Numbers Don't Lie by Terry Bisson

Irv! Numbers are the soul of science! You have set up a superstring harmonic wave reversal that has the entire Universe fluttering like a flag in the wind. What did you hit that beaded seat cushion with, anyway?”
    â€œA two by four,” I said. I didn’t see any reason to tell him about Whipper Will.
    â€œWell, you rapped it just right. The red shift is back. The Universe is expanding again. Who knows for how long?”
    â€œI hope until my wedding,” I said.
    â€œWedding?!? You don’t mean . . .”
    â€œI do,” I said. “I proposed last night. And Candy accepted. With all the privileges that entails. Will you fly back from Hawaii to be my best man?”
    â€œSure,” Wu said. “Only, it won’t be from Hawaii. I’m starting college in San Diego next week.”
    â€œSan Diego?”
    â€œMy work here as a meteorologist is done. Jane and the boys are already in San Diego, where I have a fellowship to study meteorological entomology.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œBugs and weather.”
    â€œWhat do bugs have to do with the weather?”
    â€œI just explained it, Irving,” Wu said. “I’ll send you the figures and you can see for yourself.” And he did. But that’s a whole other story.
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    Get Me to the Church on Time
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    T HE BEST WAY TO APPROACH BROOKLYN is from the air. The Brooklyn Bridge is nice, but let’s admit it, to drive (or bicycle, or worse, walk) into homely old Brooklyn directly from the shining towers of downtown Manhattan is to court deflation, dejection, even depression. The subway is no better. You ride from one hole to another: There’s no in-between, no approach, no drama of arrival. The Kosciusko Bridge over Newtown Creek is okay, because even drab Williamsburg looks lively after the endless, orderly graveyards of Queens. But just as you are beginning to appreciate the tarpaper tenement rooftops of Brooklyn, there she is again, off to the right: the skyline of Manhattan, breaking into the conversation like a tall girl with great hair in a low-cut dress who doesn’t have to say a word. It shouldn’t be that way, it’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. No, the great thing about a plane is that you can only see out of one side. I like to sit on the right. The flights from the south come in across the dark wastes of the Pine Barrens, across the shabby, sad little burgs of the Jersey shore, across the mournful, mysterious bay, until the lights of Coney Island loom up out of the night, streaked with empty boulevards. Manhattan is invisible, unseen off to the left, like a chapter in another book or a girl at another party. The turbines throttle back and soon you are angling down across the streetlight-spangled stoops and back yards of my legend-heavy hometown. Brooklyn!
    â€œThere it is,” I said to Candy.
    â€œWhatever.” Candy hates to fly, and she hadn’t enjoyed any of the sights, all the way from Huntsville. I tried looking over her. I could see the soggy fens of Jamaica Bay, then colorful, quarrelsome Canarsie, then Prospect Park and Grand Army Plaza; and there was the Williamsburg Tower with its always-accurate clock. Amazingly, we were right on time.
    I wished now I hadn’t given Candy the window seat, but it was our Honeymoon, after all. I figured she would learn to love to fly. “It’s beautiful!” I said.
    â€œI’m sure,” she muttered.
    I was anticipating the usual long holding pattern, which takes you out over Long Island Sound, but before I knew it, we were making one of those heart-stopping wing-dipping jet-plane U-turns over the Bronx, then dropping down over Rikers Island, servos whining and hydraulics groaning as the battered flaps and beat-up landing gear clunked into place for the ten thousandth (at least) time. Those PreOwned Air 707s were seasoned travelers, to say the least. The seat belts