Read Online Anna To The Infinite Power by Mildred Ames - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mildred Ames
Tags: Young Adult
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musicians in the family she’d been exposed to music always, supposed everyone was. It was just something you learned to live with, put up with. She found herself saying, “I guess I don’t think of it one way or the other.”
“What do you think of one way or the other?”
All Anna wanted was to get out of the place, but she made herself answer patiently. “I like math better than anything.”
Michaela nodded as if she had anticipated that answer. “That reminds me of something Debussy says. He says that music is the arithmetic of sounds as optics is the geometry of light.”
What’s that got to do with anything? Anna thought. She said, “That’s very interesting.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
Anna stared down at her toast. It had to be safe to eat. After all, poison would be too easy to detect and trace. And she was most curious about that marmalade. She reached for the spreader on the tray and helped herself from the china bowl. When she had a good sampling on her bread, she took a bite. Ah, ha! Lemon. The kind Graham Hart had made. Now she knew she was right.
As she mulled over that annoying idea, she was aware that Michaela was pleasantly chatting away. Anna began to notice that as the woman’s head moved, her shiny jet earrings swung and bobbed and almost seemed to flash with hidden light. Although Anna wasn’t taking in a word Michaela said, she found her eyes glued to the dancing earrings. How they glittered. For a moment they seemed like prisms, throwing dappled light all over the room, bouncing, whirling around her, making her dizzy. Then a stab of pain hit her between the eyes and traveled on into her brain, while outside her head thousands of tons of something unyielding was trying to crush her skull.
Anna thrust her plate of unfinished toast onto the table, grabbed her carryall, and shot to her feet. “I’ve got to go. I’m getting a terrible headache.”
Without waiting for leave, Anna dashed out the door. As she ran across the park toward her own apartment, she was certain Michaela’s green eyes were following her.
9
Anna, grateful that no one else was home yet, hurried to her bedroom, tossed her carryall on the bed, then flopped down and stretched out beside it. Her head pounded so badly she could think of nothing else. She even lacked the strength to get up and take the medication that sometimes relieved her. Instead, she placed her hands, which were very cold, on her brow. That seemed to help. She closed her eyes. After a time, the pounding let up slightly. She thought again about getting up for her medication, but continued to lie there until she eventually drifted into sleep.
When she awoke, she was surprised to find she had slept for several hours. Although she’d had no real lunch she wasn’t hungry. Her head felt much better, though, with only a dull ache left at the back of her neck. She rolled over and bumped something solid. Her carryall. She grabbed it eagerly and fished through to take out her prizes -- the papers that would tell who Anna Zimmerman was, as well as the pretty little box.
The box she placed beside her for later examination. She dug out her bed pillow from beneath the spread and propped it behind her. Although it was only mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened, looking as if rain threatened. Anna had to turn on her bedside lamp to see. Then she settled back to read about Anna Zimmerman.
When she had finally finished, she felt almost as frustrated as before. If the woman had only found the secret for creating the replicator she was working on, there would have been volumes of biographical material about her. As it was, most of the articles concerned her work. Only one had any information on her life, an obituary from a science journal.
Anna Zimmerman was forty-six years old when she died. She had been born during the Second World War in Berlin of a Jewish mother and an Aryan father. Both her parents had died in the gas chambers of a concentration camp.
“What do you think of one way or the other?”
All Anna wanted was to get out of the place, but she made herself answer patiently. “I like math better than anything.”
Michaela nodded as if she had anticipated that answer. “That reminds me of something Debussy says. He says that music is the arithmetic of sounds as optics is the geometry of light.”
What’s that got to do with anything? Anna thought. She said, “That’s very interesting.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
Anna stared down at her toast. It had to be safe to eat. After all, poison would be too easy to detect and trace. And she was most curious about that marmalade. She reached for the spreader on the tray and helped herself from the china bowl. When she had a good sampling on her bread, she took a bite. Ah, ha! Lemon. The kind Graham Hart had made. Now she knew she was right.
As she mulled over that annoying idea, she was aware that Michaela was pleasantly chatting away. Anna began to notice that as the woman’s head moved, her shiny jet earrings swung and bobbed and almost seemed to flash with hidden light. Although Anna wasn’t taking in a word Michaela said, she found her eyes glued to the dancing earrings. How they glittered. For a moment they seemed like prisms, throwing dappled light all over the room, bouncing, whirling around her, making her dizzy. Then a stab of pain hit her between the eyes and traveled on into her brain, while outside her head thousands of tons of something unyielding was trying to crush her skull.
Anna thrust her plate of unfinished toast onto the table, grabbed her carryall, and shot to her feet. “I’ve got to go. I’m getting a terrible headache.”
Without waiting for leave, Anna dashed out the door. As she ran across the park toward her own apartment, she was certain Michaela’s green eyes were following her.
9
Anna, grateful that no one else was home yet, hurried to her bedroom, tossed her carryall on the bed, then flopped down and stretched out beside it. Her head pounded so badly she could think of nothing else. She even lacked the strength to get up and take the medication that sometimes relieved her. Instead, she placed her hands, which were very cold, on her brow. That seemed to help. She closed her eyes. After a time, the pounding let up slightly. She thought again about getting up for her medication, but continued to lie there until she eventually drifted into sleep.
When she awoke, she was surprised to find she had slept for several hours. Although she’d had no real lunch she wasn’t hungry. Her head felt much better, though, with only a dull ache left at the back of her neck. She rolled over and bumped something solid. Her carryall. She grabbed it eagerly and fished through to take out her prizes -- the papers that would tell who Anna Zimmerman was, as well as the pretty little box.
The box she placed beside her for later examination. She dug out her bed pillow from beneath the spread and propped it behind her. Although it was only mid-afternoon, the sky had darkened, looking as if rain threatened. Anna had to turn on her bedside lamp to see. Then she settled back to read about Anna Zimmerman.
When she had finally finished, she felt almost as frustrated as before. If the woman had only found the secret for creating the replicator she was working on, there would have been volumes of biographical material about her. As it was, most of the articles concerned her work. Only one had any information on her life, an obituary from a science journal.
Anna Zimmerman was forty-six years old when she died. She had been born during the Second World War in Berlin of a Jewish mother and an Aryan father. Both her parents had died in the gas chambers of a concentration camp.
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