Between the Very Large Telescope, the Extremely Large Telescope and the HMFTJC, somebody forgets about the absorptive properties of certain thicknesses of nickel-iron alloy; when they split the planet in half to build the WET, the architecture of the dish turns part of the spectrum to cosmic mush. Earth never realizes it’s missing the transmission of songs and speeches and TV Westerns from Wolf 359.
The Wolf 359ians, of course, have made the same mistake. They listen hard, so hard, but never get a whiff of AM or VHF–just the bloops of the kraken, mournful in the lonely deep.
“What about you, what are you doing in Budapest?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Zach says mysteriously.
She rolls her eyes. “You can tell me if you’re plainclothes. I’ve worked with the police here, risk management for the nonviolent demonstrations. We get along fine.”
“I’m not plainclothes.”
Her eyes saccade between the points of glare on his glasses, and she decides to believe that. He’s got a sort of arrogant puppydog energy–he’s come into new privileges and they don’t quite fit across his shoulders. Useful.
“I’m Sara,” she says.
“I know,” Zach chuckles.
“What?” says Sara. “How?”
In the middle of the pond there’s a tree and you can climb, barefoot and careful, some fifty old two-by-fours up to its stubby limbs. Everybody jumps off the lowest branch. Boys showing off for the girls jump from the second one. Boys showing off for boys jump from the top.
Laura drives herself and Tom back, seat belts over wet bathing suits. She plays good songs on the stereo; he’s funny. She twists her ring and asks, “sweetie, why didn’t I ever date you?”
“That’s a pretty confident question,” he says, falling, flailing, metaphor rushing up at him.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007