just returned couches came to slowly, sitting up. Then, when they were fully awake, they stood, moving to the checkout gate.
Trumaine couldn’t take his eyes off it all, awed by the plainness and precision of the mechanism that was the believers’ chamber. Most of all, he was struck by the way both the stems and the couches moved and danced around with apparent ease, without hindering or crowding each other. Except for the soft snaps the stems made when removing or releasing the couches—which reminded him of old-fashioned manual typewriters at work—everything happened in absolute silence.
The gallery guard had returned to his routine tasks, while Benedict and Matthews, who got into the gallery through a service entrance, joined Trumaine in the contemplation of the chamber.
Trumaine pointed at the far corner of the chamber, where a selected group of about a dozen believers hovered in square formation, six feet above the rest of their fellows. It was the first time he saw them.
“Who are they?” he wondered.
“Meet our best believers,” said Benedict. “They’re trying to pick up any signal the Hibiscus might be broadcasting. Unfortunately, since the TSA has suspended all flights, they are now administered a blank feed. Without the support of the real feed, I’m afraid there is little hope that they might succeed. Well, at least, we’re trying ...”
He turned to Matthews, “Shall we go?”
“Of course,” she said. “This way.”
Matthews led them onward, to the first level of the gallery, the one which protruded the most into the chamber.
They passed the many empty cradles of the couches that were already in the chamber. Progressive numbers were assigned to both the couches and their cradles. They shone brightly from the white resin of the floor, where they had been painted in a contrasting blue.
They stopped at number 144 , one of the dozen or so couches still docked on level one.
“Here’s our standard deckchair,” said Matthews, pointing at the couch with the palm of her hand.
“Through the transmitter embedded in the headrest, you will receive your feed. As Mr. Benedict told you, since the Transport Security Administration suspended all flights, believers are now administered an empty feed.”
“An empty feed?” asked Trumaine.
“Exactly,” said Benedict. “Except for the trance signal, no information of any kind will be sent to your mind. You will be alone with your memories.”
“This will expose me to the crawler?”
“You won’t consciously get any closer to him than this ...”
“Please, lie down,” prompted Matthews.
Trumaine threw a worried glance at the woman, then sat on couch 144 . He pushed his forefinger into the padding, as if he were testing a mattress—it felt warm and comfortable like a bed that had just been slept in.
As he lay down, the deckchair buzzed to life. In moments, a lengthy arm emerged from the abyss beneath the chamber. Trumaine hadn’t noticed before because of the distance, but from up close he could see the lit eye of the laser-guided camera mounted on the top of the stem. He thought again that it resembled more a one-eyed monster snake about to take a bite at him than a spider’s knobbly leg.
It was a fleeting vision. Then the snake dived under the couch and, with a snap, hooked to the bottom of the deckchair; with a swish, it lifted to level with Matthews’s waist, where it floated lazily.
The woman tapped the pad in her hands with the same casual air as if she did it for a job, sending a wireless communication from her pad to the computer in the couch. The readout nested in the side of the headrest switched on, turning emerald.
Matthews looked up at Benedict with a nod. “It’s ready.”
“Good,” said Benedict, turning to Trumaine.
“The trance is a dreamlike state. Moments after you touch your head to the headrest, the transmitter within will send a low-frequency signal to your brain. It will cause you to feel relaxed at
Trumaine couldn’t take his eyes off it all, awed by the plainness and precision of the mechanism that was the believers’ chamber. Most of all, he was struck by the way both the stems and the couches moved and danced around with apparent ease, without hindering or crowding each other. Except for the soft snaps the stems made when removing or releasing the couches—which reminded him of old-fashioned manual typewriters at work—everything happened in absolute silence.
The gallery guard had returned to his routine tasks, while Benedict and Matthews, who got into the gallery through a service entrance, joined Trumaine in the contemplation of the chamber.
Trumaine pointed at the far corner of the chamber, where a selected group of about a dozen believers hovered in square formation, six feet above the rest of their fellows. It was the first time he saw them.
“Who are they?” he wondered.
“Meet our best believers,” said Benedict. “They’re trying to pick up any signal the Hibiscus might be broadcasting. Unfortunately, since the TSA has suspended all flights, they are now administered a blank feed. Without the support of the real feed, I’m afraid there is little hope that they might succeed. Well, at least, we’re trying ...”
He turned to Matthews, “Shall we go?”
“Of course,” she said. “This way.”
Matthews led them onward, to the first level of the gallery, the one which protruded the most into the chamber.
They passed the many empty cradles of the couches that were already in the chamber. Progressive numbers were assigned to both the couches and their cradles. They shone brightly from the white resin of the floor, where they had been painted in a contrasting blue.
They stopped at number 144 , one of the dozen or so couches still docked on level one.
“Here’s our standard deckchair,” said Matthews, pointing at the couch with the palm of her hand.
“Through the transmitter embedded in the headrest, you will receive your feed. As Mr. Benedict told you, since the Transport Security Administration suspended all flights, believers are now administered an empty feed.”
“An empty feed?” asked Trumaine.
“Exactly,” said Benedict. “Except for the trance signal, no information of any kind will be sent to your mind. You will be alone with your memories.”
“This will expose me to the crawler?”
“You won’t consciously get any closer to him than this ...”
“Please, lie down,” prompted Matthews.
Trumaine threw a worried glance at the woman, then sat on couch 144 . He pushed his forefinger into the padding, as if he were testing a mattress—it felt warm and comfortable like a bed that had just been slept in.
As he lay down, the deckchair buzzed to life. In moments, a lengthy arm emerged from the abyss beneath the chamber. Trumaine hadn’t noticed before because of the distance, but from up close he could see the lit eye of the laser-guided camera mounted on the top of the stem. He thought again that it resembled more a one-eyed monster snake about to take a bite at him than a spider’s knobbly leg.
It was a fleeting vision. Then the snake dived under the couch and, with a snap, hooked to the bottom of the deckchair; with a swish, it lifted to level with Matthews’s waist, where it floated lazily.
The woman tapped the pad in her hands with the same casual air as if she did it for a job, sending a wireless communication from her pad to the computer in the couch. The readout nested in the side of the headrest switched on, turning emerald.
Matthews looked up at Benedict with a nod. “It’s ready.”
“Good,” said Benedict, turning to Trumaine.
“The trance is a dreamlike state. Moments after you touch your head to the headrest, the transmitter within will send a low-frequency signal to your brain. It will cause you to feel relaxed at
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