center of the quadrangle. It reminded Dr. Richardson of photographs he had seen of the Kaaba, the Muslim shrine in Mecca where they kept the mysterious black rock that Abraham had received from an angel.
"That's the foundation library," Boone said, pointing at the building on the northern corner of the quadrangle. "Clockwise from that is the genetic research building, the computer research building, and the administrative center."
"What's the white building with no windows?"
"It's called the Neurological Cybernetics Research Facility. They built it about a year ago."
Boone guided Richardson into the administrative center. The lobby was empty except for a surveillance camera mounted on a wall bracket. Two elevators were at the end of the room. As the men walked across the lobby, one of the elevators opened its doors.
"Is someone watching us?"
Boone shrugged his shoulders. "That's always a possibility, Doctor."
"Someone has to be watching us because they just opened these doors."
"I'm carrying a radio frequency identification chip. We call it a Protective Link. The chip tells a computer that I'm in the building and approaching an entrance point."
They stepped into the elevator and the door glided shut. Boone waved his hand at a gray pad built into the wall. There was a faint clicking sound and the elevator began to rise.
"In most buildings, they just use ID cards."
"A few people here still carry cards." Boone raised his arm and Richardson saw a scar on the back of his right hand. "But everyone with a high security clearance has a Protective Link implanted beneath their skin. An implant is a good deal more secure and efficient."
They reached the third floor. Boone escorted Richardson to a suite with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room. "This is where you'll spend the night," Boone explained. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
"What's going to happen?"
"It's nothing to worry about, Doctor. Someone wants to talk to you.
Boone left the room and the door clicked softly. This is crazy, Richardson thought. They're treating me like I'm a criminal. For several minutes, the neurologist paced back and forth, and then his anger began to dissipate. Maybe he really had done something wrong. There was that conference in Jamaica and what else? A few meals and hotel rooms that had nothing to do with his research. How could they know about that? Who told them? He thought about his colleagues back at the university and decided that several of them were jealous of his success.
The door swung open and a young Asian man walked in carrying a thick green binder. The man wore a spotless white shirt and narrow black necktie that made him look neat and deferential. Richardson relaxed immediately.
"Good evening, Doctor. I'm Lawrence Takawa, the special projects manager for the Evergreen Foundation. Before we start, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed reading your books, especially The Machine in the Skull. You certainly have come up with some interesting theories regarding the brain."
"I want to know why I was brought here."
"We needed to talk to you. Clause 18-C gives us that opportunity."
"Why are we meeting tonight? I know that I signed the contract, but this is highly unusual. You could have contacted my secretary and arranged an appointment."
"We needed to respond to a particular situation."
"What do you want? A summary of this year's research? I sent you a preliminary report. Didn't anyone read it?"
"You're not here to tell us anything, Dr. Richardson. Instead we want to give you some important information." Lawrence motioned to one of the chairs and the two men sat facing each other. "You've done several different experiments over the last six years, but your research confirms one particular idea: there is no spiritual reality in the universe, human consciousness is simply a biochemical process within our brain."
"That's a simplistic summary, Mr. Takawa. But it's basically correct."
"Your research results support
"That's the foundation library," Boone said, pointing at the building on the northern corner of the quadrangle. "Clockwise from that is the genetic research building, the computer research building, and the administrative center."
"What's the white building with no windows?"
"It's called the Neurological Cybernetics Research Facility. They built it about a year ago."
Boone guided Richardson into the administrative center. The lobby was empty except for a surveillance camera mounted on a wall bracket. Two elevators were at the end of the room. As the men walked across the lobby, one of the elevators opened its doors.
"Is someone watching us?"
Boone shrugged his shoulders. "That's always a possibility, Doctor."
"Someone has to be watching us because they just opened these doors."
"I'm carrying a radio frequency identification chip. We call it a Protective Link. The chip tells a computer that I'm in the building and approaching an entrance point."
They stepped into the elevator and the door glided shut. Boone waved his hand at a gray pad built into the wall. There was a faint clicking sound and the elevator began to rise.
"In most buildings, they just use ID cards."
"A few people here still carry cards." Boone raised his arm and Richardson saw a scar on the back of his right hand. "But everyone with a high security clearance has a Protective Link implanted beneath their skin. An implant is a good deal more secure and efficient."
They reached the third floor. Boone escorted Richardson to a suite with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room. "This is where you'll spend the night," Boone explained. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
"What's going to happen?"
"It's nothing to worry about, Doctor. Someone wants to talk to you.
Boone left the room and the door clicked softly. This is crazy, Richardson thought. They're treating me like I'm a criminal. For several minutes, the neurologist paced back and forth, and then his anger began to dissipate. Maybe he really had done something wrong. There was that conference in Jamaica and what else? A few meals and hotel rooms that had nothing to do with his research. How could they know about that? Who told them? He thought about his colleagues back at the university and decided that several of them were jealous of his success.
The door swung open and a young Asian man walked in carrying a thick green binder. The man wore a spotless white shirt and narrow black necktie that made him look neat and deferential. Richardson relaxed immediately.
"Good evening, Doctor. I'm Lawrence Takawa, the special projects manager for the Evergreen Foundation. Before we start, I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed reading your books, especially The Machine in the Skull. You certainly have come up with some interesting theories regarding the brain."
"I want to know why I was brought here."
"We needed to talk to you. Clause 18-C gives us that opportunity."
"Why are we meeting tonight? I know that I signed the contract, but this is highly unusual. You could have contacted my secretary and arranged an appointment."
"We needed to respond to a particular situation."
"What do you want? A summary of this year's research? I sent you a preliminary report. Didn't anyone read it?"
"You're not here to tell us anything, Dr. Richardson. Instead we want to give you some important information." Lawrence motioned to one of the chairs and the two men sat facing each other. "You've done several different experiments over the last six years, but your research confirms one particular idea: there is no spiritual reality in the universe, human consciousness is simply a biochemical process within our brain."
"That's a simplistic summary, Mr. Takawa. But it's basically correct."
"Your research results support
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