The GoldenCity

The chartered jet stopped in Maine for refueling and customs inspection, and then continued to the Westchester County Airport, located in the suburbs north of New York City. A town car was parked on the tarmac and a member of the security staff stood beside it like honor guard. Then it was-Yes, Mr. Corrigan. Hope you had a pleasant flight, Mr. Corrigan-and the car carried him down a two-lane country road. They glided past stone walls that had once surrounded apple orchards and dairy cows. These days, the land was too expensive for farming, and the area was dotted with corporate headquarters and the renovated farmhouses owned by investment bankers.

The Evergreen Foundation’s research center was at the end of a long gravel driveway. Flower beds and pine trees were a pleasant distraction from the high wall that kept out the rest of the world. The compound was dominated by four glass and steel buildings that were used by the foundation library, genetic laboratory, administrative center and computer research facility. At the center of this quadrangle was the neurological cybernetics building where Michael had once been attached to the sensors of the quantum computer.

Michael turned on his handheld computer and checked his daily schedule. This was one activity that truly gave him pleasure. Every morning he was sent a schedule that told him what he was going to do in fifteen minute segments; the activities and the tight schedule confirmed that he was an important member of a powerful organization. When he looked back on his past life in Los Angeles, there were always hours and sometimes days when nothing was going on. The empty time made it difficult not to feel weak and pathetic.

Now that Michael was a Traveler, the schedule helped him stay focused on the reality in front of him. If he thought about it-really thought about it-the other realms made the human world appear false or unreal. But that was a road straight to craziness. His schedule showed that all of his actions had order and meaning. Even ordinary activities like lunch or sleep were on the list. His occasional encounters with prostitutes were placed in the category of entertainment.

“Now what?” Michael asked the driver. “The schedule doesn’t say where I’m supposed to meet Dr. Dressler.”

The driver looked confused. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corrigan. But no one gave me any instructions.”

Michael got out of the car and walked up a sloping flagstone path to the administration center. He still had a Protective Link chip implanted beneath the skin on the back of his right hand. As he approached the building, it sensed his arrival, verified his identity and confirmed that he had passed through the main gate. The glass door glided open, and he entered the lobby.

There was no need for a security guard or a receptionist; the lobby scanners tracked his passage across the room. But when Michael reached the elevators-nothing happened. Feeling like an unwelcome guest, he waved his hand at the elevator doors. The lobby seemed very empty and quiet at that moment, and he wondered what to do.

Michael heard a sharp click and turned as Nathan Boone emerged from the side door. The head of security for the Evergreen Foundation wore a black business suit without a necktie. Boone had fastened the top button of his white shirt, and this small detail gave him a severe appearance.

“Good morning, Mr. Corrigan. Welcome back to the research center.”

“Why can’t I enter the elevator?”

“We had a personnel problem a few days ago, and I restricted access to the offices. I’ll reauthorize your chip this afternoon, but right now you need to meet with Dr. Dressler.”

They left the lobby together and walked across the compound. “What kind of problem?” Michael asked.

Boone raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“You mentioned a problem with the staff. As a representative of the executive board I need to know what’s going on at this facility.”

“An employee named Susan Howard ended her life. She had problems with depression and contacted the so-called Resistance using an Internet chat room. We thought it was best to change our security codes.”

Did he kill her? Michael wondered. It bothered him that Boone could destroy someone without board authorization, but before he could ask more any more questions, they entered the computer building and Terry Dressler hurried out to greet them. The scientist was an older man with white hair and a broad fleshy face. He seemed nervous about showing the computer to Michael.

“Good morning, Mr. Corrigan. We met several months ago when General Nash gave you a tour of the research center.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Nash’s sudden death was a real shock to all of us. He was the principal force pushing for the quantum computer.”