“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 rem
ember . . .”
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.”
Bowveld didn’t wait for a response. Without so much as a backward glance, he walked away, leaving Dr. Banks alone in the room with his world crashing down around him.
CHAPTER NINE
39:05
Parker felt bad leaving Michael on his own, but Dr. Banks had called Hilda and arranged for him and Emma to be taken home by seven p.m.
“Have fun?” Dr. Banks asked as they both wheeled their bikes into the house. Parker noticed how pale his dad was. He looked exhausted, even more so than usual.
Parker nodded and Emma grinned, holding out her bike to show him.
Where did you get that from?
Michael gave it to me!
Parker’s dad looked surprised but said nothing. Instead he waited until Emma had rested her bike against the wall and then went over to them both, arms outstretched, and swept them up into a hug.
I’ve missed you, he said, not letting go.
We’ve only been gone for the day, said Parker. He tried to pull away, but his dad’s grip held firm.
It’s been a long day, said his dad. He said this out loud, though it came through Effie also, and Parker heard the tightness in his voice.
Emma kept her arms tight around her father’s waist. What happened, Daddy?
Dr. Banks didn’t answer. He nestled his head between Parker’s and Emma’s.
Parker pulled back firmly and looked up at his dad. He saw his dad’s eyes were glistening.
Dad, what’s the matter? asked Parker.
Parker’s dad hesitated.
Dad?
Emma was now staring up at him too. She looked scared. Parker’s dad looked down and, upon seeing the expression on Emma’s face, he shook himself.
I’m okay. I’m sorry. It just didn’t go very well today. And I’m tired, that’s all.
What were you doing? asked Emma.
For the first time, Parker’s dad seemed to consider answering her before deciding against it.
I will tell you, but not today. He smiled and changed the subject. I have a present for you.
Emma’s eyes widened. Really?
What about me? asked Parker.
For you, too—but more for Emma. You’ll see what I mean. He turned to Emma. She’s waiting for you outside.
She? repeated Emma slowly. She had a puzzled expression on her face, which changed suddenly as the meaning behind his choice of word began to dawn on her. Her mouth dropped open and she jumped up in delight. She?
Before their dad could say anything more, Emma was running to the back door. She flung it open and scanned the backyard, her eyes squinting to focus in the night’s darkness. The moment she set her eyes on her gift, she froze. She snapped her head around to her dad, then back outside—as if she needed to check whether it was real—back to their dad with an incredulous look on her face, and then back outside again. Then she let out a piercing squeal.
Parker ran forward to see what it was. Surely, he thought as he stepped out into the night, Emma wouldn’t be quite this surprised if his dad had gotten her a chicken, considering they’d discussed it the night before. Of course, she wasn’t.
Parker stared at the white pig standing in the middle of their backyard—shining under the moonlight like a ghost ship at sea.
“You got us a pig?”
“I did. Her name’s Polly. Do you like her?”
Parker’s wide grin said it all. Leaving his dad in the doorway, Parker ran out to join Emma, who was sitting on the grass, stroking their new pet’s snout.
* * * * * *
Can she sleep inside? asked Emma, staring out the window.
Their dad glanced up from his laptop. We are not having a pig living in the house, he said.
Then why’s Parker here? asked Emma.
Ha ha, said Parker.
Emma looked over at her dad and attempted her bottom-lip sulk. But she looks so sad.
How does a pig look sad? asked Parker. His dad and sister ignored him.
She looks delighted, said Parker’s dad firmly. She’s been in a cage since she was born. I know it’s not perfect but, for tonight, that kennel will feel like paradise to her. We’ll get her a proper shed tomorrow and whatever else she needs.
Were they going to kill her? asked Emma.
Parker’s dad winced at the unexpected question. No . . . , he said. That wasn’t the intention at all.
I wonder what white bacon would taste like? asked Parker.
Emma wrinkled her nose in disgust. That’s not funny.
