clifford_a-_pickover_surfing_through_hyperspacebookfi-org

142 surfing through hyperspace
a biological oddity at some museum of pathology. You recall seeing something
like it at the Smithsonian Museum of Pathology where curators had
unveiled freakish things afloat in jars, body organs delicately detached, soft
arteries infused with wax, flesh still fresh as if the objects were still alive.
There are footsteps behind you. "What's going on here?"
A man approaches you with his hand on his gun. He stands six feet
tall, with a barrel chest and rock-hard belly to match. His cheeks look as
if they'd been sandblasted. The arms of his camouflage suit are torn off,
revealing muscular arms decorated with faded green tattoos that run
from his wrists to his biceps. His huge hands are scarred and soaked with
sweat. With slow, deliberate movements, the man removes a black headband
from his pocket and ties it around his forehead.
"FBI," you say and flash him your badge. "Who are you?"
"Captain Richard Narcinko, ex-Navy SEAL. My job is to secure the
room. This is a matter of national security."
"Ooh," Sally says as a tiny dot of flesh rises from the blob. It drifts
toward her, moving like a feather floating in the breeze. Sally's hand goes
to her face as her eyes open wide in wonder. The dot floats at the height of
her head, flashing various shades of red and lavender. At the edges of the
fleshy ball are little sparkles, as if the dot is igniting tiny dust particles in
the air as it moves through them.
Sally raises her gun again. "Oh my God!" she says as she points to
another flesh-ball rising from the blob. It seems to follow the first.
But then she lowers her gun and smiles as the twin balls of flesh dance
in front of her eyes. She doesn't seem frightened at all.
"Be careful," you say to Sally. "Back away."
"I don't sense they are harmful."
" 'Sense?' Sally, what are you talking about? Back away."
Outside there is an occasional cry of a bird. These cries sound distant,
diffuse, as if part of a reality isolated from what is happening in the
White House.
One of the dots continues to dance before Sally's eyes. The other slips
between her legs, rises along her back, and merges with the first dot.
Sally's grin widens, and her whole body shivers like an excited child's. A
few strands of her hair stand at right angles to her body; perhaps there is
static electricity in the air. She raises her hands as if she is conducting an
invisible orchestra, but it begins to look more like she is casting a spell or
stirring a witch's potion.