Free The Traveler's Companion by Christopher John Chater

in the dictionary, he would not be surprised to find a picture of this door. When he opened it, there was an alleyway on the other side. Skyscrapers rose in the distance. Garlic-scented air struck his nostrils.
    Go came up behind Iverson and draped an arm over his shoulders. He whispered into his ear, “When we get back from lunch, I’ll tell you how the Zone proves God exists.”

 
    CHAPTER 5
     
    Iverson, Angela, and Gibbons, much to their astonishment, had somehow left CIA headquarters, gone into the mysterious alleyway, and joined a throng of Asians at the streetlight of an intersection. Go had said this was the Central District in Hong Kong, as well as the location of his favorite restaurant. Iverson marveled at his surroundings like a tourist. With expensive retailers bordering congested streets, it looked just like any major American city, but here most of the store names included Chinese subtitles. Cabs were red instead of yellow. Asian faces outnumbered Caucasian. A city’s buildings were its true landmarks, and here it was impossible to miss the Bank of China Tower with its triangular frameworks and glass walls.
    Only a few blocks away was the restaurant Go wanted to take them to. Asian waitresses dressed in gold and pink uniforms were pushing dim sum carts from table to table. Out the window was a panoramic view. A Chinese junk was making its way across Victoria Harbor, appearing somewhat anachronistic with motorboats whizzing by it and the backdrop of high-rise buildings lining the shores of Kowloon.
    Gibbons took Iverson by the arm and stealthily ushered him to a booth near the exit, allowing Go and Angela to dine alone at a table near the window.
    “It’s the drugs,” Gibbons said.
    Iverson shook his head. “We can’t be having the same hallucination.” He picked up a pair of chopsticks and looked with amazement at the Chinese characters along the paper sheath. He removed the chopsticks and inspected them.
    “If it’s not drugs, then what?” Gibbons asked. “Was there anything in that book of his about any of this?”
    “I don’t recall anything like this.” Iverson broke apart the chopsticks, one crisp snap.
    “Don’t be coy, Iverson. Give me some scientific basis for all this. For fuck’s sake, that’s what we’re paying you for,” Gibbons said.
    “I can only speak theoretic—”
    “Come on, Ryan!” Gibbons said.
    Iverson sighed before just blurting it out: “We might be traveling trans-dimensionally.”
    “Trans-dimensionally,” Gibbons said. “What the fuck does that mean?”
    “Superstring theory, commonly referred to as a T-O-E: the theory of everything—” Iverson was interrupted by a loud sigh from his boss. “String theory endeavors to link Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity with quantum physics. Small vibrating strings of energy, smaller than the nucleus of an atom—in fact, several billion times smaller—represent the building blocks of our universe. What they’re calling ‘strings’ are really filaments vibrating inside electrons and quarks. It’s believed that their vibration dictates how matter becomes manifest.”
    “The abridged version, please, Doctor.”
    “I thought that’s what I was doing. Anyway, for string theory to work, there must have been more dimensions before the big bang, at least more than the three we perceive. Ten dimensions to be exact . . . eleven, if you include one for time,” Iverson said.
    “You just get out of high school? This presentation is horrible,” Gibbons said.
    “There’s a lot more to this, Mark, if you don’t mind.”
    Gibbons rolled his eyes.
    “String theorists, like the type Go wrote about in his author’s note, believe that our universe, as well as other universes, might all exist together on a membrane, what’s known as M theory. Imagine universes—multi-verses if you will—residing on this membrane and lined up like rooms in a hotel. Without getting into detail, one might be able to punch a