“And that’s all there is to it,” he assured his young audience. “You just reverse polarity and you get back to wherever you were.”
There followed a tremendous applause that woke him up. It turned out that the engines were working overtime into the prevailing wind. For the last ten years or so, there’d been talk of the earth twisting a few degrees on her axis and severely upsetting the usual wind patterns. Something to do with the transfer of weight after a lot of ice had melted at both polar caps.
He fell asleep again. This time it was the captain’s voice that woke him up.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We are now making our approach to the Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Chávez. Please raise your tables and seats to an upright position and attach your seatbelts...”
Then he repeated all that in Spanish. It was a smooth landing.
Leaving the Lima airfield was another story. The customs officials had to deal with their returning citizens, who seemed determined to bring with them half of the United States annual export to South America, most, if not all of it, in carry-on baggage. The exit from the plane was blocked solid for half an hour. This was followed by a good 90 minutes at the customs. The funny thing was that Alec had only one small piece of hand luggage, yet he had to follow the mountains of overloaded natives piled before him. So much for AeroPeru organization.
The next problem was to get a connecting flight to Cuzco, or directly to Machu Picchu. Alec’s Spanish was fair, but by no means perfect. After about a ten-minute haggle over the cost of a taxi, he was sped to the small helicopter airport on the outskirts of the city. Surely, he thought, the very idea of a helicopter is to get you into the centre of town; not dump you at the outskirts?
No matter.
He survived the trip, though barely. It was a hair-raising ride in which the dilapidated taxi crossed at least 40 red lights at an average speed of a 100 kilometers an hour. He was playing with the idea of letting him drive all the way to Cuzco, but decided to stay alive instead. If the breaks had failed, he would have made it to Cuzco by shear momentum.
The large ex-US army Sikorsky took less than two hours to get him and the other tourists to Cuzco. The whole idea was to take a helicopter directly to Machu Picchu. The pilot decided otherwise. Anyway, at Helicuzco, an appendage to the Alejandro Velasco Astete International Airport, there weren’t that many choices. Alec learned later that helicopters didn’t fly all the way to Machu Picchu. Some years ago the authorities had decided that the vibrations created by the rotors, or perhaps the noise as such, had a detrimental effect on the ruins. Just as well, thought Alec. By the time they’d reached Cuzco, the noise of the rotors was making him deaf.
“You must taka smallerr birrd,” the pilot told him. “Anyway, too mucho winda. Anda rrain. Anda foga.” The pilot sounded as if he’d learned his English in Italy. He also sounded a little like Professor McDes after he’d had one too many.
Rather than taking a smaller ‘birda’, Alec decided to take the train, which would take him to Aguas Calientes. From there, a short bus ride would deposit him in his waiting Professor’s arms. He’d been to Europe, twice, but had never visited South America, and he wanted to see as much as he could.
Alec wasn’t sorry about the delay. He looked around.
What a completely different atmosphere, he mused. Not just the culture but also the feel of the place was steeped in a different history. At the time of Columbus, Cuzco was the vibrant, powerful capital of the Inca Empire. At 3326 meters above sea level, one soon learned to breathe deeper than one would normally. It was the highest Alec had ever been. The city now sports about 300,000 people; most of them bent on trying to squeeze, quite aggressively, the very last dollar from throngs of tourists. The resulting hustle was in stark contrast to the serenity descending from the pale blue, almost cloudless sky.
He walked to the estacion San Pedro in good time to get his lungs filled with acrid smoke, even before mounting the train. Watching his shoulder-bag and pockets, he got his ticket and climbed into the compartment. This was already ‘out of season’, the ‘dry season’, so he was lucky to get into the ‘autovagon’, which, he’d been assured, was less smelly than a regular coach.
It wasn’t true.
