themselves killed in 30, 40, 50, 150 years, then that means they know something valuable. Nobody ever attributes it to luck. Truth is, luck usually turns out to be by far the best explanation for most examples of long-term survival. As always, wish you were here. D.
All right, there it was. He’d written the postcard.
Satisfied, self?
Now to find a mailbox, send it. He’d already stamped the cards in his pocket and printed their addresses on them.
P-mail would have never worked. Neddie was too young to have a p-mail account. Nope, postcards were the way to go.
Leher suddenly had another thought that he simply had to include on the postcard, even though even he was running out of room at the bottom. He squeezed his letters into a compact, infinitesimal marching line to finish.
P.S. Neddie, people say we make our own luck, and it’s undeniably true sometimes. But mostly this comes about just by keeping at it , not by having the exact right plan. I want you to know that I’ll always try, for the two of us. I won’t give up.
Leher had the feeling he was being watched. He straightened up, slid the postcard into the outer pocket of his uniform jacket, glanced around to see if Tillich was trying once again to melt him with his eyes. Not at the moment. But someone was looking at him.
Her.
Samantha Guptha.
Of course she would be here.
Leher smiled at her and waved a finger. Sam immediately disengaged from her group and stepped over to join him.
“Hi, Griff.”
“Sam.”
She glanced down at the pocket into which he’d put the postcard, and over at the table where the cup he’d touched still lay on its side. She picked up the cracked cup and ran a fingernail along the hairline fissure.
“This set you off?”
Leher nodded.
“Let’s just be careful there . . .” Taking it from her involved touching the cup, but preventing the crack from spreading made that the lesser of two evils. He reached over and carefully took the cup away from her, moved it back from the edge of the table, and set it down.
Leher looked back at Sam, smiled slyly, shrugged—as if they were both in on a joke instead of a very weird . . . whatever it was.
Sam smiled, nodded. “So, I read this analysis everyone’s buzzing about,” she said. “Kind of brilliant.”
“Thanks,” said Leher. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“What does the weapon do , Sam?”
“Ah,” said Sam. “Yeah, I have a few thoughts. If I could get my hands on that thing . . .” Her smile became a look of fascination. Even longing.
The look he’d fallen in love with, once upon a time.
“Why are you here, Sam? I thought the first rule of contracting was not to bring an engineer to a management fight,” Leher said. “Femtodynamics run out of brass?”
“I am brass these days, Griff. Vice President of Research,” Sam replied. “Been a year now. I assigned myself to this meeting.”
He should’ve known. Should’ve called. Sent her a card—a postcard, a postcard addressed to a real address—something. And he would have. But the past year of work had been so pressing. He’d practically disappeared into it. And what free time he had was taken up with the rituals. With writing Neddie.
Leher shrugged, cocked his head. “Don’t I remember you once telling me that any woman in a business suit is a guaranteed uptight bitch?”
“Guess there was a dark mistress of bitchiness hiding in my closet. Now she’s out. Let me tell you, honey, the party never stops in Mordor.”
Sam’s ice-cream-smooth Northern Alabama accent was still capable of sending pleasant chills through Leher. And her Punjabi good looks still seemed to his mind incongruous when combined with the accent.
She’d grown up in Huntsville, the only child of two immigrant engineers from New Delhi who worked for the old ATK Space Systems. Leher had met her in college, and the two of them had become best friends while going out with one another’s roommates.
They’d
All right, there it was. He’d written the postcard.
Satisfied, self?
Now to find a mailbox, send it. He’d already stamped the cards in his pocket and printed their addresses on them.
P-mail would have never worked. Neddie was too young to have a p-mail account. Nope, postcards were the way to go.
Leher suddenly had another thought that he simply had to include on the postcard, even though even he was running out of room at the bottom. He squeezed his letters into a compact, infinitesimal marching line to finish.
P.S. Neddie, people say we make our own luck, and it’s undeniably true sometimes. But mostly this comes about just by keeping at it , not by having the exact right plan. I want you to know that I’ll always try, for the two of us. I won’t give up.
Leher had the feeling he was being watched. He straightened up, slid the postcard into the outer pocket of his uniform jacket, glanced around to see if Tillich was trying once again to melt him with his eyes. Not at the moment. But someone was looking at him.
Her.
Samantha Guptha.
Of course she would be here.
Leher smiled at her and waved a finger. Sam immediately disengaged from her group and stepped over to join him.
“Hi, Griff.”
“Sam.”
She glanced down at the pocket into which he’d put the postcard, and over at the table where the cup he’d touched still lay on its side. She picked up the cracked cup and ran a fingernail along the hairline fissure.
“This set you off?”
Leher nodded.
“Let’s just be careful there . . .” Taking it from her involved touching the cup, but preventing the crack from spreading made that the lesser of two evils. He reached over and carefully took the cup away from her, moved it back from the edge of the table, and set it down.
Leher looked back at Sam, smiled slyly, shrugged—as if they were both in on a joke instead of a very weird . . . whatever it was.
Sam smiled, nodded. “So, I read this analysis everyone’s buzzing about,” she said. “Kind of brilliant.”
“Thanks,” said Leher. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“What does the weapon do , Sam?”
“Ah,” said Sam. “Yeah, I have a few thoughts. If I could get my hands on that thing . . .” Her smile became a look of fascination. Even longing.
The look he’d fallen in love with, once upon a time.
“Why are you here, Sam? I thought the first rule of contracting was not to bring an engineer to a management fight,” Leher said. “Femtodynamics run out of brass?”
“I am brass these days, Griff. Vice President of Research,” Sam replied. “Been a year now. I assigned myself to this meeting.”
He should’ve known. Should’ve called. Sent her a card—a postcard, a postcard addressed to a real address—something. And he would have. But the past year of work had been so pressing. He’d practically disappeared into it. And what free time he had was taken up with the rituals. With writing Neddie.
Leher shrugged, cocked his head. “Don’t I remember you once telling me that any woman in a business suit is a guaranteed uptight bitch?”
“Guess there was a dark mistress of bitchiness hiding in my closet. Now she’s out. Let me tell you, honey, the party never stops in Mordor.”
Sam’s ice-cream-smooth Northern Alabama accent was still capable of sending pleasant chills through Leher. And her Punjabi good looks still seemed to his mind incongruous when combined with the accent.
She’d grown up in Huntsville, the only child of two immigrant engineers from New Delhi who worked for the old ATK Space Systems. Leher had met her in college, and the two of them had become best friends while going out with one another’s roommates.
They’d
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