Going Bovine (35 page)

“Lame …,” Dr. O singsongs under her breath, flipping switches and taking readings.

“Yes. Well. We’re still working on the catchphrase,” Dr. M says with a sniff.

I shift my safety goggles over my eyes. “How do I look?”

“Like you just escaped from an eighties band,” Gonzo says.

“Ed, please ready our victim!” Dr. T shouts from a scaffolding above the tunnel.

I bend down so that Ed can test the security of my roller derby helmet. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt.”

“I thought nobody’s come back. So how do you know it doesn’t hurt?”

Ed considers this, nodding slowly. “I just know in the way you just know things.” He tucks a white rabbit’s foot into my pocket.

“For luck?”

“Nope.” He doesn’t offer any other explanation.

Balder throws his arms around me. “May Frigg spin clouds of protection around you on your travels, noble Cameron.”

“Thanks, Balder.”

Ed affixes the Calabi Yau manifold to the stereo speaker.

“Okay, we’re ready!” Dr. T calls out. The scientists lower their safety goggles and Balder and Gonzo follow suit. Dr. T offers a sort of space-hero salute, his hand across his chest.

“To Higgs Field and beyond. Calabi Yau!”

“Calabi Yau!” they shout.

Gonzo bestows a final fist bump. “Here’s to sand castles and ninjas, dude.”

I give the thumbs-up, and Ed closes the door, sealing me in.

At first, it’s quiet and dark. Really dark. Then I hear the Copenhagen Interpretation’s music filling the space around me. “Time is what you make of it. …”

The ground hums; it vibrates till my teeth rattle. The daisy door lights up like a wheel you spin at a carnival, and that’s when I nearly piss myself with fear. Be cool, Cameron. Don’t wanna trip the light fantastic with wet undies. Chafe is chafe in any dimension.

It’s like I’ve been shot out of a superpowered cannon. There’s so much pressure bearing down on me, smashing me flat. It’s like I’m a plastic toy form stuck to a plastic board along with other forms that can be moved around only on that flat board. And then I’m expanding. I can feel myself peeling off that flat board and fluffing out, and it’s like I’ve got as many hidden dimensions as the Calabi Yau toy, all curled up and exponentially huge at the same time. Then—kapow!—I could swear every part of me is coming apart and being rearranged, like the ball bearings in one of those cheap plastic puzzle games you get in a birthday goody bag when you’re a kid. In my ears, the Copenhagen Interpretation’s getting louder. Tiny cells of time zip around me, snapshots constantly being rearranged on the blank pages of a photo album. Sometimes I look and they tell a linear story; other times they don’t seem to make sense or one cell overlaps another. I can make out a few things, though: The CI playing a concert. A big black hole opening above them. Dr. X stepping into his machine. The empty stage. Dr. X and the Copenhagen Interpretation flying through space, and in their wake, something forming. A ball of fire.

I’m accelerating, and everything’s getting wonky. Time bends and blends till I can’t tell what’s what anymore: The Copenhagen Interpretation fishing in the snow. Me falling off the Small World ride. Gonzo in a fedora, a huge stuffed albatross on his desk and a gun in his hand. Glory playing hopscotch with a little girl who looks just like her. Dr. X dancing with his wife. Dr. X all alone in his stark white room. Dad with his arm around my shoulders, two moons hanging low in the orange sky. Stars streaking over my head. A crying Dulcie out in the snow, banging her palms against a pane of glass, over and over. Junior Webster’s horn in my hands. The WELCOME TO FLORIDA sign.

The music reaches a crescendo. It’s so much I can’t take it.

When I come to, everything’s still. The Calabi Yau is smoked as a piece of Buddha Burger jerky. I can move, and since I seem to have stopped traveling, I guess the only thing left to do is open up the Infinity Collider and see what’s on the other side of that door. For all I know, I could be stepping into a world where Rad soda and Parker Day don’t exist, and nobody’s even heard of the Copenhagen Interpretation.

The door opens with a loud pssssht and a cloud of mist, and I hope carnivorous houseplants aren’t waiting with forks and knives and tartar sauce. Blurry forms emerge from the mist. Their edges fill in; Drs. A, T, O, and M stand blinking at me. Gonzo smiles in relief, and Balder removes his helmet and sinks to his knees to offer a prayer of thanks.

“Nima Arkani-Hamed!” Dr. T whoops, jumping a full foot off the floor. The scientists hug each other in a victory huddle before running off to test for evidence of XL-gravitrons and maybetrons and perhapsatrons and whatever else they can think up.

