In contrast to the waiting room the WMD room is a brilliant
white. White walls, white ceiling, white floor, white surfaces. There is no
sign of a machine. The room is the machine. The only blemish on this whiteness
is a black spot on the floor. It is important to stand on this spot I have been
told. In fact the instructions have been engraved on my brain by the powers
that be. ‘On no circumstances do you not stand on the spot. If you are a milli
off it you will be sent to a black hole from which there is no escape.’
‘How do you know?’ I ask.
‘Let me put it this way’, said the power that be. ‘Nobody
has ever come back to tell.’ Which is good enough for me. Mind you for all I
know, and they know, a black hole might be a nice place, which is why no one
has come back.
I place my thumb on the reader and half my fee is instantly removed from the bank of Uranus, where all my credits are
deposited. The booking agency has already sent the details of my trip to the
machine so after it recognises my thumbprint, it knows where to send me. I
stand on the spot. The anticipation is overwhelming. The sensation of having
all your molecules deconstructed to be reassembled in another time is ecstatic.
Like being reborn with all former knowledge intact. For a split nano second you
are part of the cosmos. A star, a planet, a universe. God.
Suddenly it is all over and I am sitting at the piano
playing, my fingers miraculously intact.
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