Ares Express Read Online Free PDF Page B

win a game like this, but to delay the fall of the beans as long as possible. Then we shall begin our reading.”
    â€œNo problem.” Sweetness reached for a stick.
    â€œOne rule. Whatever you touch, you must draw.”
    â€œI get ya.” She confidently drew the stick at which she had aimed her finger. The first five moves were simple, even mindless; then, as the beans rattled and sagged, it became a true game, with demands of thought and foresight. She sucked her lower lip in concentration and hovered between two spills that crossed deep in the heart of the bean heap.
    â€œSo, how does this work anyway?”
    â€œYou pull the sticks. Gravity supplies the rest.”
    â€œI mean, how does it tell the future?”
    â€œHow should I know?” the green man said. “All I know is it does.”
    Her fingers seesawed, decided, decided again, locked firmly around the spill that stuck out at thirty degrees. She could feel the beans grind over the wood as she withdrew the stick. A lurch. A solitary bean hit the bottom of the future-machine. She found she had been holding her breath, and released it in a relieved sigh.
    â€œSome beans will always fall,” the green man said, taking the stick. “Hm. Queen's Canton.”
    â€œIs that good or bad?”
    â€œIt is, that's all.” He laid it next to the others in an orderly row.
    â€œI've got an uncle can see the future,” Sweetness said matter-of-factly. She squatted low, hands on the table, eyes level with the web of spills.
    â€œIndeed?” said the green man.
    â€œThough he'd tell you it's not so much seeing the future, it's more like having a wider now.”
    â€œAn interesting perspective.”
    â€œThat's what he says. But then, he is a signal light.”
    â€œThat would give…novel…insights.”
    â€œHe was working on the pylon when he got hit by lightning.” Sweetness drew a stick like a Belladonna rapieree drawing a swordstick. “There!”
    â€œBravo,” said the green man.
    Three sticks later there was a click and a sag and all the beans hit the bottom of the jar like goondah-flung pebbles on a widow's window.
    â€œOh,” said Sweetness. The green man was now crouching, studying the pattern of the remaining sticks. He turned the future-ometer over in his hands. Sweetness noticed that he was frowning. She thought of ploughing.
    â€œBone Sandals in parallel with Boy of Two Dusts, crossing Innocent Excesses obliquely. But Boy of Two Dusts overruns Scent of Lavender, then exits hole eight eight, upper right quadrant; the Deserted Quarter.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    The green man raised a finger to his lips. He held the hour-glass up to the light that came from everywhere.
    â€œSee? Golden Thumb-ring is quite, quite horizontal, and in an isolated quadrant; notice that the only stick that approaches it is Eternal Assistance. Your family wants you wed.”
    His eyes—which Sweetness noticed had yellow irises—challenged her to be amazed.
    â€œThat's not hard. A trackgirl, my age? You're going to have to do better than that.”
    â€œI don't see a marriage, though.”
    â€œThat's more like it. You mean, ever?”
    The green man held the future-ometer out to Sweetness.
    â€œNot within the frame of the story.”
    â€œWhat story would that be?”
    â€œThe one you're in. The one we're all in. This.” The green man's hands cupped the wasp-waisted glass torso. “Stories are made up of lives but not all of life is a story. Only parts have the narrative construction, the dramatic energy, the confluence of incident, desire and coincidence that are the elements of story . Within here”—he again caressed the glass—“is the story of your life. Here and here”—he touched either green-tipped end of a scrying-stick—“are where you fade out of the once-upon-a-time and into the happy-ever-after. The rods, of course,