The Pilgrims of Rayne (4 page)

“Except you're a Traveler,” I said. “This gets into a whole nother thing, but from what I'm learning, Travelers aren't like normal people. According to Saint Dane, we're illusions.”

Patrick gave me a blank look. The car started to drift off the road.

“Hey!” Courtney barked. “Eyes on the road, Professor!”

Patrick quickly snapped the car back onto the road. “You're not making things better, Pendragon.”

“I know,” I said with sympathy. “Let's get me patched up, then go to the library. The answers we're looking for are going to be found in the past, and you're the only one I know who can find them.”

Patrick smiled. “That's the first thing I've heard all day that makes sense.”

“You're the man, Patrick. If anybody can solve this, it's you.”

“And I will,” he said with confidence. “I will.”

Patrick was back in control. I knew he'd find the answers. What worried me now was what those answers might be.

FIRST EARTH

O
ur first stop was at Patrick's doctor. Though we Travelers seem to heal incredibly fast (for some reason I haven't yet figured out), I didn't need to be slowed down by an injury, even for a little while. We rolled over a bridge to Manhattan and Courtney's first look at the future of New York City. The island of Manhattan was much more citylike than the Bronx, but there was still more green grass than cement. Tall buildings were few and far between, though the roads now straightened out into a grid pattern. Shortly after crossing the river, Patrick parked next to a green kiosk where we stepped onto an escalator that brought us down to another vast, underground part of the city. After descending a few levels, we ended up on a floor that was ringed by silver doors. Each was marked with a five-digit number. Patrick led us to one, and we entered an office that wasn't much different from my doctor's office on Second Earth.

Except the receptionist was a dado.

Patrick stiffened and approached the desk cautiously. “Where's the receptionist?” he asked suspiciously.

The dado looked exactly like all the other robots, except that he wore a white medical jacket. I now knew what Mark would look like if he were a medical professional. And a robot. The dado smiled pleasantly and said in a calm, soothing voice, “I
am
the regular receptionist, Mr. Mac.”

Mr. Mac. I'd never heard Patrick's last name before. I'd also never heard a robot speak in Mark's voice. Yes, the dado even
sounded
like Mark. I wondered if they'd programmed in the little stutter Mark had when he got nervous. Probably not. I didn't think robots got nervous.

“You know me?” Patrick asked, his voice shaking.

The dado smiled kindly. “Of course,” answered the Mark robot. “You've been a patient of Dr. Shaw's for nine years and four months. Your last examination was over two years ago. You are overdue.”

Whoa. This robot had the ability to instantly recall information based solely on a visual of Patrick. These dados were definitely more advanced than those goons on Quillan.

Patrick swallowed hard. “My friend is hurt. Is Dr. Shaw available to treat him?”

The dado looked at his computer screen, input something and looked back to Patrick. “Step right inside,” he answered cheerily.

Whoa. Again. That was easy. Every time I'd gotten banged up and had to go to the emergency room at home, we had to wait hours before a doctor could see us. This was another example of how things were better in Earth's future. Mark-looking robots or not.

I looked at Courtney. “Maybe you should wait here.”

“Alone? With RoboNurse? No way. I'm coming too.”

“It's okay,” Patrick said.

The dado called out, “I hope you feel better.”

I looked back at the Mark-like mechanical man. It was a twisted, creepy feeling. I was talking to Mark, but not.

Patrick led us through an inside door, down a corridor, and up to another door that opened into a clean, modern exam room. Waiting for us was another dado wearing medical whites. When we opened the door, he stood facing the wall, not moving. A second after we entered, he came to life, turned to us, and smiled. It seemed like by entering the room, we activated it. I guess if robots have nothing to do, they stand around staring at walls.

Courtney said, “Okay, that was odd.”

Patrick said to the dado, “We need to see Dr. Shaw.”

The dado approached me and gently took my arm. I pulled back at first, not sure I wanted to be handled by a robot whether he looked like Mark or not. The robot looked at me with kind eyes, as if to say, “Relax, I know what I'm doing.” I let him check me out. He first removed the strip of T-shirt we'd used to stop the bleeding.

“Ick” was Courtney's comment.

