The Traveler Page 8

  Maya had seen a Hollywood science-fiction film where the hero got through an iris check showing a dead man's eyeballs to a scanner. In the real world, this wasn't an option. Iris scanners shined a beam of red light at the human eye and a dead man's pupils would fail to contract. Government agencies boasted that iris scanners were a completely reliable means of identification. The unique folds, pits, and pigmentation spots in a person's iris started to develop in the womb. Although a scanner could be confused by long eyelashes or tears, the iris itself stayed the same throughout a person's life.

  Thorn and the other Harlequins living in the underground had developed a response to the iris scanner several years before it was used by immigration officials. Opticians in Singapore were paid thousands of dollars to manufacture special contact lenses. The pattern of someone else's iris was etched onto the surface of the flexible plastic. When the pupil was hit by the red light of the scanner, the lens contracted just like human tissue.

  The final biometric obstacle was the fingerprint scanner. Although acid or plastic surgery could change someone's fingerprints, the results were permanent and left scars. During a visit to Japan, Thorn discovered that scientists at the University of Yokohama had copied fingerprints left on the surface of drinking glasses and turned them into gelatin coatings that could cover a person's fingertips. These finger shields were delicate and hard to put on, but each of Maya's facer passports had a different set of prints for that false identity.

  Searching through the boxes in the storage room, Maya found a leather toiletry bag that contained two hypodermic syringes and a variety of drugs that would change her appearance. Passports. Finger shields. Contact lenses. Yes, it was all there. She worked her way through the other boxes and found knives, guns, and packets of currency from different countries. There was an unregistered satellite phone, a laptop computer, and a random number generator about the size of a café matchbox. The RNG was a true Harle quin artifact, on an equal level with the sword. In earlier times, the knights who defended pilgrims carried dice carved from bone or ivory that could be thrown on the ground before battle. Now all she had to do was press a button and random numbers began to flash on the screen.

  A sealed envelope was taped to the sat phone. Maya tore it open and recognized her father's handwriting.

  *centered When on the Internet, watch out for Carnivore. Always pretend to be a citizen and use soft language. Be alert, but not afraid. You always were a strong, resourceful person even when you were a little girl. Now that I'm older, I am proud of only one thing in my life—that you are my daughter.

  *centered Maya hadn't wept for her father when she was in Prague. And during the journey back to London, she had concentrated on her own survival. But now, alone in the storage locker, she sat down on the floor and began to cry. There were still a few surviving Harlequins, but she was basically alone. If she made one mistake, even a small one, the Tabula would destroy her.

  Chapter 9

  As a neuroscientist, Dr. Phillip Richardson had used a variety of techniques to study the human brain. He had examined CAT scans, X-rays, and MRI images that showed the brain thinking and reacting to stimuli. He had dissected brains, weighed them, and held the grayish-brown tissue in his hand.

  All these experiences allowed him to observe the activities of his own brain as he gave the Dennison Science Lecture at Yale University. Richardson read his speech from note cards and clicked a button that caused different images to be displayed on the screen behind him. He scratched his neck, shifted his weight to his left foot, and touched the smooth surface of the podium. He could do all this while he counted the audience and placed them in different categories. There were his colleagues from the medical school and about a dozen Yale undergraduates. He had chosen a provocative title for his talk—"God in the Box: Recent Advances in Neuroscience"—and it was gratifying to see that several nonacademics had decided to attend.

  "For the last decade, I have studied the neurological basis of the human spiritual experience. I assembled a sample group of individuals who frequently meditated or prayed, then injected them with a radioactive tracer whenever they felt they were in direct connection with God and the infinite universe. The results are as follows . . ."

  Richardson pressed the button and a photon-emission image of a human brain appeared on the screen. A few parts of the brain glowed red while other areas showed a faint orange color.

  "When the person prays, the prefrontal cortex is focused on the words. Meanwhile the superior parietal lobe at the top of the brain has gone dark. The left lobe processes information about our position in space and time. It gives us the idea that we have a distinct physical body. When the parietal lobe shuts down, we can no longer distinguish between our self and the rest of the world. As a result, the subject believes that he or she is in contact with the timeless and infinite power of God. It feels like a spiritual experience, but it's really just a neurological illusion."

  Richardson clicked the button and showed another slide of a brain. "In recent years, I've also examined the brains of people who believe they've had mystical experiences. Note this sequence of images. The individual having a religious vision is actually reacting to flashes of neurological stimulation in the temporal lobe, that area responsible for language and conceptual thinking. In order to duplicate the experience, I've taped electromagnets onto the skulls of my experimental volunteers and have created a weak magnetic field. All of the subjects reported an out-of-body sensation and a feeling that they were in direct contact with a divine power.

  "Experiments like these force us to question traditional assumptions concerning the human soul. In the past, these issues were examined by philosophers and theologians. It would have been inconceivable to Plato or Thomas Aquinas that a physician would have been part of the debate. But we have entered a new millennium. While the priests continue to pray and the philosophers continue to speculate, it is the neuroscientists who are closest to answering mankind's fundamental questions. It is my scientific view, verified by experiments, that God lives inside the object concealed by this box."

