Flash Gordon Read Online Free PDF Page A

that of Flash.
    “Is everything all right, Mr. Gordon?” asked his waitress.
    “What? Oh, yes, of course it is.”
    The waitress smiled stiffly, as if she did not believe him and he had hurt her feelings. How could he explain? What excuse should he make?
    “Is there any problem, Mr. Gordon?” asked the thin host in a bass voice.
    Flash smiled woodenly. “Not at all. Everything’s fine. I just, uh, spaced out, that’s all.” He nodded at the waitress, but gestured for the host to come closer. The thin man approached, after a fashion; though he did not step up to the table, he did lean over until he practically reached a seventy-five-degree angle, thus demonstrating to those few watching and those fewer who cared that he was engaging in a most private conversation with an important guest. “Who is that beautiful young lady sitting over there? No, not her, the one in the white jacket who looks like a model.” With my luck, she’ll be one of those nude models for those cheap English newspapers.
    “I believe her name is Dale Arden, sir. She is a travel agent.”
    “Thanks.”
    Flash ate only half his hamburger; he nibbled at his tomatoes and he could not bear to look at his cottage cheese. He drank six cups of coffee. He tried not to be obvious about it (but he failed miserably) as he studied her and attempted to read hidden meanings in every nuance of her fluid movements. He was dazzled as much with the image of her as the reality, and she conjured in his mind visions of a woman who, though she perhaps knew her way around, was saving a special part of her heart for an ideal mate who would be her true love. Flash’s fantasies about her embarrassed him, though he feared he would be the only person who would ever know them; he had not felt so suddenly attracted to a woman (and with so little reason) since he graduated from high school. His heart pounded, his every movement seemed like a figment of his imagination, each thought was a message from a past he could not recall. His head swirled, his fingers trembled as he reached for his coffee. There was no doubt about it.
    Flash Gordon had been struck by the thunderbolt.
    In his hotel room, Flash switched on the television to watch the shifting colors and to hear its steady, shrill drone. He had no idea what program was on. She would not leave his thoughts; he imagined himself carrying on trivial yet meaningful conversations with her; he envisioned her playing an important part in every facet of his life; she embraced him, kissed him, pressed her boyishly feminine figure close against the hard muscles of his broad chest . . .
    Dale Arden. All-American Girl. He lay on the bed with his hands beneath his head; he stared at the ceiling, already bored of the mindless activity on the tube. He probably would never see her again, though she would occupy his thoughts until she almost became an obsession. No one at the training camp would know the emotions and the utter sense of defeat weighing down upon him. Soon, perhaps as quickly as two days, perhaps as long as two weeks, he would forget her; he would come to his senses or see Phyllis on the weekends or he would transfer his desire to another woman. But that woman would never affect him as deeply as this Dale Arden, he thought, closing his eyes and drifting to sleep despite the drone of the television. Twenty years from now, when he thought of this Dale, if he remembered her, she would merely be the regret of a middle-aged man, a possibility that had never materialized, an ideal shattered by grim realities.
    Finally he slept, his heart smothered by a frigid blackness and his mind filled with anxieties for his future. When he woke, nearly thirty minutes later than he had planned, he found he had tossed and turned the entire night, kicking the blankets onto the floor. Cursing because he had hoped for a large breakfast to see him through the day (he avoided food served on airplanes and at airports), he took a quick shower and