Ed takes my helmet and goggles, offers me juice. Then he reaches into my pocket and takes out the rabbit’s foot, which is now streaked with brown, though I could have sworn it was white when he put it in there.

“Huh,” he says, smiling. “Thought so.”

And it makes about as much sense as anything else.

Later, after the scientists have recorded everything they can, after they’ve high-fived each other about a gazillion times and hung up a sign that says PARALLEL UNIVERSE TRAVEL OFFICE-PIA: OPENING FOR BUSINESS SOON! they come to see us off.

“Sorry we couldn’t help you find Dr. X,” Dr. O says, pumping my hand. “You’ve been of enormous help to science.”

“Hey, Gonzo—you hear that? I’ve been of enormous help to science!”

“Tell ’em you want a medal, a big-ass one,” Gonz shouts back through a mouthful of veggie taco, because he swears he’s not getting on the road without a full stomach.

“You could keep this.” Ed offers me his Calabi Yau model. He puts it in the palm of my hand and it wobbles there, eleven-plus dimensions, all mine.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ve got a ton of ’em to sell in the Putopia gift shops. People like to bring souvenirs back. It says you care.”

“Cool.” I stuff it in my bag. “Thanks for the veggie tacos. And if you can think of where Dr. X might be, give us a call.”

“I told you where he is,” Ed says.

“You said he went to tomorrow,” I remind him gently.

“Yeah.” He puts his taco-smudged finger on my E-ticket meter, right on top of Tomorrowland, and grins. “Get some ears. They’ll even put your name on them if you want.”

I trip over something by my feet. An orange tabby with a purple collar rubs against my legs with a loud purr. Dr. T scoops it up and gives it a scratch behind the ears.

“Schrödinger, you old devil. Where have you been? You must be starving. Come on. Let’s get you some kibble.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Of What Happens When We Pick Up Three Hitchhikers and Free the Snow Globes

The radio’s warning us about wildfires blazing out of control along the roads in Florida. The brown smoke swallows us like earth. I can barely see the road ahead.

Since we left Putopia, I’ve been completely on edge. We’re practically a big fat target driving around in the Rocinante with its bull horns front and center, and we can’t stick to the back roads forever. Could Dr. X really be at Disney World? Wouldn’t I have seen a sign by now?

“Do you think those really are just wildfires?” Gonzo asks. The three of us are strung so tight you could play us.

“Maybe,” I answer.

Balder pulls a rune from his pouch.

“What’d you get?” Gonzo asks.

Frowning, Balder holds up a completely blank rune. “Wyrd. The beginning and the end. Fate.”

I don’t know what that means, but it’s not doing anything to uncreep me. In another five miles, the smoke clears, and the sun glints off the asphalt in hard sparks. A siren wails behind us, and I swear I nearly choke on my heartbeat.

“Shit,” I say. “Be cool, be cool.”

The cop car soars past chasing somebody else, and we all let out our breath.

“We need some cover,” I say, like I know what I’m talking about, like I do this all the time.

“I fear we cannot trade this car for another,” Balder muses. “It hasn’t enough value.”

Just then I spy three guys camped out by the side of the road hoisting up a sign, PARTEE HOUSE OR BUST. It gives me an idea. I pull onto the shoulder a few feet ahead of them.

Gonzo’s eyes are wide. “Dude, what are you doing?”

“Giving them a ride. We’re going to Disney. We can drop them in Daytona. It’s on the way.”

Gonzo slaps his knee and rolls his head back to the roof like it might understand his plight. “No one ever picks up hitchers. That’s, like, the kind of safety rule they don’t even put on kids’ milk cartons anymore because they figure everybody fucking knows it already.”

“They misspelled ‘party.’ How evil genius can they be?”

He angles his body around to get a good look at the guys scrambling toward the car dragging their packs.

“Look,” I explain. “These guys could be our cover, okay? The cops are looking for two crazy teens, not a carload of college kids on the way to spring break. With those guys on board, we just look like any other caravan on the way to Daytona for spring break. We slide under the radar.”

Balder speaks up. “Cameron’s battle plan is sound. But I have seen these types before. They take pictures,” he says, exhibiting a little yard-gnome post-traumatic stress disorder.

“Don’t worry, Balder. Nobody’s taking any pictures. You’re totally safe,” I say.

“Still, I think it best if I assume my enchanted form. I shall ride beside Gonzo.”

