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the archive(s):
issue no. 2:
Nebulae / Anca Szilágyi
It was ridiculously easy. The scientist, you see, was remarkably affable and lazy. I entered his office (as I often do), and found him lying in his hammock, gazing at the glow-in-the-dark stars. He held an old hacky-sack in his palms, as if he had been tossing it earlier, but stopped in deep contemplation. In the silence, I heard the hum of the air ducts and the faint drip of a pipe.
"Gregory," I said.
I switched on the overhead lights. He started.
"Gregory," I repeated. "Let's get some coffee."
"Hm? Oh, sure," he said. "Be right there." He climbed out of the hammock, stumbled to the washroom. He always went to the washroom before we got coffee. This, I did not quite understand. But it doesn't matter. I went to his desk, photographed his charts, drawings, frantic scribblings.
We drank our coffee, I with my heart pounding. The Styrofoam cup was more vexing than usual. The scientist smiled at me sheepishly.
"Your cheeks are pink," he said. I tried not to panic.
"Gregory, dear, there's something I have to tell you."
"What's that?" he asked, leaning in, cocking his head to the side. His lips were chapped. Brown curls framed his forehead.
"I--"
"Yes? Yes?" His hands, palms down on the table, inched closer to me. The ventilation system of the cafeteria rattled quietly in our ears.
"I'm leaving the university. Going back to Andorra tonight."
"Oh!" He sat back.
"Yes. I know it is sudden. Family business, you see."
"The casino?"
"Yes," I said, looking to the side. "The casino." I placed gravity on the last word. Solemnity.
"Well, are you coming back? Will I see you again?"
"I'm afraid not." I furrowed my brow, grimaced, in simultaneity with the crumbling of his face.
"Oh, that's terrible," he said, looking away.
"I'm sorry," I said, patting his hand.
"Me too...me too."
I got up.
"Well, I have a plane to catch."
"Geez," he muttered. "Okay. Well, I hope you'll write."
"Of course," I said, hugging him, almost meaning it, wanting to. "Farewell. Good luck to you."
"And to you," he said, returning the hug.
I left the building, nodding one last time to Leonard at the security desk, warmed by an incandescent lamp. The night was stark, the air ice.
*
"They're just stars," he said once, chomping down on an empanada. His head hung down, looking at the table. He was balding ever so slightly. "They have no effect on our lives, they're just entertainment." I reached over and wiped a spot of cheese off the corner of his mouth. Just stars.
*
I arrived in Sydney the next day, was at the lab by dusk. Clutching my camera in the palm of my hand, I approached the front door, the dead jeep surrounded by the silhouette of an odd, still clump‹kangaroos. A long ear twitched against the purple sky. As I parked, they scattered. I never liked them; every time I come out here they seem to be conspiring against the rest of the world, hiding plans of the universe in the goop of their pouches, whispering to each other in awkward schoolyard groups.
They are legion.
*
You may have noticed-- I vomited before I entered. Please be assured this has everything to do with airplane food. I've done this for you before, and I'll do it again. The travel makes me weary, but I endure it. I don't think the photographs were damaged; the data should all be there.
Perhaps I'll be gone by the time you read this. We never seem to intersect. I always have to wipe away the cobwebs from your desk, as if you haven't been here for ages. In what strange way will you send the next assignment? I've much to do before thenŠ
I trust the Canadian's work will be useful to you. We spent many long hours discussing his observations over the months. He is smart, but not diligent. You are diligent. I'm sure you'll know to burn this. I'm sure I'm just stating the obvious.
The pulsars call.
Take much care.
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