Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 104

“Whoa,” I say.

“Seconded,” Gonzo whispers.

Balder gasps. “What strange new world is this?”

We’ve stumbled onto what could be the world’s most gi-normous MegaMart, if the shelves of sweat-shop-produced T-shirts and cheap-ass plastic toys were replaced by masses of long blue and red tubes, big as waterslide tunnels and connected to an intricate maze of wires, gizmos, robotics, and computers. The place seems to stretch up fifty feet or more, like we’re in an airplane hangar inside a silo, and it’s got enough megawatts lighting it to give a space station lightbulb envy.

Dead center is a miles-long tunnel supported by metal beams stretching out on all sides like petals on a crazy daisy. And in the center of that is a strange, bumpy door that reminds me of a cross between a seashell and a pinwheel. Two guys and one woman in white lab coats and safety goggles are gathered around a table. A third guy is strapped to a chair, his head held by a steel band.

“I’m getting a serious dwarf-tossing vibe off these guys,” Gonzo whispers.

“Would you chill?” I whisper back.

“I’m just saying, if anybody goes airborne here, it’s not gonna be me.”

I don’t want to interrupt whatever experiment they’re in the middle of, so I clear my throat and hope they’ll notice. When they don’t, I say, “Um, hello? Excuse me?”

“Be with you in a moment,” calls an older man with a pompadour of white hair. “Ready, Dr. A?”

“Ready when you are, Dr. M,” the guy in the chair with his head immobilized says.

“Very well. Calabi Yau!” the white-haired man shouts.

“Calabi Yau!” the others cheer just as he lobs a grape. The guy in the chair tries to grab it with his mouth and misses.

“Ah, Heisenberg!” the white-haired man exclaims. He turns around and takes notice of us for the first time. “Oh, hello. Are you here with the pizza?”

After we disappoint the scientists with the news that we’re not the pizza delivery guys, they take us back to the house, and we explain that we’ve run out of gas and how important it is that we get back on the road because I’ve got mad cow disease and am on my way to be cured and that we’d be eternally grateful and blah-de-blah-blah.

“I’m afraid the only fuel we have is hydrogen. Your car isn’t equipped for hydrogen cell, is it?” the smiling Dr. T says.

“Honestly? We’re lucky our car has seats and tires,” I say.

“Well, we’ll get Ed to rig you a converter, then,” Dr. T explains, hooking a thumb at the kid who let us in. “He’ll have you on your way by tomorrow.”

The kid, Ed, doesn’t look up, just continues scribbling equations on a blackboard.

“Tomorrow?” I can’t keep the whine out of my voice.

“Best we can do. You’re welcome to stay here for the night.”

“Chainsaw Motel,” Gonzo singsongs under his breath.

“Of course, there is a gas station in town if you’d care to walk,” Dr. T adds.

“How far?” I ask.

The lone woman, Dr. O, shrugs. “In miles or kilometers or centimeters or what?”

“Miles would be good.”

“Oh, about forty, give or take,” Dr. T says.

Dr. O glares at him. “I was getting to it, Brian.”

Forty miles would take us forever to walk and we’re already exhausted. Then there’s the little matter of the police and the United Snow Globe Wholesalers bounty on our heads. “Fine. That would be great, thanks.”

“Oh, hello,” Dr. M says, shaking Balder’s hand. “Wonderful costume. I’m a bit of a role player myself on the weekends. Tell me, where did you get the helmet?”

“It was forged in the North, blessed by the hands of Odin, given to me by my mother, Frigg,” Balder answers.

“Lovely. I got mine on the Internet.”

Gonzo picks up a toy that reminds me of a kid’s wacky macaroni sculpture. It’s a bumpy ball constructed of these looping chutes, slides, and tubes, none of which actually seem to connect to anything else. “What is this place?”

“This? This is Putopia,” says Dr. A, the tall guy with the curly hair who was trying to catch the grape in his mouth. He’s wearing a T-shirt under his lab coat that reads MY BANG THEORY IS BIGGER THAN YOURS.

“Putopia?” I repeat.

“Yes. Putopia. It stands for Parallel Universe Travel Office … pia.”

Dr. O breaks in. “We haven’t figured out the whole acronym yet, but we wanted to secure the domain name before anyone else did.”