Read Online Phases of Gravity by Dan Simmons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dan Simmons
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of town, to his part of town. He was pleased to be outside and alone.
Ackroyd lived in a development of twenty-or-so ranch houses on the northeast corner of town where Baedecker remembered only fields and a stream where muskrats could be caught. Ackroyd's house was of a pseudo-Spanish design with a boat and trailer in the garage and an RV in the driveway. Inside, the rooms were filled with heavy, Ethan Allen furniture. Ackroyd's wife, Jackie, had closely permed curls, laugh wrinkles around her eyes, and a pleasant overbite, which made her appear to be constantly smiling. She was some years younger than her husband. Their only child, Terry, a pale boy who looked to be thirteen or fourteen, was as thin and quiet as his father was stout and hearty.
"Say hello to Mr. Baedecker, Terry. Go on, tell him how much you've been looking forward to this." The boy was propelled forward by a shove of Ackroyd's huge palm.
Baedecker bent over but still could not find the boy's gaze, and his open hand felt only the briefest touch of moist fingers. Terry's brown hair grew longest in front and dropped over his eyes like a visor. The boy mumbled something.
"Nice to meet you," said Baedecker.
"Terry," said his mother, "go on now. Show Mr. Baedecker his guest room. Then show him your room. I'm sure Mr. Baedecker will be very interested." She smiled at Baedecker and he thought of early photos of Eleanor Roosevelt.
The boy turned and led the way down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The guest room was in the basement. The bed looked comfortable, and there was an attached bathroom. The boy's room was across a carpeted expanse of open area, which might have been planned as a recreation room.
"I guess Mom wanted you to see this," muttered Terry and flicked on a dim light in his room. Baedecker looked in, blinked, and stepped in farther to look again.
There was a single bed, neatly made, a small desk, a minicomponent stereo, and three dark walls with shelves, posters, a few books, models, all the usual paraphernalia of an adolescent boy. But the fourth wall was different.
It was an Apollo 8 photograph, one of the Earthrise pictures taken from the external camera's high-speed series on the first and third lunar orbits. The picture had once captured the imagination of the world but had been so overused during the intervening years that Baedecker no longer took any notice of it. But here it was different. The photo had been enlarged to make a supergraphic, floor-to-ceiling wallpaper stretching the width of the room. The earth was a bold blue and white, the sky black, the foreground a dull gray. It was as if the boy's basement room opened onto the lunar surface. The dark walls and dim track lighting added to the illusion.
"Mom's idea," mumbled the boy. He tapped nervously at a stack of tape cassettes on his desk. "I think she got it on sale."
"Did you make the models?" asked Baedecker. Shelves were filled with gray plastic dreadnoughts from Star Wars, Star Trek, and Battlestar Galactica. Two large space shuttles hung from dark thread in a corner.
The boy made a motion with shoulders and hand, an abbreviated half shrug that reminded Baedecker of his son Scott when he had struck out in a Little League game.
"Dad helped."
"Are you interested in space, Terry?"
"Yeah." The boy hesitated and looked up at Baedecker. In his dark eyes there was a brief panic of summoned courage. "I mean, I useta be. You know, when I was younger. I mean, I still like it and all, but that's sort of kid stuff, you know? What I'd really like to be is, well, like a lead guitarist in a group like Twisted Sister." He stopped talking and looked steadily at Baedecker.
Baedecker could not stop a wide grin. He touched the boy's shoulder briefly, firmly. "Good. Good. Let's go upstairs, shall we?"
The streets were dark except for occasional streetlights and the blue flicker of televisions through windows. Baedecker breathed in the scent of freshly cut grass and unseen
Ackroyd lived in a development of twenty-or-so ranch houses on the northeast corner of town where Baedecker remembered only fields and a stream where muskrats could be caught. Ackroyd's house was of a pseudo-Spanish design with a boat and trailer in the garage and an RV in the driveway. Inside, the rooms were filled with heavy, Ethan Allen furniture. Ackroyd's wife, Jackie, had closely permed curls, laugh wrinkles around her eyes, and a pleasant overbite, which made her appear to be constantly smiling. She was some years younger than her husband. Their only child, Terry, a pale boy who looked to be thirteen or fourteen, was as thin and quiet as his father was stout and hearty.
"Say hello to Mr. Baedecker, Terry. Go on, tell him how much you've been looking forward to this." The boy was propelled forward by a shove of Ackroyd's huge palm.
Baedecker bent over but still could not find the boy's gaze, and his open hand felt only the briefest touch of moist fingers. Terry's brown hair grew longest in front and dropped over his eyes like a visor. The boy mumbled something.
"Nice to meet you," said Baedecker.
"Terry," said his mother, "go on now. Show Mr. Baedecker his guest room. Then show him your room. I'm sure Mr. Baedecker will be very interested." She smiled at Baedecker and he thought of early photos of Eleanor Roosevelt.
The boy turned and led the way down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The guest room was in the basement. The bed looked comfortable, and there was an attached bathroom. The boy's room was across a carpeted expanse of open area, which might have been planned as a recreation room.
"I guess Mom wanted you to see this," muttered Terry and flicked on a dim light in his room. Baedecker looked in, blinked, and stepped in farther to look again.
There was a single bed, neatly made, a small desk, a minicomponent stereo, and three dark walls with shelves, posters, a few books, models, all the usual paraphernalia of an adolescent boy. But the fourth wall was different.
It was an Apollo 8 photograph, one of the Earthrise pictures taken from the external camera's high-speed series on the first and third lunar orbits. The picture had once captured the imagination of the world but had been so overused during the intervening years that Baedecker no longer took any notice of it. But here it was different. The photo had been enlarged to make a supergraphic, floor-to-ceiling wallpaper stretching the width of the room. The earth was a bold blue and white, the sky black, the foreground a dull gray. It was as if the boy's basement room opened onto the lunar surface. The dark walls and dim track lighting added to the illusion.
"Mom's idea," mumbled the boy. He tapped nervously at a stack of tape cassettes on his desk. "I think she got it on sale."
"Did you make the models?" asked Baedecker. Shelves were filled with gray plastic dreadnoughts from Star Wars, Star Trek, and Battlestar Galactica. Two large space shuttles hung from dark thread in a corner.
The boy made a motion with shoulders and hand, an abbreviated half shrug that reminded Baedecker of his son Scott when he had struck out in a Little League game.
"Dad helped."
"Are you interested in space, Terry?"
"Yeah." The boy hesitated and looked up at Baedecker. In his dark eyes there was a brief panic of summoned courage. "I mean, I useta be. You know, when I was younger. I mean, I still like it and all, but that's sort of kid stuff, you know? What I'd really like to be is, well, like a lead guitarist in a group like Twisted Sister." He stopped talking and looked steadily at Baedecker.
Baedecker could not stop a wide grin. He touched the boy's shoulder briefly, firmly. "Good. Good. Let's go upstairs, shall we?"
The streets were dark except for occasional streetlights and the blue flicker of televisions through windows. Baedecker breathed in the scent of freshly cut grass and unseen
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