Parker grinned. I was just joking.
Parker’s father glanced up from his laptop. “Parker . . .” he warned.
“Sorry, Dad,” said Parker.
His dad gave a small nod and turned back to his work. Parker pressed down on his father’s light to stop him from listening in on the argument that he and Emma—who was now storming over in his direction—were clearly about to have.
So animal testing is a joke to you? asked Emma with her hands on her hips.
Parker shook his head in exasperation. You’re being oversensitive.
Tell that to all the dead monkeys—I’m sure they’d find it hilarious.
I hear monkeys have a good sense of humor.
Not dead ones, answered Emma.
Well, they won’t mind me joking about it then.
As soon as the words left Parker’s mind, he regretted thinking them. He didn’t think animal testing was funny—not in the slightest—it was just that when Emma got too serious about things—which was a lot—he sometimes couldn’t help but make a joke about it. At times, however, like now, his jokes crossed the line.
Emma was staring at Parker. What is wrong with you? she asked finally.
Parker sighed. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that. But you can’t take every little thing wrong in the world so seriously.
If everyone were as stupid as you, then nothing would ever get better.
Parker looked at his sister and saw tears forming.
Really, Emma, I’m sorry. You know I don’t think it’s okay to test on animals. And I like the pig—I shouldn’t have made a joke about it.
And it was true, he thought, as Emma let out a loud humph and walked away; he was thrilled with the pig, even if he didn’t jump up and down about it like his sister did. In fact, while Emma had been filling the kennel with blankets and teddy bears, he had spent the last two hours researching pig care.
“Dad, I can’t find much about albino pigs,” said Parker. “Was she born like that?”
Parker’s dad pulled a slightly pained expression and looked over at Emma. “Do you mind if I don’t answer that?”
“Did you know that you can teach them to sit?”
His father didn’t look up. “I didn’t,” he mumbled.
Parker glanced over at the clock. His dad had barely looked up from his laptop all night.
“Dad, come watch television with us for a bit.”
His father looked up and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Parker, I can’t. I have so much to do.”
“Can I help you?” asked Parker, walking over to the kitchen.
His dad breathe
d a deep sigh and closed his laptop.
“I wish you could,” he said. He pressed down on his wrist. Emma—come over here.
What, Dad?
Here, he said, ripping out two sections of his lined note pad and handing one to each of them. Go write your letters to your mum.
Parker took the papers.
Do you really think she reads them? he asked.
Definitely, said his dad.
Parker knew his dad couldn’t possibly know with any certainty whatsoever what his mother could or couldn’t do. She was dead. He also knew that there wasn’t any logic behind delivering the letters to the random location that they’d picked; if she was in heaven, and she could read a letter that they had dropped into a lake, then she could read it at their house.
Two weeks earlier, when his father first suggested writing the letters, Parker had been about to say this before he’d stopped himself. The fact that it made no sense was irrelevant. It was symbolic, a way of keeping her close to them all. And he was okay with that. He gave his dad a smile and took the papers up to his room.
* * * * * *
What’s in here? asked Parker’s dad, bouncing the envelope in his hand as if he were weighing it. He looked concerned.
I wrote twelve pages, said Emma with a wide smile.
Twelve pages? What did you write? asked Parker as he handed his dad a flat envelope containing a single folded piece of paper. It seemed inadequate now next to Emma’s effort.
I don’t know—just girl stuff, really, answered Emma. School, friends. And I told her about Polly, too, of course. Oh! And I told her about what’s happening in the news—just the important stuff: the hurricane in the Philippines, the explosion in China—that kind of thing. I don’t know if she’d keep up-to-date with that stuff in heaven. Did she watch the news, Daddy?
Always, just like you, replied their father. He looked down at the envelopes, one in each hand, and considered his words. Perhaps, Emma, you don’t need to write all of that though. Couldn’t you maybe get it down to two or three pages?
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