  The neurologist was a tall, shambling man in his forties, but all his awkwardness seemed to disappear as he walked over to a cardboard box on a table next to the podium. The crowd stared at him. Everyone wanted to see. He reached inside the box, hesitated, and then took out a Plexiglas jar containing a brain.

  "A human brain. Just a piece of tissue floating in formaldehyde. I have proven with my experiments that our so-called spiritual consciousness is only a cognitive reaction to neurological change. Our sense of the divine, our belief that a spiritual power surrounds us, is created by the brain. Take one last step, judge the implications of the data, and you must conclude that God is also a creation of our neurological system. We have evolved into a consciousness that can worship itself. And that is the true miracle."

  ***

  THE DEAD MAN'S brain had provided a dramatic ending to the lecture, but now Richardson had to carry it home. Carefully he placed the jar back in the box and climbed down the steps from the platform. A few friends from the medical school clustered around to offer him their congratulations and a young surgeon escorted him out to the parking lot.

  "Whose brain is it?" asked the young man. "Anyone famous?" "Heavens no. It's got to be more than thirty years old. Some charity patient who signed the release form."

  Dr. Richardson placed the brain in the trunk of his Volvo and drove north from the university. After his wife signed the divorce papers and went to live in Florida with a ballroom dance instructor, Richardson had considered selling his Victorian house on Prospect Avenue

  . His rational mind realized that the house was too large for one person, but he consciously gave in to his emotions and decided to keep the place. Each room in the building was like a portion of the brain. He had a library lined with bookshelves and an upstairs bedroom filled with photographs from his childhood. If he wanted to change his emotional orientation, he just sat in a different room.


  Richardson parked his car in the garage and decided to leave the brain in the trunk. Tomorrow morning he would take the brain back to the medical school and return it to its glass display case.

  He walked out of the garage and pulled down the overhead door. It was about five o'clock in the evening. The sky showed a dark purple color. Richardson could smell wood smoke coming from his neighbor's chimney. It was going to be cold tonight. Perhaps he'd build a fire in the living-room fireplace after dinner. He could sit in the big green chair while he skimmed through the first draft of a student's dissertation.

  A stranger got out of the green SUV parked across the street and walked up the driveway. He appeared to be in his forties, with short hair and steel-rimmed glasses. There was something intense and focused about the way he held his body. Richardson guessed that the man was a bill collector sent by his ex-wife. He had deliberately missed last month's payment after she had sent a certified letter asking for more money.

  "Sorry I missed your lecture," the man said. "God in the Box sounded interesting. Did you get a good crowd?"

  "Excuse me," Richardson said. "Do I know you?"

  "I'm Nathan Boone. I work for the Evergreen Foundation. We gave you a research grant. Correct?"

  For the last six years, the Evergreen Foundation had sponsored Richardson's neurological research. It was difficult to get the initial grant. You couldn't actually apply to the foundation; they contacted you. But once you crossed that initial barrier, the renewal was automatic. The foundation never called you on the phone or sent someone to the lab to evaluate your research. Richardson's friends had joked that Evergreen was the closest thing in science to free money.

  "Yes. You've supported my work for some time," Richardson said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  Nathan Boone reached inside his parka and pulled out a white envelope. "This is a copy of your contract. I was told to direct your attention to clause 18-C. Are you familiar with this section, Doctor?"

  Richardson remembered the clause, of course. It was something unique to the Evergreen Foundation, placed in their grant contracts to guard against waste and fraud.

  Boone took the contract out of the envelope and began to read: "Number 18-C. The grant recipient—I guess that's you, Doctor-agrees to meet with a representative of the Foundation at anytime to give a description of the ongoing research and a statement concerning the allocation of grant funds. The meeting time will be determined by the Foundation. Transportation will be provided. Refusal to honor this request will cause the grant to be rendered null and void. The grant recipient must return all previously allocated funds to the Foundation."

  Boone thumbed through the rest of the contract and reached the final page. "And you signed this, Dr. Richardson? Correct? Is this your notarized signature?"

  "Of course. But why do they want to talk to me right now?"

  "I'm sure it's just a small problem that needs to be cleared up. Pack some socks and a toothbrush. I'll take you down to our research center in Purchase, New York. They want you to review some data tonight so you can meet with the staff tomorrow morning."

  "That's out of the question," Richardson said. "I have to teach my graduate students. I can't leave New Haven."

  Boone reached out and grabbed Richardson's right arm. He squeezed slightly so the doctor wouldn't run away. Boone hadn't drawn a gun or made threats, but there was something about his personality that was very intimidating. Unlike most people, he didn't show any doubt or hesitation.

  "I know your schedule, Dr. Richardson. I checked it before I drove up here. You don't have any classes tomorrow."

  "Let go of me. Please."

  Boone released Richardson's arm. "I'm not going to force you to get into the car and come down to New York. I'm not going to force you at all. But if you decide to be irrational, then you should prepare for negative consequences. In this case, I'd always feel regretful that such a brilliant man made the wrong choice."

