Read Online The Touch by Randall Wallace - Free Book Online Page B

came up with. And he was the director and it was his privilege so they did it. And they discovered that empty hole in the heavens had—are you listening?— two thousand galaxies. Not two thousand stars—two thousand galaxies! And get this: the size of the spot we’re talking about is the area you’d cover if you took a grain of sand and held it at arm’s length against the night sky. That small. Two thousand galaxies. Billions and billions of stars. That’s how much our science had missed.”
    Jones paused again and thought of his grandmother. He could hear her voice, reading from the Bible she kept tucked along with the pistol in the table beside her bed: “ What is man, that Thou art mindful of him ? ” He looked up, surveying the stars. “My grandmother loved the stars,” he said quietly.
    â€œTell me about your grandmother,” Lara asked.
    â€œI don’t know you well enough,” Jones said. And they strolled back toward the restaurant.
    * * *
    Lara knew they would have a nice table—she planned for good results, and expected them—but she was both surprised and delighted when the maitre d’ showed them to a nook near a window looking out toward the mountains, blue in the light of the rising moon. As they settled into their chairs—Jones held hers for her, like a gentleman, and she thanked him, like a lady—she said, “When did you start writing poetry?”
    â€œYou know an awful lot about me.”
    â€œWe have a lot at stake in whom we choose to work with. Not many doctors are literary, but those who are tend to be extraordinary.”
    â€œChekhov said, ‘Medicine is my wife and literature is my mistress. When I—’”
    â€œâ€˜â€”When I grow tired of one, I spend time with the other.’”
    â€œYou know Russian writers too?”
    Lara already knew that Jones was smart enough to see through any manipulation; she desperately needed to recruit him, but something about Jones made Lara want to be completely honest with him. “I know a few. And I have a good memory,” she said. And then she confessed, “We found out that you love them, so I read up a little.” She noticed the reaction in his eyes, the defensive withdrawal there, and she added, “I’m sorry. I see you feel we’ve been prying. But talent like yours is more than rare. So let me get this out of the way. I’ve come to offer you a million dollars. And I’ll write the check tonight.”
    Jones was studying her, his gaze penetrating, his smile gone.
    Lara went on, “We’ll fund the development of any new instruments you might invent and give you half the proceeds from their sale. There are no strings attached—except that you pursue your surgical specialty.” She stopped and let that sink in.
    He was staring at the tablecloth between them, and now it seemed like a vast field of snow.
    She leaned forward slightly, slowly, taking care to keep her voice even. “We’re aware there is a complicating issue.”
    â€œAnd you know the issue.”
    â€œOnly that it’s personal. It has to be; you loved being a surgeon, as every true master loves his art. Whatever stopped you didn’t take your ability, otherwise you couldn’t be making sculptures with emotion and beauty and character, all small enough to fit inside the eye of a needle. You can do what we need done.”
    â€œI’m not a surgeon anymore,” Jones said quietly. “Now I teach other doctors to operate.”
    â€œWhat about teaching them to do what no one else has ever done?”
    Jones looked away, his eyes and his thoughts wandering across the distant mountains. Lara knew she had already pushed too hard, had already violated an internal space, perhaps a sacred one; but she could not give up. She added quickly, “I have a colleague—a friend—who works for my company. She’s a