Quickly, Balder scrambles over the front seat and gets gnomy with it just as this big, doughy guy throws open the back car door.

“Hey, man. Thanks for picking us up. We’ve been standing out there for hours.”

“Because other people, sane people, know not to stop,” Gonzo mutters under his breath.

“No prob,” I say. “I’ll pop the trunk.”

Five minutes later, we’re back on the interstate.

“So what school are y’all from?” the doughy guy sitting in the middle asks.

“Texas Community College,” I lie. “You?”

“Gold Coast University,” he says, and there’s a round of earsplitting football-stadium yelling. “Coast U! Coast U! Coast Uuuuuu!”

The guy on the left says, “We call it Coast U because they coast you through.”

“Amen,” the guy on the right says. “You don’t even have to pick a major till you’re ready to graduate.”

The real estate beside the highway blooms with gas stations, all-night waffle houses, home decorating centers, and gigantic all-in-one retailers. The cars line up to enter the parking lots.

A fresh billboard’s just gone up. It’s a picture of a little girl holding a snow globe and smiling in awe. PROTECTING YOUR SAFETY. REMOVING THE UNPREDICTABLE. ENSURING YOUR HAPPINESS. UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS: WE’RE WORKING SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO!

“So do you have a major?” I ask, training my eyes back on the road ahead.

“Not yet. I just want something that’ll make me a sweet pile of money. Some desk job where I can play Hot Hoops or Casino Cash on my computer most of the day and still collect a check.”

“Y’all going to the Party House?” the guy on the right asks.

“No. Just passing through,” I say.

“Oh. We’re going to the Party House,” he says.

“Party House!” the guy on the right yells suddenly, startling me.

“Marisol is so fine!” Middle Guy says. “She will be mine!”

“The chicks are out of control at this place,” Right Guy announces.

“So, you’ve been before?” I ask.

“No,” he says, a little defensively. “But I’ve heard.”

Right on cue a carload of teenage girls pulls up beside us. They’ve got ponytails flapping in the wind. “Dude, roll down your window!” Right Guy yells to Left Guy.

“Hey, y’all going to the Party House?” Right Guy shouts.

“Yeah!” the blond chick leaning out the window yells. She’s got a Diet Rad soda in her hand. The shiny silver metal of the can glints in the sun. “You goin’?”

“You bet! We’re gonna do I Double Dog Dare You with Parker and Marisol!” Middle Guy promises.

The girl in the backseat has rolled down her window, too. She shouts, “No way! Omigod, I love that show!”

“Yeah, Marty here already did the stunt where you run your skateboard over a moving car. He broke five major bones but he’s all right now!”

“It’s all good,” Marty, aka Left Guy, says, giving a little wave with his hand, I suppose to show that it still works.

The girls giggle and give each other conspiratorial looks.

“Well, we’ll look for you there. Later,” they say, stepping on the gas. They want us to chase them. That’s the deal.

“Go on, man. Pedal to the medal,” Left Guy prompts, practically coming into the front seat. I try to change lanes but an eighteen-wheeler cuts us off. We’re stuck behind it while the girls zoom ahead down the road.

“Aw, man,” Left Guy says, disappointed.

“No worries, bro. This is going to be a total score scene!” Right Guy notices Balder for the first time. “All right! Yard gnome. Got some buds back at the house who took one of these guys all around Barbados. How long you had him?”

“Two days.” Gonzo wraps his arm around Balder.

“We should totally pose with him in front of the Party House,” Right Guy says. “Be awesome.”

Balder’s smile twitches just slightly; he wants to go all Viking on the guy, I can tell.

“He’s not that kind of yard gnome,” I say.

Middle Guy snorts. “’D’you steal him from a church or something?”

“It’s one of those Last Wish things,” I explain. “Some kid in Florida who’s dying wanted to have his picture taken with the gnome, so we’re driving him to the hospital there. For our youth group.”

“That kid won’t know if we get in a few shots first,” Left Guy says.

“No can do,” Gonzo insists. “The gnome has to be untouched. Virgin gnome.”

My eyes find Balder’s. Be cool, I silently implore him.

“I’ve got a cousin who’s a midget,” Middle Guy says to Gonzo. “We always called him Stumpy. Got any cool nicknames like that? Like Stumpy?”

“No,” Gonzo says through gritted teeth. He gives me a sideways glance and I know I will pay for this later. But at least we’ve got some camouflage for now.

The guy stares at him for a second, and I’m afraid it’s going to get ugly.