The Traveler's Companion by Christopher John Chater Page B

surprisingly accurate reproduction of it.
    At first glance he could barely distinguish it from the real thing. To the west was the Golden Gate Bridge, now nearly engulfed by fog. Panning northeast along the bay brought him to the Marina District and the small island prison, Alcatraz. Further inland was Coit Tower atop Telegraph Hill, and beyond that was the giant gray steel San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.
    The vastness of the city struck a chord of agoraphobia within him. He had spent too much time indoors, inside the sublevel womb of the DS&T laboratories. But wasn’t there something wrong with this place, some imperceptible difference from reality? At first he couldn’t put his finger on it, but then he realized that the trees weren’t rustling in the wind. No smells were wafting up from the harbor. The ocean wasn’t glistening in the sunlight. It was as if he were inside a photograph. The stillness was dreamlike.
    More mistakes began to reveal themselves. No cracks in the cement. No trash in the gutters. No graffiti on the sides of apartment buildings. No traffic noise. No dogs barking. No children playing.
    Go was right, perfection was impossible and unconvincing. Though this place could inspire all the anxious feelings he got when being exposed to an urban environment, he knew it wasn’t real.
    He stepped into the middle of Hyde Street, crossing over the cable car tracks. The only noise was the sound of the soles of his shoes on the pavement. Facing north, a steep hill led down to the wharf. There wasn’t a person in sight. No movement whatsoever.
    He continued to walk when he realized he was only a few steps away from Lombard Street, the “crookedest” street in the world. Paved with red brick, lined with colorful flower gardens, Lombard Street was situated in a residential area of magnificent Victorian homes, most of which had panoramic views. Usually a steady line of cars waited to navigate the famous street, and tourists jammed the walkways, but today Iverson had it all to himself.
    He decided to do something he would have never done in reality. He would commit a crime. He headed straight into the carport of one of the homes, made his way around a sleek black Mercedes, and went up to the side entrance of the home. The door was unlocked. He opened it and stuck his head inside.
    “Hello?”
    The door opened into the kitchen. The room was flooded with natural light. A window above the sink offered a view of the entire coastline, including the Golden Gate Bridge. Quite a place to wash dishes.
    He stepped inside.
    “Anybody here?”
    The first thing he noticed was the peculiar lack of personal touches. No appliances on the counters, no pictures on the walls, and no notes magnetically attached to the refrigerator. The kitchen island seemed a perfect place for a bowl of fruit, but there was only a clean granite surface. The place looked as if a realtor had come in and stripped it bare for viewing.
    He made his way into a dining room. A polished mahogany table was framed by six chairs, and a matching armoire against the wall displayed floral china behind glass cabinet doors.
    Two carpeted steps led into a sunken living room. A telescope on a tripod stood by a floor-to-ceiling window, placed to peer out at an unobstructed view of the bay. He aimed the telescope in the direction of Alcatraz and looked through. The old yellow stone prison looked fairly dilapidated. In all his visits to the city he had never actually taken the tour; this was the first time he had seen it up close. He then turned the telescope to Fisherman’s Wharf. Pier 39 was a mall on cantilevers and one of the busiest tourist traps in the city. It was now deserted.
    For a moment he had forgotten it wasn’t real.
    He left the telescope to explore the rest of the home. There were three bedrooms in all. One was furnished with a bed and a chest of drawers, while another functioned as an office with a desk, bookshelves, and a file cabinet. The master