“They’re coming!” Tamara instantly let go of Michael and rushed to the door at the front of the cabin. With one hand she grasped the door’s handle and swung it open, and with the other she pulled a gun out of her pants, the same gray pistol she’d used to kill Dr. Parsons.
She waited in the doorway, pointing her gun outside and peering into the darkness. After about fifteen seconds Michael heard the sound of a car approaching, then screeching to a halt. After another ten seconds he heard footsteps. Then Tamara stepped back from the doorway and a man without a face entered the plane.
He wore black pants and a black jacket, and his head was wrapped in a thick black scarf that covered everything except his eyes. Michael stared at him, transfixed. It was like a man-size piece of the darkness outside had drifted into the plane’s cabin. He wasn’t very tall—in fact, he was shorter than Tamara—but he had a broad chest and bulky shoulders, and the narrow confines of the cabin made him look enormous. His eyes glinted within the slit of his head scarf as he approached Michael’s gurney.
Tamara followed a few feet behind. “This is Brother Cyrus,” she announced. “Say hello, Michael.”
The strange thing was, Michael wasn’t afraid. This is a game, he told himself. He imagined he was immersed in a computer game, one of the first-person shooters he used to play all the time on his Game Boy. David had convinced him to stop playing the more violent programs—War-fighter, Desert Commando, America’s Army—but Michael remembered them clearly. In all those games the enemy soldiers looked like Brother Cyrus. They wore black uniforms and helmets, and their faces were usually masked or obscured so you wouldn’t feel bad about shooting them. And if this was a game, Michael reasoned, there must be a strategy for winning. He didn’t have a gun, unfortunately, and his avatar was immobilized. But he wasn’t defenseless.
He avoided looking at the man’s eyes. Instead he focused on the black creases where the scarf wrapped around his jaw. “Hello, Brother Cyrus,” he said.
The man folded his arms across his chest. He wore black gloves, Michael noticed. Not a single square inch of his skin was exposed. It was impossible to tell whether he was white or black or something in between.
“Hello, Michael,” he finally said. His voice was low, muffled by the scarf. “Please forgive my appearance. I suffered a disfiguring accident a few years ago. I’ve found that it’s less disturbing for everyone if I keep my face hidden.”
For a moment Michael wondered what kind of accident it was. A fire? An explosion? But in the end it didn’t matter, he thought. He disliked looking at faces anyway. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“All in good time, Michael, all in good time. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. When I was a young man I once met Amil Gupta, your grandfather. He was an assistant to Albert Einstein during the 1950s, correct? And he married the great man’s granddaughter?” Brother Cyrus moved closer. The creases in his scarf shifted as he cocked his head. “Amil was a genius himself, one of the finest physicists of his generation. I was very sorry to hear about his death.”
Michael didn’t want to talk about his grandfather. Amil Gupta had broken his promise and tried to reveal the Einheitliche Feldtheorie . David had told Michael that he shouldn’t think too badly of his grandfather; the old man had gotten sick, David said, and the sickness had made him do all those terrible things. But Michael didn’t believe it. He decided to repeat his previous question, which Brother Cyrus hadn’t answered. “Where are you taking me?”
Tamara stepped forward. “Michael! Show some respect!” Then she leaned over his gurney and slapped him in the face.
The pain and surprise were so sharp, Michael’s eyes watered. Still, he didn’t turn away from Brother Cyrus. It’s just a game, he told himself
She waited in the doorway, pointing her gun outside and peering into the darkness. After about fifteen seconds Michael heard the sound of a car approaching, then screeching to a halt. After another ten seconds he heard footsteps. Then Tamara stepped back from the doorway and a man without a face entered the plane.
He wore black pants and a black jacket, and his head was wrapped in a thick black scarf that covered everything except his eyes. Michael stared at him, transfixed. It was like a man-size piece of the darkness outside had drifted into the plane’s cabin. He wasn’t very tall—in fact, he was shorter than Tamara—but he had a broad chest and bulky shoulders, and the narrow confines of the cabin made him look enormous. His eyes glinted within the slit of his head scarf as he approached Michael’s gurney.
Tamara followed a few feet behind. “This is Brother Cyrus,” she announced. “Say hello, Michael.”
The strange thing was, Michael wasn’t afraid. This is a game, he told himself. He imagined he was immersed in a computer game, one of the first-person shooters he used to play all the time on his Game Boy. David had convinced him to stop playing the more violent programs—War-fighter, Desert Commando, America’s Army—but Michael remembered them clearly. In all those games the enemy soldiers looked like Brother Cyrus. They wore black uniforms and helmets, and their faces were usually masked or obscured so you wouldn’t feel bad about shooting them. And if this was a game, Michael reasoned, there must be a strategy for winning. He didn’t have a gun, unfortunately, and his avatar was immobilized. But he wasn’t defenseless.
He avoided looking at the man’s eyes. Instead he focused on the black creases where the scarf wrapped around his jaw. “Hello, Brother Cyrus,” he said.
The man folded his arms across his chest. He wore black gloves, Michael noticed. Not a single square inch of his skin was exposed. It was impossible to tell whether he was white or black or something in between.
“Hello, Michael,” he finally said. His voice was low, muffled by the scarf. “Please forgive my appearance. I suffered a disfiguring accident a few years ago. I’ve found that it’s less disturbing for everyone if I keep my face hidden.”
For a moment Michael wondered what kind of accident it was. A fire? An explosion? But in the end it didn’t matter, he thought. He disliked looking at faces anyway. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“All in good time, Michael, all in good time. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. When I was a young man I once met Amil Gupta, your grandfather. He was an assistant to Albert Einstein during the 1950s, correct? And he married the great man’s granddaughter?” Brother Cyrus moved closer. The creases in his scarf shifted as he cocked his head. “Amil was a genius himself, one of the finest physicists of his generation. I was very sorry to hear about his death.”
Michael didn’t want to talk about his grandfather. Amil Gupta had broken his promise and tried to reveal the Einheitliche Feldtheorie . David had told Michael that he shouldn’t think too badly of his grandfather; the old man had gotten sick, David said, and the sickness had made him do all those terrible things. But Michael didn’t believe it. He decided to repeat his previous question, which Brother Cyrus hadn’t answered. “Where are you taking me?”
Tamara stepped forward. “Michael! Show some respect!” Then she leaned over his gurney and slapped him in the face.
The pain and surprise were so sharp, Michael’s eyes watered. Still, he didn’t turn away from Brother Cyrus. It’s just a game, he told himself
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