When two hours later the train came alive, Alec felt a strange thrill. He was on the Machu Picchu train. The most frequently used train in Peru. The autovagon would take three hours to get to Aguas Calientes. Some trip. Slowly, very slowly it began zigzagging up a gentle serpentine climb. There was not enough room for the train to climb in one continuous sweep or curve. The prehistoric locomotive advanced some distance pushing, stopped and pulled in the opposite direction, and then climbed the next ramp. This exercise was repeated four times until the train cleared a cloud suspended halfway up the mountain. Cuzco was built by the Incas at almost eleven thousand feet above sea level, and the train was moving upwards from there—a strenuous climb, indeed.
For three hours Alec gazed on high mountainous valleys. They reminded him of the Alps, only here there were hardly any people. Just nature on all her volcanic, rapacious glory: a most enchanting journey. The train descended with audibly less effort, relatively gently, towards estacion Puentas Ruinas, some four thousand feet lower than the highest point they’d climbed. On his left, Alec saw the deep gorge carved out by the Urubamba River. On his right, the mountains soared as high as Mount Veronica, its white peek touching 5750 meters, almost a kilometer higher than Mt. Blanc, which dominated the Alps. Alec sighed a silent thank you for not being able to fly directly to Machu Picchu. This mountain pass was out of this world. It had that inaccessible feel about it, reserved for places where mere mortals were not allowed to tread with impunity.
Approaching Aguas Calientes the train passed a station, strangely enough, bearing the name Machu Picchu. Just a clever trick the Peruvians employed to mislead the unsuspecting tourists. The station is miles away from the ruins, but a useful place to disembark if you were looking for a cheap place to spend the night.
At long last, the autovagon stopped at its destination. Alec got out and gratefully stretched his legs. He took a stroll to clear his poisoned bronchial tubes. Peruvian trains have very low chimneys, which enable them to fit under and through tight tunnels carved through solid rock. Unfortunately, this also allows the smoke from the ancient coal engines to drift directly into the coach windows. Periodically, bouncing off a soaring tor the wind changes. The windows get opened, but a single gust from around the corner fills the compartment with the acrid fumes again. A while later you again open the windows to clear the smoke, only to be hit with more smoke, smack the face, a minute later. It keeps you busy.
You are free suffocate inside or outside, at no extra charge.
A half-hour later Alec was on a bus, once again zigzagging upwards, some 700 meters, towards the ruins. He wondered how and where he would find the professor. He breathed easier once he’d learned that there was but one hotel right at the foot of the tourist shrine. His eyes were still burning from the smoke. So far he’d refused to close them for want of taking in all the exotic views. Now, for just a few minutes, he did lower his eyelids. The next moment the bus stopped. Unwittingly, he must have dozed off.
Alec walked straight up to the reception desk. Dr. McBride had left him a note to go up to his room and take a nap. He found that the Professor had taken a suite with two interconnected rooms. It suited him fine. Apart from being tired and hungry, most of all Alec needed at least a short nap. The snooze on the bus just hadn’t been enough. He dropped his bag and fell back on the bed. He had no idea what happened next.
“The dinnerr is serrved, Doctorr Baldwin,” Alec heard from afar, his eyes still firmly closed. Then a gaunt grip shook him by the shoulder. “By my calculation, you’ve had a good two-hourr nap. That should be quite enough ferr a strrapping lad such as you, my boy.”
The professor’s smiling face was looking down at Alec who, for a brief moment, was convinced that he’d fallen asleep in the professor’s
office. He jumped up before remembering his whereabouts.
“My, you have such rred eyes grrandma. Like the devil himself. It’s a good thing that mop y’rre wearring is hiding y’rr horrns, eh, lad?” Dr. McBride seemed to be enjoying himself. “You didn’t take my advice and fly to Aguas Calientes, I see.”
Alec stifled a yawn. He’s been on the go since seven o’clock last night. With a three-hour stop over in Miami, two at customs in Lima, another two at the heliport, and probably two more on the way to the train. The rest of the time he was flying or being tossed about in a bus or train. He had a right to be tired. It was fun but it was tiring.