  Like a soldier who had just delivered a message, Boone turned quickly and marched back to his SUV. Dr. Richardson felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. What was this man talking about? Negative consequences.

  "Just a minute, Mr. Boone. Please ..."

  Boone stopped at the curb. It was too dark to see his face.

  "If I go down to the research center, where am I supposed to stay?"

  "We have some very comfortable living quarters for our staff." "And I'll be back here tomorrow afternoon?"

  Boone's voice changed slightly. It sounded as if he was smiling. "You can count on it."

  Chapter 10

  Dr. Richardson packed an overnight bag while Nathan Boone waited for him in the downstairs hallway. They left immediately and drove south to New York. When they entered Westchester County, near the town of Purchase, Boone turned onto a two-lane country road. The SUV rolled past expensive suburban homes built of brick and stone. White oak and maple trees dotted the front lawns and the grass was covered with autumn leaves.

  It was a few minutes after eight o'clock when Boone turned onto a gravel driveway and reached the entrance of a walled-in compound. A discreet sign announced that they had arrived at a research facility operated by the Evergreen Foundation. The guard in the booth recognized Boone and opened the gate.

  They parked in a small lot surrounded by pine trees and got out of the SUV. When they walked up a flagstone path, Richardson saw the five large buildings that filled the compound. There were four glass-and-steel structures placed on the corners of a quadrangle and they were connected to each other by enclosed second-floor walkways. A windowless building with a white marble facade was in the center of the quadrangle. It reminded Dr. Richardson of photographs he had seen of the Kaaba, the Muslim shrine in Mecca where they kept the mysterious black rock that Abraham had received from an angel.

  "That's the foundation library," Boone said, pointing at the building on the northern corner of the quadrangle. "Clockwise from that is the genetic research building, the computer research building, and the administrative center."

  "What's the white building with no windows?"

  "It's called the Neurological Cybernetics Research Facility. They built it about a year ago."

  Boone guided Richardson into the administrative center. The lobby was empty except for a surveillance camera mounted on a wall bracket. Two elevators were at the end of the room. As the men walked across the lobby, one of the elevators opened its doors.

  "Is someone watching us?"

  Boone shrugged his shoulders. "That's always a possibility, Doctor."

  "Someone has to be watching us because they just opened these doors."

  "I'm carrying a radio frequency identification chip. We call it a Protective Link. The chip tells a computer that I'm in the building and approaching an entrance point."

  They stepped into the elevator and the door glided shut. Boone waved his hand at a gray pad built into the wall. There was a faint clicking sound and the elevator began to rise.

  "In most buildings, they just use ID cards."

  "A few people here still carry cards." Boone raised his arm and Richardson saw a scar on the back of his right hand. "But everyone with a high security clearance has a Protective Link implanted beneath their skin. An implant is a good deal more secure and efficient."

  They reached the third floor. Boone escorted Richardson to a suite with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room. "This is where you'll spend the night," Boone explained. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

  "What's going to happen?"

  "It's nothing to worry about, Doctor. Someone wants to talk to you.

  Boone left the room and the door clicked softly. This is crazy, Richardson thought. They're treating me like I'm a criminal. For several minutes, the neurologist paced back and forth, and then his anger began to dissipate. Maybe he really had done something wrong. There was that conference in Jamaica and what else? A few meals and hotel rooms that had nothing to do with his research. How could the
y know about that? Who told them? He thought about his colleagues back at the university and decided that several of them were jealous of his success.

  The door swung open and a young Asian man walked in carrying a thick green binder. The man wore a spotless white shirt and narrow black necktie that made him look neat and deferential. Richardson relaxed immediately.

  "Good evening, Doctor. I'm Lawrence Takawa, the special projects manager for the Evergreen Foundation. Before we start, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed reading your books, especially The Machine in the Skull. You certainly have come up with some interesting theories regarding the brain."

  "I want to know why I was brought here."

  "We needed to talk to you. Clause 18-C gives us that opportunity."

  "Why are we meeting tonight? I know that I signed the contract, but this is highly unusual. You could have contacted my secretary and arranged an appointment."

  "We needed to respond to a particular situation."

  "What do you want? A summary of this year's research? I sent you a preliminary report. Didn't anyone read it?"

  "You're not here to tell us anything, Dr. Richardson. Instead we want to give you some important information." Lawrence motioned to one of the chairs and the two men sat facing each other. "You've done several different experiments over the last six years, but your research confirms one particular idea: there is no spiritual reality in the universe, human consciousness is simply a biochemical process within our brain."

  "That's a simplistic summary, Mr. Takawa. But it's basically correct."

  "Your research results support the philosophy of the Evergreen Foundation. The people who run the foundation believe that each human being is an autonomous biological unit. Our brain is an organic computer with its processing capabilities determined by genetic inheritance. During our lifetime, we fill our brain with learned knowledge and conditioned responses to different experiences. When we die, our brain computer is destroyed along with all its data and operating programs."