The Last Starfighter Read Online Free PDF Page B

Photonics were streaking for his position and there seemed no way out. In the split second available for making a decision he determined to do the unexpected. Instead of fleeing or trying evasion mode he boosted speed toward his attacker. The photonics, calculated to intercept him only if he fled, exploded harmlessly behind him. Before a second wave could be fired in defense, his fingers were stabbing as smoothly as any typist’s on the fire control buttons.
    The image of the alien command ship exploded and the bright flare of light shrank pupils all around the screen, making some of the onlookers wince involuntarily. The score limned by the red LED readout above the action rolled over past nine hundred ninety-nine thousand while the synthesized voice inside the console screamed triumphantly, “RECORD BREAKER, RECORD BREAKER!”
    The lights faded, the screen blanked, to be replaced briefly with the words, “CONGRATULATIONS, STARFIGHTER.”
    “Wow.” Louis’s voice was reverent. “You really blew it away, Alex. What happens now?”
    Trying to sound nonchalant, Alex gave a little shrug and turned diffidently away from the console. “Got to find a tougher game, I guess. No point in playing this one anymore.”
    More personal accolades were heaped upon the champion in the intermittent light supplied by the buzzing neon sign. Though most of the older inhabitants of the trailer park (Otis being the exception) knew next to nothing about the newfangled electronic games, they could recognize skill in another, and it was self-evident that Alex had just done something very exceptional.
    Gradually their talk turned to more familiar topics weather, taxes, the price of gas, the weather, the quality of this year’s cotton crop, how many tourists could be expected during the Season and, of course, the weather. They slid off into the night, chatting amiably as friends do, the quick jolt of excitement already forgotten. Otis gave Alex a congratulatory pat on the back before heading for his own mobile.
    Alex turned to Maggie. “Whattaya think?”
    “Not bad. But is there a future in it?”
    He slumped. “Guess not. But it’s fun.” He tried for a lecherous grin. “Want to come over and see my electronic etchings?”
    “You know, Alex, I always wondered what a real etching was.”
    “Me too, but it’s a nice line. Well, how about coming over to watch the crickets sing?”
    “Do they sound like Men at Work?”
    “Depends on the crickets.”
    She grinned. “Okay, but you have to promise to walk me home. It’s scaaarrry out.” The Gordon trailer was one step removed from the Rogan’s.
    “It’s a deal, if my feet hold out. I’ve been on them all day.”
    She was suddenly sympathetic again. “I’m really sorry about the picnic, Alex.”
    “That’s okay. At least one of us had a good time.”
    The crickets were not recordable, nor did they sound much like Men at Work, or even their much earlier namesakes. It didn’t matter to Alex and Maggie. They snuggled close on the worn porch swing set up in the small fenced are a that was the Rogan’s front yard, luxuriating in the cool evening air. Around them the trailer park was winding down for the night. It was the end of still another summer day. Maggie said little, preoccupied, and Alex was wise enough not to press her for her thoughts.
    Somewhere Dan Rather’s report clashed with the Spinners doing “Rubberband Man” on Otis’s stereo. Otis had asked Alex for his opinion on compact disc players, but gave up on the idea when he discovered there was nothing out that he wanted to hear. Sony didn’t seem interested in Otis’s favorite music.
    Alex didn’t care much for it either, except for one singer Otis played over and over. It was a voice that stood out even above the news of the war in Afghanistan and the rise in the prime rate: Billie Holiday. Alex wished he could have seen her in concert. That made Otis smile, because he knew his young friend would never have been