sunlight every day... and you helped me stay alive. I suppose it doesn't matter... how you know so much... but now I wonder why."
"I'm your teacher, Sammy. That's all. That's why."
"I think you... know something... you won't teach me."
"How could I not?"
He shook his head yet again, waited for the dizziness to pass, and struggled back to his feet. He limped away from the tree. A tear rolled down from his good eye, leaving a track in the dirt on his cheek as it lost its precious moisture. His bad eye was closed again and he felt no urge to reopen it. Flies buzzed around him and walked on him, and he suffered their tickling torment with little effort to discourage them. His steps came ever more slowly. He could hardly put any weight on his cut foot. He planted the spear and stepped, planted and stepped.
When Samson reached a clear area near the river he stopped. His goal was close: the African Space Elevator. He could see it across the river: big buildings, the tallest reaching far into the sky, its needle disappearing into space. He knew he would never make it there. He knew it was never his means of escape. It was enough that he came this far. He was so tired he couldn't feel fear, couldn't remember hunger. Who was Milly?
"Oops, I almost... stepped in some."
"Stepped in what?" Milly asked.
"Zebra dung."
"Lucky you."
"If you're smart enough..." - Samson took a breath - "to use... exclamatory statements... and try to scare me, then... you should... be able to... respond correctly to... zebra dung."
"I don't understand."
"You should have asked... how I knew... it was zebra dung."
"I assumed you saw it coming out of the animal. You're a dung scientist? How do you know?"
"I would have... said, because... it's striped."
"I'm supposed to laugh?" Milly responded loudly with almost no pause. "You're staggering from starvation and an injured foot, can't see out of one infected eye, and will probably reside in a hyena's gut before next morning - and you want me to laugh?"
Samson was almost alert enough to be startled by Milly's tirade. Not only did her accusing words disturb him but now the fear that she was actually a stranger made him start to cry.
"I was testing... you! How do you... know about... the eye? I was... keeping that... from you!"
"Do you think I'm alive?" she challenged. "Am I an autonomous machine intelligence?"
"Are you?"
Stifling his emotions, Samson waited for a reply, suspecting it wouldn't be the truth, because Milly probably had never been Milly. It was interesting that Milly stopped, as if thinking about her reply. Why would a machine take so long? When Milly did speak, Samson didn't have any time in which to be surprised.
"Something is coming!" Milly exclaimed. "How long we've waited!"
A shockwave struck the plain, blowing the tall grass over, shaking the ground, sending herd animals stampeding away. The hammer of pressure smashed Samson to the ground. Lying on his side, he squinted upward to find the source of the thunder in a cloudless sky. A lightning-bright sphere swelled and darkened through incandescent colors from white to red. The ball of energy expanded nearly instantly to cover half the sky, then cleared, almost disappearing. Only the halo of sunlight curving around the edges of the phenomenon revealed its continuing existence above Samson.
He cringed on the ground for only a few seconds in blazing heat as the thing vibrated him, pushed on him, and squeezed him. He opened his mouth to scream and it stuck open. He couldn't exhale to cry. He stiffened into rigidity. Sunlight glinted from the metal tip of his spear as it spun and floated vertically in the darkening air of his failing sight.
1-06 1980CE - Meeting Sam
Let's see: how many beers, how much pizza, how much percolation time…
Can you feel your courage yet?
Nope. Can't move my feet.
/
Is he or isn't he? What will I say? What should I do?
Are you kidding? How many times have you shot a man down?
/
But you want to at least get a good look at her.
Yeah.
Why do you even care?
I don't know!
/
It just feels different now. Like I'm starting all over.
You only lost your wheels, babe. You still got standards.
/
Take another glance at her.
She already caught me looking at her once. Don't want to confirm her opinion of me.
/
I think he's been trying to check me out. I don't understand why.
Should have covered your legs. They still have some shape.
/
You stared too long, dummy. Take one step toward her, try it.
I'm trying not to care, then maybe my feet will move.
/
You didn't have to remind me of the coming decay! Is he that bad?
What do you think? Asian. Bookish. Look at his glasses!
/
Because you care too much, and there's nothing wrong with that.
I'm so pitiful! I can't even see her clearly from this far away.