“I know the trrain ride is fun, but it plays havoc with y’rr vision. Still. At y’rr age, come morrning you’ll be as good as new.” McDes smiled as though remembering the good old days. “Up you come, now, we’ve got to eat. A good steak and maybe a wee drrop of that rred stuff they elaborrate in Arrgentina.”
Alec went to the bathroom they shared, stripped, washed first with hot then rinsed with cold water. The thin layer of soot from the train swirled away. He felt much better. After all, he was just 25, and at that age, a two-hour nap is usually enough to conquer the Matterhorn.
They dined in the main ballroom—or at least it looked like one. As the professor commanded all of his attention Alec didn’t have time to examine it for any architectural merit. Dr. McBride allowed him a single Scotch and two bites into the steak before getting down to business.
“So, you know why I called you here,” he affirmed, as though thinking aloud. “It is vital that you talk your head off before the heat dies down.” He swallowed a small bite of steak and washed it down with the ‘rred stuff from Arrgentina,’ a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon, before going on. Alec noticed, again, that the rolling r’s were gone.
“You see, when you break into a new field, the establishment is apt to turn against you. And your thesis is going to upset many people. Many important, established people.”
He let that sink in. They resumed eating, and continued in silence until the steaks were gone. Only then the professor sat back and smiled.
“So how do you like the rred stuff?” He was now alternating between being himself and being ah... himself. Take y’rr choice, Alec thought.
“You really think I broke new ground, Sir?”
“Des. I was Sir when I knew twice as much about everything as you did. Now there is a field where you know more. Desmond if you like, but I prefer Des.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The old man gave Alec a dirty look.
“Yes, Des. I am honoured. I really mean that.”
“Blah, blah, blah. I bet you called me McDeath behind my back many a time. Eh?”
“Maybe once...”
They both laughed. The wine was warming their bones, which in the mountains, at night, needed warming. Then Dr. McBride’s face got serious again.
“I accepted your thesis not just because it was solid, but because you dared to do it. It is about time someone crossed the bridge.”
Alec thought he knew what the Professor was talking about. When Alec took on the subject of the Paradox, his unspoken, perhaps even fully unrealized, dream was to propose a different attitude towards time. He knew that even the experiences of his youth could not be accepted by any scientific concepts known to man. Either man was wrong, or his experiences were due to unremitting schizophrenia. He refused to accept the second, thus, as Sherlock Holmes would say, he had no choice. He put his thoughts into words.
“If you eliminate all other possibilities, then the remaining one must be true.”
“It’s not the way I would put it, but I agree. The problem is that before you get an army of post-docs digesting and experimenting with your theories, you’ve got to get a bit famous. Lima is a good place to start. I have a friend there who did his post-doc with me. After Lima I’ve got you scheduled for Rio, Buenos Aires, and Bogota. Then, by the time I approach Harvard, you’ll have a string of lectures behind you. Semi-public lectures, but you’ve got to start somewhere. The darn problem is that you’re so darn young, damn it!”
Alec was flabbergasted. He swallowed hard, and leaned back in his chair.
“But... b-but...”
“No buts. I had my secretary scan the Internet to see if you were doing anything yourself and she found nothing. We can’t have that. You’ve got to strike that iron while it’s hot.” The professor swallowed the rest of his wine.
“Frankly, Sir, I mean Des, I got scared. Just plain scared. To tell you the truth, I never thought I would really get my Ph.D. for the stuff I wrote.”
“You silly boy. You silly, silly boy. You were brilliant!”
Alec slept very, very well that night. Night air at the top of the world is as good as it gets.
The next morning they took breakfast at seven. It was better to visit the ruins before eleven, at which time the hordes arrived. True, there were still some heavy patches of fog, but it was better than crowds of tourists. Today was a holiday; tomorrow Alec would be on an airplane. The Professor would attend his lecture in Lima, fly with him to Rio, as he had his own business to attend to there, and then Alec would be on his own for Buenos Aires and Bogota. Over breakfast the old man also handed him a credit card with a limit of $10,000 US.
