Read Online Voyage to Alpha Centauri: A Novel by Michael D. O'Brien - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael D. O'Brien
Tags: Spiritual & Religion
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about it, to make sure you haven’t lost the transmitter without realizing it.”
“I just decided not to use it.”
She made a check mark on her paper.
“Test done?” I asked. “Did I pass?”
“I need to take your vital signs first.”
After she had wrapped a pressure band around my arm and tapped a button to take the readings, I asked her if she had chosen to have a humvee implant or patch for herself.
“Neither”, she replied quietly, without taking her eyes off my beeping graphs.
“May I ask why not?”
“I’ve always been concerned about the long-range effects of wave transmissions on living cells—only as an amateur interest, you understand. Perhaps an overly suspicious one.”
“I’ve been concerned too, for other reasons.”
“Physics?”
“No, philosophical—only an amateur interest, you understand—combined with general ornerariness.” Again she smiled.
“Would you like to know your vital signs results?”
“Just a summation, please.”
“You’re a very healthy man for your age. How do you keep fit?”
“I attribute it to fresh air, fresh water, natural and illegal foods, minimal electronic wave exposure, certain criminal activities that harm no one but myself, and so forth.”
“Excellent”, she said.
She hadn’t tripped over the words illegal and criminal . This was one unusual doctor.
“And how about exercise?” she asked.
“Only mental. Theoretical physics keeps a guy on his toes.”
And so it went. Our conversation, which had begun so stiffly, became free-form banter. She told me that, much as she admired my achievements in science, reading theoretical physics had always shut down her higher brain functions. I reassured her that this was probably true for most of mankind. She mentioned that she likes the novels of Charles Dickens and Indian love songs. I told her that I once saw a Bollywood film, but the love song put me to sleep after thirty minutes of uninterrupted passionate chanting.
By now, I realized she was something of an anomaly: an authentically charming person, humorous, sensitive, definitely not a clone-thinker. Her eyes sparkled, and she waggled her head a little whenever she made a joke. Later, on the way back to my room, I suddenly burst out laughing when I got one of her subtler ones.
I should mention that she told me my right wrist may need no more than a little rest and penetrating muscle cream, but she has also scheduled more extensive tests. My ankle interested her a lot: the scar, the limp, the neurological damage, the story that goes with it. In the telling, I tried not to embellish.
“You were lucky”, she said.
“I had a good dog.”
“Was his name Lucky?”
“No, his name was Rusty.”
“A good pal.”
“The best.”
“Without Rusty, the history of the human race would have turned out quite differently.”
“Aw, shucks, Ma’am, you exaggerate my importance”, I drawled.
“Shucks, Dr. Hoyos, I don’t think I do.”
If I’d had a Stetson hat, I would have popped it onto my head and squinted into the sunset. When you’re sixty-eight years old, you can get away with being coy, shuffling in the direction of a mild playfulness without alarming beautiful young women. They just see Dad, and chuckle.
Day 137 :
With pen in my left-hand fingers, I’m scratching this explanatory note. Right wrist diagnosed with median neuropathy—carpal tunnel syndrome. I needed surgery. It’s done. Hand and wrist in cast. (Attached digital photo, self-made with left hand. Sorry for blur.)
Dr. Sidotra asked me if I want her to open up my ankle and do some tinkering with a team of neurologists. I said no. Told her I like my limp, it gives me character.
Day 153 :
The ship is now cruising at maximum velocity. We are slightly above half-lightspeed. This will put us in the neighborhood of the sister stars around nine years from now. Some time will be lost in deceleration, which begins five months out from our destination.
Day 204
“I just decided not to use it.”
She made a check mark on her paper.
“Test done?” I asked. “Did I pass?”
“I need to take your vital signs first.”
After she had wrapped a pressure band around my arm and tapped a button to take the readings, I asked her if she had chosen to have a humvee implant or patch for herself.
“Neither”, she replied quietly, without taking her eyes off my beeping graphs.
“May I ask why not?”
“I’ve always been concerned about the long-range effects of wave transmissions on living cells—only as an amateur interest, you understand. Perhaps an overly suspicious one.”
“I’ve been concerned too, for other reasons.”
“Physics?”
“No, philosophical—only an amateur interest, you understand—combined with general ornerariness.” Again she smiled.
“Would you like to know your vital signs results?”
“Just a summation, please.”
“You’re a very healthy man for your age. How do you keep fit?”
“I attribute it to fresh air, fresh water, natural and illegal foods, minimal electronic wave exposure, certain criminal activities that harm no one but myself, and so forth.”
“Excellent”, she said.
She hadn’t tripped over the words illegal and criminal . This was one unusual doctor.
“And how about exercise?” she asked.
“Only mental. Theoretical physics keeps a guy on his toes.”
And so it went. Our conversation, which had begun so stiffly, became free-form banter. She told me that, much as she admired my achievements in science, reading theoretical physics had always shut down her higher brain functions. I reassured her that this was probably true for most of mankind. She mentioned that she likes the novels of Charles Dickens and Indian love songs. I told her that I once saw a Bollywood film, but the love song put me to sleep after thirty minutes of uninterrupted passionate chanting.
By now, I realized she was something of an anomaly: an authentically charming person, humorous, sensitive, definitely not a clone-thinker. Her eyes sparkled, and she waggled her head a little whenever she made a joke. Later, on the way back to my room, I suddenly burst out laughing when I got one of her subtler ones.
I should mention that she told me my right wrist may need no more than a little rest and penetrating muscle cream, but she has also scheduled more extensive tests. My ankle interested her a lot: the scar, the limp, the neurological damage, the story that goes with it. In the telling, I tried not to embellish.
“You were lucky”, she said.
“I had a good dog.”
“Was his name Lucky?”
“No, his name was Rusty.”
“A good pal.”
“The best.”
“Without Rusty, the history of the human race would have turned out quite differently.”
“Aw, shucks, Ma’am, you exaggerate my importance”, I drawled.
“Shucks, Dr. Hoyos, I don’t think I do.”
If I’d had a Stetson hat, I would have popped it onto my head and squinted into the sunset. When you’re sixty-eight years old, you can get away with being coy, shuffling in the direction of a mild playfulness without alarming beautiful young women. They just see Dad, and chuckle.
Day 137 :
With pen in my left-hand fingers, I’m scratching this explanatory note. Right wrist diagnosed with median neuropathy—carpal tunnel syndrome. I needed surgery. It’s done. Hand and wrist in cast. (Attached digital photo, self-made with left hand. Sorry for blur.)
Dr. Sidotra asked me if I want her to open up my ankle and do some tinkering with a team of neurologists. I said no. Told her I like my limp, it gives me character.
Day 153 :
The ship is now cruising at maximum velocity. We are slightly above half-lightspeed. This will put us in the neighborhood of the sister stars around nine years from now. Some time will be lost in deceleration, which begins five months out from our destination.
Day 204
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