The fabric was covered with crusty dry blood. It didn't bother me. I was much more creeped out by the fact that the robot's touch was cold. He looked and acted totally human, but he wasn't. I guess mechanical men don't need to have human-body temperatures.

“Shouldn't you get Dr. Shaw?” Patrick asked.

“No need,” the dado said kindly. “This is a simple procedure.” He walked to a wall that was covered with silver drawers.

I looked at Patrick and asked, “Should I be nervous about this?”

Patrick shrugged. He didn't know. Swell. The dado pulled out a device that looked like a thick, white pipe. It was about
ten inches long and five inches in diameter. He reached inside and peeled back a clear piece of soft plastic wrap that was covering the entire inside surface of the tube, kind of like you'd pull off the backing of a Band-Aid.

Courtney stepped forward, standing between me and the dado protectively. “Why don't you get the doctor now, Tin Man,” she said firmly.

“It's okay,” Patrick assured her. “That's the same treatment the doctor would use.”

The dado gave her a kind smile. Courtney wasn't sure what to do. She stepped away, but reluctantly.

“Have I mentioned how creepy this whole Mark-robot thing is?” she muttered.

The dado held out his hand, gesturing for my injured arm. I held my breath and raised my arm. The dado gently slipped the white tube over my hand and positioned it over the wound. He gently grasped the tube and squeezed it. I felt the tube tighten and heat up. Just as I was about to complain, the tube released and the dado slipped it off. The wound on my arm had been sealed. What was in that tube? Antibiotic? Bactine? Super Glue? Whatever it was, it created a thin, clear seal that completely closed the wound. It didn't hurt anymore either.

“That's it?” I asked the dado.

“You are as good as healed,” he answered. “Tomorrow it will be completely gone.”

“Is this a new thing?” I asked Patrick.

“No,” he answered. “Medical science has come a long way since your day. I'm just not used to seeing robots administer it.”

We left the doctor's office without ever seeing the doctor. I guess that's not a bad thing, considering my wound was miraculously healed, and we didn't even have to pay for it.
Patrick explained that medical care on Third Earth was paid for by the community as a whole. Nobody needed insurance or got hit with monster bills. Not bad.

The three of us got back into Patrick's vehicle and drove downtown to our final destination on Third Earth: the public library. Getting to this library was the main reason Courtney and I had come to Third Earth. I learned when I was there the first time with Gunny that the database in the library held most every bit of information concerning the history of Earth from the beginning of recorded time. If you've read my Journal #11, you'll know what I'm talking about. The computers didn't just contain the usual information you could get from newspapers or books. Not even close. Data was collected from billions of sources throughout time to make a repository that was pretty much the complete history of Earth. Sound incredible? It is. I knew the best way to begin piecing together what might have happened on Second Earth was to go to the future in order to see the past.

“I don't believe it!” Courtney exclaimed as we pulled up to the cement steps leading to the library. “It's exactly the same as Second Earth!”

She was almost right. The steps were the same steps that led to the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, complete with the oversize stone lions guarding the door. Though the actual building was much smaller and more modern than the imposing library from Second Earth. In 5010 the people of Earth no longer used paper books that took up space. Sad, but true.

As a teacher and a librarian, Patrick had full access to the library computers. He knew how to dig deep. This was Patrick's world. He now had a mission and looked much more confident. He led us up the wide cement steps into the large,
marble-floored lobby of the library. It was exactly as I remembered it, with several rows of chairs where people read from computer screens. A corridor led deeper into the building and the computer rooms. There was only one difference from the last time I was there—a small one, but disturbing.

Courtney was the first to notice. “Where is it?”

“Where's what?” I asked.

“The book. The display. You wrote that it was here in the lobby.”

She was right. There had been a single, old-fashioned book on display in the lobby. It was an important relic of the past, encased in glass for all to view. That book was
Green Eggs and Ham
by Dr. Seuss. It wasn't there. I stood on the spot where it had been and glanced around.

“Did they move the display?” I asked Patrick.

Patrick looked grim. “No,” he said. “It was here yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Courtney added. “Before things changed.”

“It might not mean anything,” I offered hopefully.

Courtney added, “Or it might mean that not all the changes are for the better.”

