A Vomit of Diamonds by Boripat Lebel Page A

did not
mention that that was his first thought too; for he went with the
ion cannon comparison because it sounded less nerdy.
    “What have you guys been observing?”
Sarah turned to Eric. “For the past three nights we’ve been
pointing at the Magellanic Clouds,” Eric replied, becoming more
serious now, as Sarah’s question had not been delivered lightly;
“But we’re a bit behind schedule at the moment.”
    “Is something wrong with the
Cassegrain cage?” Perry asked, indicating the crew of technicians
working on a catwalk platform at the bottom of the telescope,
appearing to be engaged hurriedly in fixing a technical issue.
“Yes!” Eric exclaimed, excited that someone recognized the serious
trouble The Dome was currently facing; “One of the components was
replaced this morning,” he explained, “But the strange thing is, it
didn’t fix the problem!”
    After a brief stop at the control
room, where three operators sat separately interacting with their
respective consoles, the tour headed for the Coudé room. “This is
where the magic happens!” Eric said dramatically; “All the
collected light rays are focused in here.” It was a messy room with
cables and connected apparatuses. “Air con, really?” Minho gruffly
complained, hugging himself. “The machines can get really hot,”
Sarah explained. “And they’re very expensive to replace!” Eric
joked.

XVIII
     
    It was nearing eleven o’clock by the time
Sarah dropped off her charges back at the guest house. The other
group had already arrived and were assembled in the drawing-room,
filling it up with a lively exchange that was only amplified by the
merging. A French evening ensued. The kind one
reads about in novels that repeat verbatim the dialogues and
meaningful glances exchanged during a private party hosted by a
great lady in Paris; events which frequently take place in
Bouchard’s own creative writings. For example:
    “With an address in the Faubourg
Saint-Germain was a handsome baroque mansion; it belonged the House
of Chichi and had been built during the height of Madame de
Pompadour’s influence over at Versailles. Within, chandeliers
fountained from ceilings and portraits worthy of belonging in the
Winter Palace decorated walls; a Parian marble staircase
communicated between the floors and sets of glazed furniture turned
rooms into living spaces; ornaments from across the seas gave
purpose to its stands and vases of exotic flowers perfumed the air.
In short, all the things that announce taste could be found in this
house, whose present occupants included the Dowager Duchess de
Chichi and her recently ennobled grandson Zola, known henceforth in
high society as Monsieur le Duc de Chichi.
    Gathered in the red salon on this
summer evening were important ladies and statesmen of the upper
echelon, men of letters and celebrity artists, whose geniuses the
aristocrats poked and prodded with the condescending interests of a
child jabbing at a washed-up jellyfish. Presiding over it all like
an Empress of China in her imperial court was the exuberant Madame
de Chichi herself; a thin-figured woman with an expressive face and
a body that perpetually shook with gesticulations — a thousand
words conveyed in a single wave of the hand. This grande dame was
tonight attired in black to better contrast with the set of chunky
rubies she loaded on for the occasion. Indeed, her personality was
still full of pizzazz despite the winters she had
endured.
    ‘That hair!’ exclaimed Madame de
Chichi, passing by a mature socialite while making her rounds of
the salon. ‘These old things?’ to a compliment of her jewels.
‘Jealousy is the one thing love and hate have in common,’ she
remarked after listening to a saucy scandal involving a countess,
her husband, and her other man. ‘You’ve never tried paprika?!’ was
the dumbfounded question addressed to a sojourning Romanov. ‘But if
all art was tasteful then where would you be?’ she said to a