brow.
“Because, I just told you so.”
With a thoughtful look, Ruth says, “Well, having you around will be an interesting experience, kind of like having my own ghost.”
* * *
Later, we're eating dinner alone in the spacious dining room. It has a vaulted ceiling, and the walls are dark, burnished wood, with elegant, family portraits placed discreetly around the room. Ruth and I are sitting at the head and foot of a mahogany dining table that seats eight. A shimmering chandelier graces the ceiling directly over the table. Every time the air conditioner kicks on, the air current causes it to tinkle with a soft, melodious sound.
Ruth is dressed in black jeans, with a pearl white, satin blouse. The only ornaments she wears are the wedding bands on her finger and necklace. Between mouthfuls, Ruth resumes her questions. “Do you think your abilities can be genetically inherited?”
“You mean like sire a superbaby?” I ask between a bite of steak, which is cooked just the way I like, medium rare.
“Yes, sort of,” she says, gesturing with her fork.
“I have no idea,” I admit, “but I've made myself temporarily sterile. I've been planning on studying my chromosomes for defects, but haven't gotten around to doing it yet. No hurry, I guess,” I end with a shrug.
Ruth has an enthusiastic look on her face, and a mouth full of green beans. “I think you should, Arthur. You could start a super race of men.”
“That's already been tried. Don't you remember Hitler?” I reply sardonically.
“No, I mean good people,” she disagrees with a frown.
“And how long before they begin controlling the ordinary people?” I ask with a smirk, taking a sip of my wine.
“You don't know that, it might never happen,” Ruth argues, shaking her head. She has a valid point. I've had the same argument before, with myself.
“I think it's too risky,” I dismiss with a shake of my head.
“Just think, if the free world had six people like you, nobody would ever bother us,” she points out.
“That's politics, and I won't get involved in that mess.”
“Sure, because you're way above our petty affairs,” she scoffs. “But what about all us lowly, normal mortals, don't we get a chance at peace and a quiet, safe life?”
Not wanting to get into a political debate, I keep my trap shut and finish my delicious dinner.
Over some weird pudding-like-stuff that's dessert, Ruth continues her interrogation. “What would happen if a nuclear bomb detonates near you?”
“Nothing,” I say flatly. That statement induces a long unblinking stare.
Finding her voice, she asks with wonder, “Not even at ground zero?”
“No.”
God, how can she eat this stuff?
The pudding is a nasty brown color and smells like old, well used socks, with a lumpy texture, leaving a gooey coating on my tongue.
“What would happen to you, if you were at ground zero?” she persists.
Obviously she isn't going to stop, so at least if I'm talking, she can't. Besides, then I can forget my pudding.
With that thought, I finish my wine and slide the brown, yucky pudding farther away from me.
“All right, Doctor, I'll try to explain the process to you. Not in technical terms, because none of the nuclear physicist experts have a clue of what actually happens to me.”
There, the pudding is pushed away, and as I rise from my chair, I drop my napkin over the bowl.
Perfect. If big fancy estates like this one have cockroaches, they'll be in for one hell of a nasty surprise if they eat the pudding.
I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.
I stroll to the bar and pour a brandy, then sit next to Ruth. Trying to wash the terrible taste away, I swish some brandy around in my mouth. Better, but my tongue still wants to stick to the roof of my mouth. Taking another sip, I continue, “The reason a nuclear blast won't hurt me is because of my force-field.” Ruth gives me another long, unblinking, quizzical stare. “When I became fairly proficient at matter
“Because, I just told you so.”
With a thoughtful look, Ruth says, “Well, having you around will be an interesting experience, kind of like having my own ghost.”
* * *
Later, we're eating dinner alone in the spacious dining room. It has a vaulted ceiling, and the walls are dark, burnished wood, with elegant, family portraits placed discreetly around the room. Ruth and I are sitting at the head and foot of a mahogany dining table that seats eight. A shimmering chandelier graces the ceiling directly over the table. Every time the air conditioner kicks on, the air current causes it to tinkle with a soft, melodious sound.
Ruth is dressed in black jeans, with a pearl white, satin blouse. The only ornaments she wears are the wedding bands on her finger and necklace. Between mouthfuls, Ruth resumes her questions. “Do you think your abilities can be genetically inherited?”
“You mean like sire a superbaby?” I ask between a bite of steak, which is cooked just the way I like, medium rare.
“Yes, sort of,” she says, gesturing with her fork.
“I have no idea,” I admit, “but I've made myself temporarily sterile. I've been planning on studying my chromosomes for defects, but haven't gotten around to doing it yet. No hurry, I guess,” I end with a shrug.
Ruth has an enthusiastic look on her face, and a mouth full of green beans. “I think you should, Arthur. You could start a super race of men.”
“That's already been tried. Don't you remember Hitler?” I reply sardonically.
“No, I mean good people,” she disagrees with a frown.
“And how long before they begin controlling the ordinary people?” I ask with a smirk, taking a sip of my wine.
“You don't know that, it might never happen,” Ruth argues, shaking her head. She has a valid point. I've had the same argument before, with myself.
“I think it's too risky,” I dismiss with a shake of my head.
“Just think, if the free world had six people like you, nobody would ever bother us,” she points out.
“That's politics, and I won't get involved in that mess.”
“Sure, because you're way above our petty affairs,” she scoffs. “But what about all us lowly, normal mortals, don't we get a chance at peace and a quiet, safe life?”
Not wanting to get into a political debate, I keep my trap shut and finish my delicious dinner.
Over some weird pudding-like-stuff that's dessert, Ruth continues her interrogation. “What would happen if a nuclear bomb detonates near you?”
“Nothing,” I say flatly. That statement induces a long unblinking stare.
Finding her voice, she asks with wonder, “Not even at ground zero?”
“No.”
God, how can she eat this stuff?
The pudding is a nasty brown color and smells like old, well used socks, with a lumpy texture, leaving a gooey coating on my tongue.
“What would happen to you, if you were at ground zero?” she persists.
Obviously she isn't going to stop, so at least if I'm talking, she can't. Besides, then I can forget my pudding.
With that thought, I finish my wine and slide the brown, yucky pudding farther away from me.
“All right, Doctor, I'll try to explain the process to you. Not in technical terms, because none of the nuclear physicist experts have a clue of what actually happens to me.”
There, the pudding is pushed away, and as I rise from my chair, I drop my napkin over the bowl.
Perfect. If big fancy estates like this one have cockroaches, they'll be in for one hell of a nasty surprise if they eat the pudding.
I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.
I stroll to the bar and pour a brandy, then sit next to Ruth. Trying to wash the terrible taste away, I swish some brandy around in my mouth. Better, but my tongue still wants to stick to the roof of my mouth. Taking another sip, I continue, “The reason a nuclear blast won't hurt me is because of my force-field.” Ruth gives me another long, unblinking, quizzical stare. “When I became fairly proficient at matter
Similar Books
