| Particle Physics | Read the author's comments |
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(If you can't read the rest of the text, download Internet Explorer 5 here or Netscape Navigator 4.5 here, or highlight the whole page as if it were a word-processor document.) Andy Smithson was plastic. His face was molded into an expression of pure coolness, blond hair gelled back to absolute perfection; his AirwalksTM seemed to cling to the top of the skateboard, glowing like twin suns. A piercing breath of wind shot through Smithson's JencosTM like orange LASER, and a snowstorm of psychedelic leaves scattered in the sunlight. They danced between the trees and came slowly to rest on the cold cement. He concentrated and pictured how he looked. He could sense that something was incorrect. The pattern of coasting and gliding was hypnotic. The skateboard flew over the pavement almost without touching, the breeze was cool at his back, the wheels held, rock steady, but Smithson pushed the feeling away; he could enjoy it later. Something about the way he was standing wasn't completely. . .There, he could feel it now, coming into place; a simple shift, and then his arms were to the left, sleeves outward, billowing like plaid sails, and it was right. Good. Perfect. He relaxed. The curb loomed and Sam Delic loomed with it, bent double over his book, a strand of hair brimming beneath his hat and past his silently furrowed brow. Smithson began a slow, wide, carefully calculated turn, then changed his mind as he saw the green of Delic's bookcover flash in the November wind. A twitch of the foot - so. The skateboard flipped neatly into his hand, and he let the momentum carry him to the unkempt form sitting at the roadside. "Hey, Sammy, how's it going?" He didn't look up. "F--- you, Smithson. Get the f--- away from me." It appeared that the mouse would attempt to ignore the cat. It would not be so easily done. "Oh, a little hostile, are we?" Smithson let the ensuing pause last for the perfect amount of time, watched his prey, played with it. Delic drew his coat closer around him as an icy gust tore a page from the book and sent it flying through the winter air. Smithson sat. "A Field Guide to Particle Physics?" He let the smile creep across his face at the perfect speed, laughed with a perfect tinge of superiority. "Look at yourself, Sammy. Not only is it a weekend and you're reading-f---in' reading, for god's sake-but you're poring over a f---in' textbook." Delic didn't respond. Smithson felt the heat across his face, saw red. He kicked him once, smiled as he watched him double over in pain. He stood, and continued on. * * * A light flashed in the darkness. It descended, slowly, haltingly, each step marked only by movement and not sound. It reached the bottom, pausing. Smithson closed the door and locked it, and the grin fell from his face like a stone as his body fell into the chair. He could sense the flashlight hitting the floor with a dull thud. He sat. He was still for a moment and could feel the floorboards beneath the chair creak, see the silver punctuations in the darkness, the slivers of light that slid across the walls between the shadows. Smithson shook himself. Reached silently for the flashlight. Switched it off. Wouldn't need it for now. Breath in. Breath out. Calm. But he could feel the air shake. He could feel the chair too, and focused on that-it was warm beneath him, comfortable. Smithson pulled himself slowly to his feet and ran his fingers through his hair. He pushed out the gel. Slowly, desperately, he stepped towards the picture frame, his breath coming with more difficulty, his newly found confidence eroding. You're cool, he said to himself, You're cool, but he could feel his heart blasting a snare-drum beat through his consciousness. Smithson took a deep breath, glanced fervently to the back and sides, but no eyes gazed back from the room, and he reached forward, groping in the inky black, felt for the edges of the frame. . . Found them. He lifted. Beneath lay the safe. The image burned in his mind-cool, metallic, the lock lightly black against the silver exterior. His sweaty fingers fumbled, struggling to enter the combination. A click sounded. Time was in slow motion; frame by frame the handle slid downwards beneath his fingertips, the door swung on its hinges, the object inside almost shone in the darkness, and Smithson reached, arm extending, fingers clutching the air, until- He ran his hand over the cover. A Field Guide to Particle Physics. He pulled out the bookmark, picked up the flashlight, and began to read. | |