The Traveler

Lawrence Takawa was ready to jump up and drive back to the center. He controlled his emotions and switched off his computer. When Kennard Nash first told him about the Virtual Panopticon, it was just a philosophical theory, but now he actually lived inside the invisible prison. After one or two generations, every citizen in the industrial world would have to make the same assumption: that they were being tracked and monitored by the Vast Machine.

I’m alone, Lawrence thought. Yes. Completely alone. But he assumed a new mask that made him look alert, diligent, and ready to obey.

35

Sometimes Dr. Richardson felt like his old life had completely disappeared. He dreamed of his return to New Haven like a ghost from Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, standing on the street in the cold darkness while his former friends and colleagues were inside his own house laughing and drinking wine.

It was clear that he never should have agreed to live at the research compound in Westchester County. He thought it would take weeks to arrange his departure from Yale, but the Evergreen Foundation appeared to wield extraordinary power at the university. The dean of the Yale Medical School had personally agreed to Richardson’s sabbatical at full salary, and then asked if the foundation might be interested in funding the new genetic research lab. Lawrence Takawa hired a Columbia University neurologist who agreed to drive up every Tuesday and Thursday to finish teaching Richardson’s classes. Five days after his interview with General Nash, two security men showed up at Richardson’s house, helped him pack, and drove him to the compound.

His new world was comfortable, but very restricted. Lawrence Takawa had given Dr. Richardson a clip-on Protective Link ID, and this determined his access to the different parts of the facility. Richardson could enter the library and the administrative center, but he was denied access to the computer area, the genetic research center, and the windowless building called the Tomb.

During his first week at the facility, he worked in the library basement practicing his surgical skills on the brains of dogs and chimpanzees as well as a fat cadaver with a white beard that the staff called Kris Kringle. Now that the Teflon-coated wires had been successfully inserted in Michael Corrigan’s brain, Richardson spent most of his time in his small apartment at the administrative center or in a cubicle at the library.

The Green Book gave a summary of the extensive neurological research performed on Travelers. None of the reports had been published, and thick black lines disguised the names of the various research teams. The Chinese scientists had apparently used torture on Tibetan Travelers; the footnotes described chemical and electric-shock treatments. If a Traveler died during a torture session a discreet asterisk would be placed beside the case number of the subject.

Dr. Richardson felt like he understood the key aspects of a Traveler’s brain activity. The nervous system produced a mild electric charge. When the Traveler was going into a trance state, the charge became stronger and showed a distinctive pulsing pattern. Suddenly everything seemed to switch off in the cerebrum. Respiration and cardiovascular activity was minimal. Except for a low-level response in the medulla oblongata, the patient was technically brain-dead. During this time, the Traveler’s neurological energy was in another realm.

Most Travelers showed a genetic link to a parent or relative who had the power, but this wasn’t always true. A Traveler could appear in the middle of rural China, born to a peasant family that had never traveled to another realm. A research team at the University of Utah was currently preparing a secret genealogy database involving all known Travelers and their ancestors.

Dr. Richardson wasn’t sure what information was restricted and what could be shared with the rest of the staff. His anesthesiologist, Dr. Lau, and the surgical nurse, Miss Yang, had been flown in from Taiwan for the experiment. When the three of them ate together at the cafeteria, they talked about practical matters or Miss Yang’s passion for old-fashioned American musicals.

Richardson didn’t want to discuss The Sound of Music or Oklahoma. He was worried about the possible failure of the experiment. There was no Pathfinder to guide Michael, and his team hadn’t received any special drugs that would force the Traveler’s Light out of his body. The neurologist sent a general e-mail asking for help from other research teams working at the facility. Twelve hours later, he received a lab report from the genetic research building.