A Vomit of Diamonds Read Online Free PDF Page B

indifference. Mayura sighed inwardly. Bouchard’s
proclivity for self-deprecation was not an attitude she liked to
see in him; there was something awfully Dostoyevskian about that
frown he assumed during such moments of doubt. “You’re too hard on
yourself,” she gently chastised him. The latter gave a Parisian
shrug, remarking, matter-of-factly: “And you are too
kind.”

X
     
    “Dear Grandpapa,
    The mornings here in Canberra are cold
— Siberia cold. Each dawn I curse the inclement weather while
tracing the curves of Lake Burley Griffin, one goal obsessively set
in my mind; that of hurrying back to my heated room, therein to
bask like an exotic reptile lazing under its heat lamp in a private
terrarium.
    Even during the day the temperature
rises to a disappointing vertex. Fabrics upon fabrics are layered
on. It is a heavy load. One which, when walking to lectures, and
with the wind slapping the face like a bucket of iced water poured
down the head, prompts some cruel desires for a big fur coat made
from a polar bear.
    Nevertheless, yesterday my friend and
I braved the dreadful conditions for a trip into town, our
destination being Coco, the haute couture of chocolates. And Borg!
were the desserts worthy of surviving into the next generation. I
ordered a chocolate mousse. Indecently delicious. My companion had
the affogato; which evoked an emotional response so powerful she
could have been the face of an energy drink. Besides our private
choices we also had a plate of pralines to share. You should have
seen us both, chatting and indulging the little sweetmeats like two
Roman Dominas exchanging gossip over a dish of olives.
    But enough about times now gone by,
let us turn to the future; whence tomorrow astro camp begins. The
program takes up a full week; broken into four days of lectures on
campus and the last three days at an observatory.
    Actually, I’m still rather amazed at
being included in the chosen ten. Perhaps the judges thought it
prudent to throw in a person of average means, intellectually, into
the bunch, so as to show for publicity’s sake, that they were by
all appearances an accepting race.
    Alas that is all I have to report for
now. But anticipate your next letter I do. For what troubles have
you and Nana gotten yourselves into this month? I am keen to know.
Likewise, you may count upon receiving a history of my own
adventures at astro camp. What strange things will happen during
that time I cannot predict, though I’m fairly certain that it will
be very alien indeed.
    Your Grandson,
    Balzac”

     

XI
     
    On Monday morning at the pre-planned time, Bouchard left
Helena Hall and headed in the direction of the Physics domain,
wherein a modern building painted asteroid-grey was base to the
ANU’s Research School of Astronomy and Astrophysics. “The ANU’s
Starfleet Academy,” he inwardly remarked, approaching the front
entrance with a growing delusion of grandeur.
    Standing in a circle in the building’s
foyer was a group of people, among them, Sarah, the aforementioned
announcer; and with her a few participants who had arrived early.
Bouchard walked over to join them. “Astro camp?” Sarah asked with a
serious smile. “Yes,” Balzac replied, almost saying indeed. There
were a few faces in the present group that he did not recognize.
Fortunately however, there was one individual in the small crowd
whom he could attach himself to. This person was Perry Zimmerman. A
good-natured fellow who reminded Bouchard of a teenaged Obi-Wan
Kenobi; having boyish good looks, towards the short side, with
brown hair and calm blue eyes. Naturally he was also very wise; an
Advanced Science student worthy of interning at Caltech during the
summer.
    Zimmerman greeted Bouchard with a
friendly nod, which was curtly returned. The conversation in the
circle resumed where it had left off; something physics related.
Bouchard did not contribute; for in this crowd of smart strangers,
his attitude shed its Anna Karenina