/
Oh, God, he's going to come over! I just know it!
Have fun, muchacha. This shouldn't take long.
/
Walk, damn it!
/
"Enjoying the mixer?" he asked, surprising me with his American accent and calm voice, after my excruciating wait for him to cross the ten feet that separated us.
/
You are one cool dude, for an idiot.
Yeah, and what a great opening line.
/
What a great opening line. I don't know if he can see me too well but I sure feel exposed.
Relax, girl. You got nothing to be concerned about. He's harmless.
/
She's really beautiful - I think. I don't dare move closer.
You haven't got a chance. Lean in. Get a good look. It'll be your last.
/
You going to respond - or sit there like you're paralyzed?
I am paralyzed! I think I'll sit here and soak up the sympathy.
/
She's a paraplegic, so who knows?
What's that got to do with it?
Nothing, nothing. Bad thought. She is way too fine for me.
So what? Nothing to lose, right?
Yeah, except my dignity.
Which is worth what?
/
Before I even looked up at him I knew who he was and what he meant. He was that young astronomer who was maybe Chinese and he was commenting that I was not enjoying the mixer. If I wanted to talk to anybody in this stuffy room full of intellectual politics and pent-up hormones he was probably the last I would choose. So, I looked up at him from my rolling prison and smiled insincerely.
"I thought not," he said, obviously taking the cue from my flattened smile that he should get lost. He started to retreat then bravely hesitated.
/
Is this the alcohol finally reaching your tiny brain?
Shut up, I'm on a roll.
Sure, but downhill.
/
"Would you like some help getting out of here?"
He must have been watching me for a while, to assess my enjoyment of the party that precisely. I was not flattered by his attention. "As long as you don't get any ideas," I replied. Yes, I have a mean streak. But, hell, it was always one of my better features. Why be easy? But maybe I should at least be civil to him. And he spoke English like he was born in America. The thick glasses were horrendous, but he looked better up close than from a distance. I then realized again that this was him, the Blind Guy, the one I had sympathetically noticed on several occasions around campus - bumping into people and things.
"Ideas," he said, almost to himself, seeming to lose contact with me. He tilted his head back, adjusted his glasses, and looked away. I couldn't read his eyes because of the glasses but something had made him pause. He turned back
to me. "I could use some help with ideas. I don't get enough good ideas, and when I do, my math isn't strong enough to describe them."
/
So far so bad, dude!
Yeah, but maybe better than par for a blind astronomer.
/
"My coat is in the hall closet," I said meanly - I mean meaningfully.
He smiled and said, "I'm getting an idea."
/
Nice comeback, dude.
Yeah, it hides the heartbreak.
/
His smile showed good teeth and I could tell he wasn't a smoker. Why was I running him through my man-filter? Was I? What man-filter? Those days were over. And he wasn't even close to my ideal male. I raised an eyebrow at him.
"Why don't I shut up and get you out of here?" he said in fake good humor and strode toward the doorway to the hall.
Did he think he now had a micro-date with me, from here to the sidewalk outside? Shut up, girl! That's the old Miss DuPont talking. But I wondered about his math comment. Did he know I was a mathematician? And why the hell would he be interested in me? I was sure I was not an ideal female to him, or even a last-choice female.
Ok, turn off the self-pity. Play it straight and friendly.
Atta, girl. Maybe those sessions with the psychologist were worth it.
"What's your name?" I inquired when he came back. I accepted my coat from him, wondering how he knew which coat in the hall closet was mine.
/
Not many young ladies wear old military fatigue jackets. Is it just my imagination, or does she seem almost tolerant of me?
Maybe you are on a roll, dude! Stay loose and go for it!
/
"Samuel Lee," he answered. "What's yours?"
"Millicent DuPont." I held out my hand which he quickly took and squeezed. Firm handshake: good sign.
/
Holy crap! I've actually touched her! Hope I didn't squeeze her hand too hard. Why isn't she putting her jacket on? It's a little nippy outside.
/
"Hey, Sam," a voice called from across the mixer battlefield, "you gonna play for us tonight?"
"You gonna take up a collection?" Samuel Lee asked. "I need a new air freshener for my