The New World

RealTravel

Lying in bed, Paul's mind was immersed in a well of happiness, one of those multi-music-oriented wells. Since Tecumseh's departure for the Institut Pro-Mental, he had needed this support. In secret from Lyda, he would sometimes get up at night, enter his son's now empty room and sit on the bed, overwhelmed with nostalgia. Several times he had even burst into tears, a man who had previously considered himself to be strong-tempered. This departure had made him realize how far he'd strayed from the impersonal model of relationships that was the rule in this world. And his feelings were mixed with anguish and guilt: in the end, he wasn't sure that the decision to accept Tecumseh's integration into the Chosen caste had been the right one. Shouldn't they have taken any pretext to avoid this separation?

It was out of the question to mention his state of mind to an unknown doctor who, alerted by his attitude towards such an honor, would hasten to report to the Wamash. Paul would have to wait until Juan, Zac's father and doctor, whom he had recently contacted, was available.

In the meantime, he would reassure himself by visiting these sites. It was a bit ridiculous, but at least it was safe. He had a free implant and was insensitive to the subliminal thoughts that reigned here. He let himself be invaded by the jazz philharmony that alternately caressed or deliciously offended his five senses and calmed him. This sensory overload mobilized all his perceptive circuits in a festival of neuronal discharges. Fresh jasmine in a tender azure sky with crystalline soprano succeeded scathing rhythms of thick rougails. Sighing pink chords grew, opened like female sexes, then gave way to crashing cymbal locomotives panting in a starry night. His cold breath was almost happy.

But as he rounded a boulder of scarlet bauxite, from which partridges chirped dissonant counterpoints, he was rudely torn away by an emergency signal.

His assistant was informing him that an important customer was stranded at the entrance to the Great Desert, for some unknown reason. Grumbling inwardly, but careful not to wake Lyda, Paul went back down to the basement to log on to the terminal.

The customer was Senator Gallo, representing Europe, who had wanted to take his family on a tour of North America and had chosen RealTravel as his tour operator. The four-day tour was classic: arrival at RealTravel's offices in Empire City, a virtual visit to the Big City, now a dangerous place with armed gangs; a very real boat trip, with real splashes, to Niagara Falls. A virtual descent of the Mississippi to its mouth was also planned. Finally, a real-life tour of the Great Desert, with a visit to Noakhit's tomb, before arriving in Arcangel.

Senator Gallo was an old friend and ally. Paul wanted to treat him well for this visit. What's more, this failure would become public knowledge and risk tarnishing the image of RealTravel, which prided itself on organizing the finest and most extreme trips in both virtual and real worlds.

RealTravel had only a dozen employees, but its network of contacts and agencies made it the leading think-tank in America.

Only the wealthiest could afford to travel physically, usually to visit relatives or make a pilgrimage to a saint's grave. What's more, by the time of the Great Holocaust, the world had been emptied of 90% of its population. So why visit almost empty cities and deserted countryside, when a thought-travel tour could plunge you into all the hustle and bustle of Avant?

Paul sat down at his terminal and switched it on. Then he sent a message to Senator Gallo. While waiting for his reply, he obtained confirmation from Government sites that, indeed, for some undisclosed reason, access to the Great Desert was forbidden except to the tribes who lived there, to Government agents or to priests of the Congregation. The matter was delicate, for how could a travel company have a ban lifted that applied even to a senator?

As he pondered the latter's case, he recalled how it had all begun for him in this same Great Desert.

Fifteen years earlier, he had been on a mission to scout out interesting spots. The young bachelor and good believer he was at the time was already working for a virtual travel company, always keen on more or less wilderness areas. The early part of the tour had gone well, and he'd driven with determination into valleys far from any inhabited center. His four-wheel drive swallowed kilometers of stony track without difficulty, and he spared no effort, climbing steep hills, crossing massive agave stands, crossing muddy patches at the bottom of deep rios. For his professional eye, nature offered a marvellous parade of ochres, greens, pinks and sparkling light. He made frequent stops to set up his equipment and record with delight the sights, sounds and smells that nature offered him. Everything was good to go: plants, the color of a wall, the rattle of a snake, a scorpion caught under a stone, the circling flight of a buzzard.