Part 13 (1/2)

”Where's your clothes?”

”I don't know.”

He backs away and lets me enter, grinning. ”The doctor released you?”

”I released myself.”

”That's what I thought.”

”Tom, you have to listen to me. I have to show you something.” I hand him the prism. ”Look through that and tell me what you see.”

He puts it up to his eye and looks at a light. ”A rainbow.”

”What else?”

”About five thousand little light bulbs.”

I sigh. Yet another disappointment --- Tom can't see it, he hasn't acquired the perception. ”Never mind that,” I tell him, and then walk into my room. Everything is rearranged, which is about what I expected, but I search around and, yes, there it is. The four-dimensional cube.

When I look at it, now, I can see the extra straws and it leads my eyes into the extra dimension. I turn on a bright desk lamp and hold it underneath. The shadow is intricate and clearly shows the extra straws.

”See that?” I ask him.

Tom stares down at that. ”That's strange,” he says, curious. He takes the cube from me and looks through it, then puts it back under the light. It puzzles him. ”Why the extra shadows?”

”Tom, it's a four-dimensional cube.”

”Oh no, not this again.”

”Tom, listen to me. I'm not crazy. My whacked-out memory is true, I am remembering realities other than the one you're used to.” I tell him the whole story, omitting romantic details, and lead up to Alvin showing up at the hospital and giving me the prism. He listens without interrupting, all the while studying the cube, the shadow, and the cube again. When I finish he hands me the cube and sighs.

”I need a beer.” Turning, he leaves my room.

A bit miffed, I follow him to the kitchen. Wordlessly he hands me a beer, which I accept without a thought, and both he and I open bottles and take a long, ritualistic swallow. ”Well,” Tom finally says, ”the government is working on some top secret project up near the cyclotron building. They've got some of the top physicists in the country up there, not to mention a few theoretical mathematicians who're pretty well known for some exotic ideas. The least of which is your friend Alvin Laurel.”

”You believe me, then?”

”I half-believe you.” He shrugs. ”It's the best I can do at the moment.”

”That's better than nothing.”

”I think the best thing to do at this point is go find Alvin Laurel. Why don't you get changed and I'll make a few phone calls.”

Feeling some hope, I head back toward my room.

7. COMEDY.

Later, Tom and I are walking across the Berkeley campus to meet with Alvin Laurel when Tom reaches into his pocket, pulls out a coin, and then drops it. He turns quickly around, bends down, and picks it up.

He puts it back into his pocket and we resume walking.

”What was that all about?” I ask him.

”A little trick I learned,” he says. ”Keep walking and don't look back. Try to act natural.”

”Why? What's going on?”

”At least two men are following us.”

I d.a.m.n near turn around and look. It's a strong impulse, but I fight it off and continue without breaking my stride. ”What do we do?”

”We can't do much. Let's take a little detour around the library to make sure.” Altering our course slightly, Tom and I walk around Moffitt library, and according to Tom, two guys dressed in suits walk all the way around it with us. ”It seems like they want us to know we're being followed. They stick out like a white man in Zimbabwe.”

I steal a glance behind us. Sure enough, two men dressed in black slacks, white s.h.i.+rts, black suit jackets and black ties are walking behind us wearing mirrored sungla.s.ses. ”They look like the Blues Brothers,” I tell Tom.

”Who are they?”

”Never mind.” We continue on through Sproul Plaza and across Bancroft Street, heading for the sub shop where we're supposed to meet Alvin. As we near the place, two more guys in black suits step out in front of us and block our way. The two who were behind us come running up from behind.

”Fascists!” Tom yells at the top of his lungs. ”Fascists!

Fascists!”

Some of the students milling around across the street stand up, staring out way. One points and yells out, ”Fascists!” He comes running, followed by others. ”Fascists!” they yell. ”Fascists!”

Tom keeps them going by starting a chant as the four men surround us. Within seconds the four men are totally outnumbered, as we're surrounded by a constantly growing crowd of students chanting ”Fascists!

Fascists! Fascists!” I hear one of the men exclaim, ”d.a.m.n kids!” as they grab me by the arm and pull me toward a black car. The students, still chanting, grab my other arm and pull me in the opposite direction.

”Fascists! Fascists! Fascists!”

One of the bigger male students, wearing a green army jacket, his face totally hidden by long brown hair and a patchy beard, leaps on the back of the fascist who has a hold of me. The man lets go so he can swing at the kid, but Tom grabs his arm and holds it back. The kid yells ”RUN!” right in my face. I turn and look back at Tom, who is bas.h.i.+ng faces with his fists, and one of the ”fascists” breaks from the students and comes after me. He trips over an outstretched leg and falls face first into the sidewalk, but I don't hang around to see if he's hurt. I take the kid's advice and run.

I run down an alley which turns to the left and leads me out onto Telegraph Avenue, with all its shops and bookstores; they pa.s.s in a blur as I pound the sidewalk and watch the street for a break in the traffic.

Everything is a bit blurry as I run, and das.h.i.+ng across the street I suddenly feel dizzy, and I get a uncomfortable feeling in my spine, like it's making a serpentine movement. I trip over the curb on the other side and fall onto the sidewalk. Scrambling, I get back to my feet and continue down the road, feeling more and more dizzy. By the time I reach the next intersection I'm disoriented, I have no idea which way I was running. I glance back to see if I'm still being chased, but my vision is still so blurry I can barely make anything out.

I turn the corner and continue jogging down the sidewalk, stumbling lamely and blundering into pedestrians, and I cross another street and jog into a large gra.s.sy park. No, I think, this isn't a park, this is the campus. There is no park over here, not this close to Telegraph. I must be going the wrong way, so I turn left again and jog down that street. I don't recognize the area at all, and I still can't read the street signs. After another block I can see a big patch of blurry green ahead, and some large buildings. The campus! I've circled right back to it.

Ducking into an empty doorway, I peek back and forth for any obvious signs of pursuit. Seeing nothing, I crowd back close to the wall and shut my eyes, waiting for the dizziness to go away. My spine still seems to be making erratic ”S” movements that cause my arms and fingers to tingle, and before it settles I realize what's going on. ”Oh no,” I say out loud, my voice sounding fretful and whiny even to my own ears.

After a few minutes it dies down, and my dizziness goes away. I open my eyes and look around. The images of the low, flat-roofed buildings surrounding me are in sharp focus, but they're totally unfamiliar. I know Berkeley very well, but I've never been here before.

The windows are all round, and the cars pa.s.sing on the street are long, low, and have big mag tires.

I step out onto the sidewalk, thinking Now what? What happens next?