put it in his back pocket, and went into Chinatown.

The modern architecture of the city was gone, and now there were Asian roofs with Chinese characters adorning signs and awnings. Streetlights were made of multi-colored bases, jade colored poles, and topped with light bulbs housed in miniature Chinese pavilions. Rows of bulbous red lanterns were strung over the street, block after block, like a trick of mirrors. A banner overhead read: “Celebrating the National Day of the Republic of China.”

Plenty of stores were selling trinkets aimed at tourists, products stuffed in cardboard boxes and lined up on the sidewalk. But he had yet to see a shopkeeper to make the transaction.

While walking by an alleyway, something caught his attention. He doubled back. There, in the middle of the street, surrounded by trash and getting soaked in the rain, was what looked like someone on a hospital bed.

Walking slowly, getting closer, he began to recognize the face.

He stopped.

This had to be a trick. A bad joke.

Her face was the color of old newspaper. A long scar, swollen bright red, ran along one side of a shaved scalp.

He felt his heart sink into his stomach. His throat was as dry as a desert despite the rain dampening his face.

It was Beth.

It was just after the second surgery when surgeons had attempted to remove the golf ball-sized tumor from her brain. He remembered that day vividly. It might as well have been yesterday. A moment burned into his brain forever.