Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! by Gary Phillips, Andrea Gibbons Page B

the warm rock of the floor, feeling the bruises blush. Then Jakob crawled around and squatted by each of them, placing his hands on their foreheads. “Oh yeah,” he would say. “You’re okay. Wake up now. Look around you.” And in the after-black they stretched and stretched, quivering like dogs on a scent. The bulks in the black, the shapes they made as they moved and groaned … yes, it came to Oliver again, and he rubbed his face and looked around, eyes shut to help him see. “I ran into it on the way back in,” he said.
    They all went still. He told them what had happened. “The blue in your pocket?”
    They considered his story in silence. No one understood it.
    No one spoke of Hester. Oliver found he couldn’t. She had been his friend. To live without that gaunt crow’s voice …
    Sometime later the side door slid up, and they hurried into the barn to eat. The chickens squawked as they took the eggs, the cows mooed as they milked them. The stove plates turned the slightest bit luminous—redblack, again—and by their light his three eyes saw all. Solly cracked and fried eggs. Oliver went to work on his vats of cheese, pulled out a round of it that was ready. Jakob sat at the rear of one cow and laughed as it turned to butt his knee.
Splish splish! Splish splish!
When he was done he picked up the cow and put it down in front of its hay, where it chomped happily. Animal stink of them all, the many fine smells of food cutting through it. Jakob laughed at his cow, which butted his knee again as if objecting to the ridicule. “Little pig of a cow, little piglet. Mexican cows. They bred for this size, you know. On Earth the ordinary cow is as tall as Oliver, and about as big as this whole pen.”
    They laughed at the idea, not believing him. The buzzer cut them off, and the meal was over. Back into their pen, to lay their bodies down.
    Still no talk of Hester, and Oliver found his skin crawling again as he recalled his encounter with whatever it was that sniffed through the mines. Jakob came over and asked him about it, sounding puzzled. Then he handed Oliver a rock. “Imagine this is a perfect sphere, like a baseball.”
    â€œBaseball?”
    â€œLike a ball bearing, perfectly round and smooth you know.”
    Ah yes. Spherical geometry again. Trigonometry too. Oliver groaned, resisting the work. Then Jakob got him interested despite himself, in the intricacy of it all, the way it all fell together in a complex but comprehensible pattern. Sine and cosine, so clear! And the clearer it got the more he could see: the mesh of the bullpen, the network of shafts and tunnels and caverns piercing the jumbled fabric of the moon’s body … all clear lines of redblack on black, like the metal of the stove plate as it just came visible, and all from Jakob’s clear, patiently fingered, perfectly balanced equations. He could see through rock.
    â€œGood work,” Jakob said when Oliver got tired. They lay there among the others, shifting around to find hollows for their hips.
    Silence of the off-shift. Muffled clanks downshaft, floor trembling at a detonation miles of rock away; ears popped as air smashed into the dead end of their tunnel, compressed to something nearly liquid for just an instant. Must have been a Boesman. Ringing silence again.
    â€œSo what is it, Jakob?” Solly asked when they could hear each other again.
    â€œIt’s an element,” Jakob said sleepily. “A strange kind of element, nothing else like it. Promethium. Number sixty-one on the periodic table. A rare earth, a lanthanide, an inner transition metal. We’re finding it in veins of an ore called monazite, and in pure grains and nuggets scattered in the ore.”
    Impatient, almost pleading: “But what makes it so special?”
    For a long time Jakob didn’t answer. They could hear him thinking. Then he said, “Atoms have a nucleus, made of