read
The Light at the End of the Tunnel?
”
“Oh, yes,” Richard said to the machine.
“We’re extremely fortunate to have him here,” Mrs. Brightman’s message continued. “I feel sure you two will have a great deal to say to each other.”
“Not if there’s a stairway handy,” he said and hit “next message.” A Mr. Edelman from the National Association of Paranormal Experiences, Mr. Wojakowski.
“Just double-checking about tomorrow,” Mr. Wojakowski said. “Tried to call you before, but couldn’t get through. Reminds me of these telephones we had on the
Yorktown
for sending messages up to the bridge. You had to wind ’em up with a crank kinda deal, and—”
Mr. Wojakowski, once started on the
Yorktown
, could go onforever. Richard hit “next message.” The grants office, telling him there was a form he hadn’t turned in. “Wright?” a man’s voice said. Peter Davis, his roommate when they were interns. He never bothered to identify himself. “I suppose you’ve heard,” Davis said. “I can’t believe it about fox, can you? This isn’t some kind of virus, is it? If so, you’d better get vaccinated. Or at least call and warn me before you hit the star. Call me.”
He wondered what that was all about. The only Fox he knew was R. John Foxx, a neuropsychologist who’d been conducting research on anoxia as the cause of near-death experiences. Richard hit “next message” again.
Someone from the International Paranormal Society. Mr. Wojakowski again. “Hiya, Doc. Hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I’d try again. Wanted to make sure it’s two o’clock tomorrow. Or fourteen bells, as we used to say on the
Yorktown.”
Amelia Tanaka, saying, “I may be a few minutes late, Dr. Wright. I’ve got an anatomy exam, and last time it took the whole two hours. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mr. Suarez, wanting to reschedule his session for tomorrow. Davis again, even more incomprehensible than before. “Forgot to tell you where. Seventeen. Under phantom,” followed by an unrecognizable tuneless humming. Housekeeping.
“Dr. Wright?” Joanna’s voice said. He leaned alertly toward the machine. “This is Joanna Lander. A—Your machine is full,” the answering machine said.
“No,”
Richard said. Damn Davis. Damn Mr. Wojakowski, with his endless reminiscences of the
Yorktown.
The one message he really needed to hear—
He hit “repeat” and played the message again. “Dr. Wright? This is Joanna Lander. A—” Was that sound at the end “I,” as in, “I’d love to work with you on your project.” or a short “a,” as in, “After due consideration, I’ve decided to decline your offer” ?
He listened to it again. “Ah,” he decided. As in, “Ah, forget it” ? Or, “All my life I’ve wanted a chance at a project like this” ? There was no way to tell. He’d have to wait until ten o’clock and see if she showed up. Or try and locate her.
Or not, considering this hospital. That was all he needed, for her to be here waiting and looking at her watch, while hetried to find his way back from the west wing. He picked up the phone and paged her, just on the chance she had her pager switched on, and then hit “repeat” again. There must have been something in her tone that would be a clue as to whether—
“All your messages have been erased,” the machine said. No! He dived at the machine, hit “play.” “You have zero messages.”
Richard grabbed for a prescription pad. “Wojakowski,” he scribbled. “Cartwright Chemical, Davis—” Who else? he thought, trying to reconstruct the messages in his mind. Mrs. Brightman, and then somebody from Northwestern. Geneva Carlson? The phone rang. Richard snatched it up, hoping it was Joanna. “Hello?”
“So, have you seen it?” Davis said.
“Seen what, Davis?”
“The star!”
“What star? You call and leave an undecipherable message—”
“Undecipherable?” Davis said, sounding offended. “It
The Light at the End of the Tunnel?
”
“Oh, yes,” Richard said to the machine.
“We’re extremely fortunate to have him here,” Mrs. Brightman’s message continued. “I feel sure you two will have a great deal to say to each other.”
“Not if there’s a stairway handy,” he said and hit “next message.” A Mr. Edelman from the National Association of Paranormal Experiences, Mr. Wojakowski.
“Just double-checking about tomorrow,” Mr. Wojakowski said. “Tried to call you before, but couldn’t get through. Reminds me of these telephones we had on the
Yorktown
for sending messages up to the bridge. You had to wind ’em up with a crank kinda deal, and—”
Mr. Wojakowski, once started on the
Yorktown
, could go onforever. Richard hit “next message.” The grants office, telling him there was a form he hadn’t turned in. “Wright?” a man’s voice said. Peter Davis, his roommate when they were interns. He never bothered to identify himself. “I suppose you’ve heard,” Davis said. “I can’t believe it about fox, can you? This isn’t some kind of virus, is it? If so, you’d better get vaccinated. Or at least call and warn me before you hit the star. Call me.”
He wondered what that was all about. The only Fox he knew was R. John Foxx, a neuropsychologist who’d been conducting research on anoxia as the cause of near-death experiences. Richard hit “next message” again.
Someone from the International Paranormal Society. Mr. Wojakowski again. “Hiya, Doc. Hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I’d try again. Wanted to make sure it’s two o’clock tomorrow. Or fourteen bells, as we used to say on the
Yorktown.”
Amelia Tanaka, saying, “I may be a few minutes late, Dr. Wright. I’ve got an anatomy exam, and last time it took the whole two hours. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mr. Suarez, wanting to reschedule his session for tomorrow. Davis again, even more incomprehensible than before. “Forgot to tell you where. Seventeen. Under phantom,” followed by an unrecognizable tuneless humming. Housekeeping.
“Dr. Wright?” Joanna’s voice said. He leaned alertly toward the machine. “This is Joanna Lander. A—Your machine is full,” the answering machine said.
“No,”
Richard said. Damn Davis. Damn Mr. Wojakowski, with his endless reminiscences of the
Yorktown.
The one message he really needed to hear—
He hit “repeat” and played the message again. “Dr. Wright? This is Joanna Lander. A—” Was that sound at the end “I,” as in, “I’d love to work with you on your project.” or a short “a,” as in, “After due consideration, I’ve decided to decline your offer” ?
He listened to it again. “Ah,” he decided. As in, “Ah, forget it” ? Or, “All my life I’ve wanted a chance at a project like this” ? There was no way to tell. He’d have to wait until ten o’clock and see if she showed up. Or try and locate her.
Or not, considering this hospital. That was all he needed, for her to be here waiting and looking at her watch, while hetried to find his way back from the west wing. He picked up the phone and paged her, just on the chance she had her pager switched on, and then hit “repeat” again. There must have been something in her tone that would be a clue as to whether—
“All your messages have been erased,” the machine said. No! He dived at the machine, hit “play.” “You have zero messages.”
Richard grabbed for a prescription pad. “Wojakowski,” he scribbled. “Cartwright Chemical, Davis—” Who else? he thought, trying to reconstruct the messages in his mind. Mrs. Brightman, and then somebody from Northwestern. Geneva Carlson? The phone rang. Richard snatched it up, hoping it was Joanna. “Hello?”
“So, have you seen it?” Davis said.
“Seen what, Davis?”
“The star!”
“What star? You call and leave an undecipherable message—”
“Undecipherable?” Davis said, sounding offended. “It
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