The three of us stood for a moment, trying not to think about how different the world might actually be once we started digging below the surface.

“Let's continue,” Patrick said, and strode quickly down the corridor.

We followed right behind him. Most of the doors were closed, which meant other teachers were using the computers. The final room was open. That was good. I was too anxious to have to wait any longer. The room was much like the one I had been in on my last trip. Six black chairs were spaced around a raised silver platform that was about eight feet across.

“How do you want to start?” Patrick asked.

“Let's go with what we already know,” I suggested. “Let's see what history has to say about Mark Dimond.”

Patrick nodded and sat down in one of the black chairs. Courtney and I each took a seat. On the armrest of Patrick's chair was a white glowing button. Patrick pressed it and said clearly, “Computer, new search.”

A voice from the computer answered him. It wasn't the pleasant woman's voice I remembered from the last time. It was a man's voice. It was Mark's voice. I saw Patrick start in surprise.

The voice said, “Identify, please.”

Patrick frowned. “It never asked for my code before.” He shook off his concern and said clearly, “Patrick Mac. Access code three-seventeen-ninety.”

“Welcome, Patrick,” the voice said. “How can I help you?”

Courtney leaned over to me and whispered, “This is awesome!”

Patrick cleared his throat and said clearly, “Dimond, Mark.” He looked to me and asked, “Where was he born?”

Courtney answered, “Stony Brook, Connecticut.”

Patrick pushed the button again and said, “Born in Stony Brook, Connecticut.” Near the turn of the twenty-first century.”

An image blinked to life on the platform in front of us. I knew it was only a hologram, but it still took me by surprise.

“Mark!” Courtney shouted.

I thought she was going to cry. I almost did too. We were looking at a life-size three-dimensional image of Mark. My best bud Mark. He looked to be about ten years old and had on the cap and gown we all wore when we graduated from the Glenville School. It hurt to see my friend standing there, even if it was just an image. It made me realize how much I missed him, and my old life.

“Computer,” Patrick said, “last significant entry for Dimond, Mark.”

Two more people appeared behind Mark in the hologram. Courtney gasped. They were Mark's parents.

The computer said, “History of Mark Dimond ends in his eighteenth year of life. Final entry occurs when both his parents were killed in the loss of a commercial airline flight.”

“Did he die?” Patrick asked.

“Unknown,” the computer answered.

“Speculation?” Patrick asked while pressing the button.

“Suicide,” the computer answered.

The word jolted me. The thought of Mark committing suicide never entered my head. I looked at Courtney.

“No way,” she declared. “Not a chance. Stupid computer. Ask it something else.”

Patrick said, “Additional speculation?”

The computer answered, “Potential runaway with peer.”

“What?” Courtney shouted with surprise. “What peer?”

“Name that peer,” Patrick ordered.

I already knew the answer. The holograms of the Dimonds disappeared and were replaced by the image of a girl. She wore the field-hockey uniform of Davis Gregory High School. She stood looking all sorts of cocky, leaning on her field-hockey stick.

“Oh,” Courtney gasped.

The computer announced, “Chetwynde, Courtney. Last seen by her parents on the same day Mark Dimond was last seen.”

Patrick and I didn't know what to say. Courtney stared at her own image as if looking at a ghost of herself.

“It's the day we left to come here,” Courtney croaked. “It was only a few hours ago.”

Patrick corrected, “It was three thousand years ago.”

“You okay?” I asked.

Courtney swallowed, but didn't take her eyes off her image. “Better than okay,” she declared. “Look at me! I look great!”

She was putting on a brave front, but her voice cracked. She was shaken. I'm guessing the reality of what she had done by leaving home hadn't hit her until that moment. Only a few hours before she had been sitting at her kitchen table writing a good-bye note to her parents. That was by our own clocks. On Third Earth she had been missing for three thousand years. That's enough to make anybody's voice crack. Even Courtney's.

“Keep going,” Courtney ordered.

Patrick hit the button and said, “Computer, clear and new search.”

The image of Courtney disappeared. The image of Mark returned.

“Computer, clear!” Patrick said impatiently.

“Discrepancy,” the computer responded.

I looked at Patrick. He shrugged.

“Explain,” he demanded.

“Searching,” the computer responded.