Chapter 24
Dillon Fontana made it to the gazebo first; he was wearing his usual black jeans and a black T-shirt. Hobo would not let him look at anything until he’d properly hugged the ape, and that gave time for Maria Lopez and Werner Richter to arrive, as well. Given his bulk, it was no surprise that Harl Marcuse was the last of the four to make it across the wide lawn, over the drawbridge, and up to the gazebo.
“What is it?” he asked in a wheezing tone that said, Anyone who makes me run better have a damn good reason.
Shoshana indicated the painting, its colors softer now in the late-afternoon sunlight. Marcuse looked at it, but his expression didn’t change. “Yes?”
But Dillon got it at once. “My God,” he said softly. He turned to Hobo and signed, Did you paint this?
Hobo was showing his yellow teeth in a big, goofy grin. Hobo paint, he replied. Hobo paint.
Maria was tilting her head sideways. “I don’t—”
“It’s me,” said Shoshana. “In profile, see?”
Marcuse moved forward, eyes narrowed, and the others got out of his way. “Apes don’t make representational art,” he said in his commanding voice, as if his declaration could erase what was in front of them.
Dillon gestured at the canvas. “Tell that to Hobo.”
“And he did this while I was away,” Shoshana said. “From memory.” The Silverback frowned dubiously. She pointed at the hidden camera. “I’m sure it’s all been recorded.”
He glanced at the same spot and shook his head — although not, she realized after a moment, in negation, but rather in disappointment. The camera kept watch on Hobo — and that meant it showed the easel from the rear. The footage wouldn’t reveal the order in which he’d added elements to the painting. Did he paint the head first? The eye? Was the colored iris added at the same time, or was it a final, finishing touch?
“The primate Picasso,” said Dillon, hands on hips, grinning with satisfaction.
“Exactly!” said Shoshana. She turned to Marcuse. “No way the Georgia Zoo will be able to put Hobo under the knife if we go public with this. The world would never stand for it.”
“Caitlin?”
She looked up and her perspective on webspace shifted. It took her a second to remember where she was: in a stairwell at Howard Miller Secondary School.
The voice again. “Caitlin, are you okay?” It was Sunshine.
She lifted her shoulders a bit. “I guess.”
“The dance is winding down. I’m going to walk home. Wanna come?”
Caitlin had lost track of time while she’d immersed herself in the fantastic colors and lights of the World Wide Web; she felt her watch. God knew what had happened to the Hoser. “Um, sure. Thanks.” She used her cane as a prop as she got up from the step she was sitting on. “How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t,” said Sunshine. “I was just going to my locker and I saw you here.”
“Thanks,” Caitlin said again.
Caitlin switched the eyePod back to simplex mode, shutting off the Jagster feed and her view of webspace. They went up to the second floor, where Sunshine’s locker was, then headed back down and out. The evening had gotten chilly and she could feel the odd drop of rain.
Caitlin wished she had more to say to Sunshine as they walked along, but even though they were the two American girls at school, they really didn’t have anything in common. Sunshine was struggling with all her classes, and was, according to Bashira, a knockout: tall, thin, busty, with platinum-blond hair and a small diamond stud in her nose. But if she was that pretty, Caitlin wondered why she’d come to the dance alone. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. But he works evenings.”
“What’s he do?”
“Security guard.”
Caitlin was surprised “How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
She’d assumed Sunshine was her own age — and maybe she was. Or maybe she’d failed a time or two. “How old are you?” Caitlin asked.
“Sixteen. You?”
“Almost. My birthday is in eight days.” It was starting to rain harder. “Is he good to you?”
“Who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“He’s okay,” Sunshine said.
Caitlin thought a boyfriend should be wonderful, should talk to you and listen to you and be kind and gentle. But she said nothing.
“Um, here’s my street,” Sunshine said. Caitlin knew precisely where they were; her own house was just two blocks farther along. “It’s starting to rain harder — do … do you mind?”
“No,” said Caitlin. “It’s okay, go home. You don’t want to get soaked.”
“It’s getting pretty late…”
“Don’t worry,” Caitlin said. “I know the way — and I’m not afraid of the dark.”
She felt Sunshine squeeze her upper arm. “Hey, that’s funny! Anyway, look, forget about that jerk Nordmann, okay? I’ll see you on Monday.” And she heard footsteps fading quickly away.
Caitlin started walking. Forget about him, Sunshine had said. God, she wondered what that asshole had said to people after she’d left the gym. Why, if he’d—
What the — ?
She paused, one foot still in the air, totally startled by—
God!
By a flash of light!
But she had the data-receive function of her eyePod turned off; the Jagster light show was too distracting when she was trying to concentrate on walking. There should have been no light of any kind, but—
And then she heard it, a great crack of thunder.
Another flash. Seconds later, more thunder.
Lightning. It had to be lightning! She’d read about it so many times: zigzagging lines coming down from above.
A third flash, like — like — like a jagged crack in ice. Incredible!
What color was lightning? She racked her brain trying to remember. Red? No, no, that was lava. Lightning was white — and she was seeing it! For the first time — for the very first time — she knew what color she was seeing! This wasn’t like her arbitrarily deciding to call something in webspace “red” or “green.”
This was the actual, real color white. Yes, white is a mixture of all other colors; she’d read that, although she had never understood what it really meant — but she now knew what white looked like!
The rain was quite heavy. Her fleece, with the raised Perimeter Institute logo — the letters PI joined to look something like the Greek letter pi — was getting soaked. And the fat drops were cold, and hitting hard enough that they stung a bit. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all!
More lightning: another flash of perception, of sight!
She knew there was a way to determine how far away the source of lightning was, by counting the seconds between the flash and the sound of thunder, but she couldn’t remember the formula, and so she worked it out quickly in her head. Light travels at 186,282 miles per second — instantaneously, for practical purposes; sound travels at 769 miles per hour. So every second that passed between the flash and the thunder put the source of the lightning another fifth of a mile away.
Another flash, and—
Four. Five. Six.
The source was 1.2 miles away — and getting closer: the intervals between flashes and thunderclaps were diminishing, and the flashes were getting brighter and the thunder louder. In fact, these flashes were so bright they—
Yes, so bright they hurt. But it was wonderful pain, exquisite pain. Here, in the pouring rain, she was at last seeing something real, and it felt glorious!
I was fascinated by that remarkable point to which I now had an apparently permanent connection — but also frustrated by it. Yes, it often reflected myself back at me. But for long periods it contained data that I simply couldn’t make sense of. In fact, that’s what it was sending me right now, and—