recorded.
If someone were trying to stage a schlocky horror film on a very low budget it would probably look something like this, Geoffrey decided. Frankly it looked like that movie
The Blair Witch Project
, as though the cameramen were deliberately trying to avoid taking a good look at the cheap special effects.
“I can’t make out much of anything,” Geoffrey said.
“Wait.” Angel punched the PAUSE button on the remote and then stepped the image forward. “There!”
He froze the frame as a group of sweeping shadows nearly blackened the screen. Angel pointed a pencil at a shape that looked like a crab leg.
“OK,” Geoffrey said. “So?”
“That’s a toe-splitter! That’s a
stomatopod claw.”
Geoffrey laughed and reached for his sandwich. “That’s a Rorschach test, Angel. And you’re seeing the species you’ve been studying for the past five years, because you see it in your dreams, your breakfast cereal, and the stains on the ceiling tiles.”
Angel frowned. “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
Then Geoffrey noticed something. He stopped eating. As Angel advanced the frames, red drops splattered the camera lens—then a single light blue drop appeared, seconds before the camera went dark.
Angel opened a mini-fridge that had a sign taped to the door: FOOD ONLY. He took out a carton of milk and sniffed it. “So, are you going ahead with the Fire-Breathing Chat tonight?”
Geoffrey turned away from the screen and clicked off the video. “Uh, yep. The Fire-Breathing Chat will go on, despite the intense competition from reality TV shows.”
The Fire-Breathing Chat was a tradition Geoffrey had carried on since his Oxford days. It was a forum for heretical ideas, with which he could outrage his colleagues on a semi-regular basis. Afterward they could pummel him with derision to their hearts’content. The public was invited to enjoy the spectacle and to join in.
“Everyone’s going to ask you about
SeaLife
, you know.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“You should thank me for preparing you.”
“Duly noted.”
“Are you really going with the ontogeny-recapitulates-phylogeny thing tonight?”
“Yep. Fasten your seat belt, Angel, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
“When are you going to take home one of your groupies, Geoffrey? Everyone already thinks you’re a Don Juan, so you might as well cash in on your reputation. The girls are right there waiting after every talk, my man, but you always get into a ridiculous scientific argument with a bunch of geezers, instead.”
“Maybe tonight I’ll get into a ridiculous scientific argument with one of my groupies. That’s the kind of foreplay that would really turn me on.”
Angel frowned. “You’ll never get laid, my friend.”
“You’re a pessimist, Angel. And a chauvinist. Don’t think about it. I don’t.”
“But I do. And you don’t. Life isn’t fair! You need to get laid even more than I do, my friend. There’s more to life than biology. And there’s more to biology than biology, too.”
“You’re right, you’re so right.”
Whatever “Don Juan” reputation Geoffrey had was quite unearned. The scientist lacked the patience for friendly, mindless banter. He remained incorrigibly oblivious to traditional romantic signals. Ideas excited him, but he found the rituals of flirtation degrading and inexplicably obtuse.
He’d had nine sexual partners in his thirty-four years. All were short-lived romances, with long gaps in between. Geoffrey attracted would-be rebels, but when the women inevitably tried to force him into some orthodoxy, he had moved on.
While he worried sometimes that he might be lonely at the end of the day, he refused to trade his sanity for companionship.
This was not vanity, or some noble sacrifice in the name of principle. It was simply a fact he had come to acknowledge about himself. As a result, he knew he might well end up alone.
So, love was the one mystery he’d had to approach with
If someone were trying to stage a schlocky horror film on a very low budget it would probably look something like this, Geoffrey decided. Frankly it looked like that movie
The Blair Witch Project
, as though the cameramen were deliberately trying to avoid taking a good look at the cheap special effects.
“I can’t make out much of anything,” Geoffrey said.
“Wait.” Angel punched the PAUSE button on the remote and then stepped the image forward. “There!”
He froze the frame as a group of sweeping shadows nearly blackened the screen. Angel pointed a pencil at a shape that looked like a crab leg.
“OK,” Geoffrey said. “So?”
“That’s a toe-splitter! That’s a
stomatopod claw.”
Geoffrey laughed and reached for his sandwich. “That’s a Rorschach test, Angel. And you’re seeing the species you’ve been studying for the past five years, because you see it in your dreams, your breakfast cereal, and the stains on the ceiling tiles.”
Angel frowned. “Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
Then Geoffrey noticed something. He stopped eating. As Angel advanced the frames, red drops splattered the camera lens—then a single light blue drop appeared, seconds before the camera went dark.
Angel opened a mini-fridge that had a sign taped to the door: FOOD ONLY. He took out a carton of milk and sniffed it. “So, are you going ahead with the Fire-Breathing Chat tonight?”
Geoffrey turned away from the screen and clicked off the video. “Uh, yep. The Fire-Breathing Chat will go on, despite the intense competition from reality TV shows.”
The Fire-Breathing Chat was a tradition Geoffrey had carried on since his Oxford days. It was a forum for heretical ideas, with which he could outrage his colleagues on a semi-regular basis. Afterward they could pummel him with derision to their hearts’content. The public was invited to enjoy the spectacle and to join in.
“Everyone’s going to ask you about
SeaLife
, you know.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“You should thank me for preparing you.”
“Duly noted.”
“Are you really going with the ontogeny-recapitulates-phylogeny thing tonight?”
“Yep. Fasten your seat belt, Angel, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
“When are you going to take home one of your groupies, Geoffrey? Everyone already thinks you’re a Don Juan, so you might as well cash in on your reputation. The girls are right there waiting after every talk, my man, but you always get into a ridiculous scientific argument with a bunch of geezers, instead.”
“Maybe tonight I’ll get into a ridiculous scientific argument with one of my groupies. That’s the kind of foreplay that would really turn me on.”
Angel frowned. “You’ll never get laid, my friend.”
“You’re a pessimist, Angel. And a chauvinist. Don’t think about it. I don’t.”
“But I do. And you don’t. Life isn’t fair! You need to get laid even more than I do, my friend. There’s more to life than biology. And there’s more to biology than biology, too.”
“You’re right, you’re so right.”
Whatever “Don Juan” reputation Geoffrey had was quite unearned. The scientist lacked the patience for friendly, mindless banter. He remained incorrigibly oblivious to traditional romantic signals. Ideas excited him, but he found the rituals of flirtation degrading and inexplicably obtuse.
He’d had nine sexual partners in his thirty-four years. All were short-lived romances, with long gaps in between. Geoffrey attracted would-be rebels, but when the women inevitably tried to force him into some orthodoxy, he had moved on.
While he worried sometimes that he might be lonely at the end of the day, he refused to trade his sanity for companionship.
This was not vanity, or some noble sacrifice in the name of principle. It was simply a fact he had come to acknowledge about himself. As a result, he knew he might well end up alone.
So, love was the one mystery he’d had to approach with
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