“Use it, don’t abuse it,” he warned. “I got you on my post-doc program. Didn’t I tell you that? Must have slipped my mind. Your salary is $80,000 US. It, of course, entails a teaching position, and I expect you to put in some ninety-hour weeks. Expenses extra, well, some of them. At least to start with. Do you find that acceptable?” There was a twinkle in his eye that would light up a sunny room.
“I don’t know what to say, Sir, Desmond, Des...”
“Any one of them will do, but as I said, I prefer Des.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Shall we go?”
“Just one thing, Des.”
“Yes?”
“How does one give a lecture?”
“Didn’t you ever listen when I gave one?”
“Yes, of course, but...”
“You must go easy on the buts. Be yourself. If you managed to fool me then you will fool most other people. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose so...” And Alec realized that the old man got him again. “Fool you, Sir...?”
“Let’s go.”
And they went.
Machu Picchu was awaiting them in all its morning glory.
***
4
The Information Theory
Frankly, the morning glory turned out to be a thick drizzle. They donned plastic ponchos offered by the hotel free of charge. Judging by the prices Alec saw on the menu last night, this was just about the only thing that the hotel offered for free.
Just as well. Machu Picchu is nestled in a thick, dense rain forest. Thick! And very wet. And incredibly green. It rained almost daily for ten months out of the year. You might argue that mist, as dense as the jungle itself, added to the mystery. Well, it did. Only the closer stones and rocks were visible. The rest was forbidden to the eyes. No sunrise over the ruins; no distant views shrouded in enigmatic yesteryear. Just rain. And fog. And wet, slippery stone paving.
“Neverr mind,” the professor seemed to have read Alecs’s thoughts. He also appeared to be enjoying some private joke. “Come on lad, at this rrate we’ll neverr get therre.” And the ‘old man’ doubled his pace. There was an awful lot of spring in his step.
Alec wanted to ask ‘Where’s there?’ but bit his tongue.
About fifteen minutes later, still climbing, they met some youths coming down from the Inca Trail. The four lads, and two girls, all looked half-frozen and very miserable. The apparent leader asked Alec for directions! Alec replied in his best Spanish. They didn’t seem to understand a word. No matter. Alec didn’t really understand the question.
“Strraight down, bearring to the rright. You’rre almost therre,” Dr. McBride threw over his shoulder.
&nb
sp; “Thanks!” they replied in unison.
Slowly, very slowly the mists rose––or perhaps fell. They seemed to dissolve, be absorbed by the stones themselves. Larger shapes emerged, loomed out of the vapours, as though emerging from the hoary past. Before the first busload of ‘organized’ tourists arrived, Alec was given unforgettable glimpses of the mysterious city. Empty––but for the ghosts of the past. It was as riveting as he’d always suspected. Above them, all around, still shrouded in gradually dissipating mists, towering, near-vertical walls of pointed crags jutted over snow-white clouds, like gods standing guard over their own.
They walked in silence.
Here and there the professor sat on a flat rock, his eyes as misty as the surrounding jungle. There was more, much more to the old man than met the eye. Alec again felt a strange affinity with the professor. During the last eighteen months they’d hardly spoken, yet now there was nearness, a rapport between them that was hard to explain. Karma? Reincarnation? Could their lives have crossed in the past? Perhaps right here, right at this Sacred Plaza, where they now sat and rested. Alec looked down at the house of the High Priest. A place where there was no past and no future. There was only an intangible now.
And then Alec’s mind wandered into a realm he hadn’t visited for a long time. To a place that was not at all like Machu Picchu. Not physically, yet in almost every other way—it was. It was a place where dreams were made. Generated, enhanced, elevated to a realm where everything was possible. A realm where you didn’t measure plans by your presumed ability to realize them, but by the scope of imagination itself. A place where all that you could dream of could become reality. It was up to you or, in his case, up to Sandra, the Princess of his youth. Had the Incas been like that? Had gods raised the veils of mystery from their eyes and given them the power to realize their dreams? To the full?
Alexander: [Alexander Trilogy Book Two] Page 5