Author
Prologue
So this is how I’m going to die?
The thought formed in Peter Stewart’s mind in essence if not in actual words as the silver Land Rover hurtled through the air, upside down, and headed straight for the windshield of the Jeffersons’ BMW. Instinctively Peter turned to look out the window on the passenger side, and he saw just a flash of a face standing on the side of the road, with a jagged scar across the right cheek and a vivid expression of pure terror.
Brock sat in the front seat next to the driver. Lily Portman, the new girl, and Cole, Brock’s younger brother, were in the back seat beside Peter. He could not possibly have imagined a more unlikely group of people with whom to die. In that split second, he thought of his dad’s face – his sellotaped glasses and lopsided grin. He’d never see him again. Then –
Just at the moment when impact should have occurred, the entire scene vanished.
Peter blinked, his heart still pounding, and looked around. All he knew for sure was that he was in a very bright place: it was a meadow, peaceful and quiet, with a pool in the middle. A rainbow radiated from the surface of the pool, and he felt himself compelled irresistibly toward it. As he approached, it grew larger.
Am I dead? he wondered. Is this heaven? But he didn’t see the others – he was alone here. Then he saw that the others were in the rainbow – and they were still in the car. He recoiled: the rainbow showed him horrific, brutal images of the accident. The crushed front seat of the BMW obscured the driver completely beneath the wreckage. The other four were very clearly dead. He fought the nausea threatening to overtake him.
He looked again and realized that the scene took on an eerie red hue, as if viewed through a pair of tinted glasses. At first he thought that was because of the blood, but the upholstery was red too, and the trees –
He took a step back and saw the rest of the rainbow again. Cautiously, he moved toward orange, and the accident again blossomed into view before his eyes… but this time, the impact occurred slightly to the left of the previous one. Peter bit his lip, concentrating hard, trying to understand how reality could shift with each color, as if it were a physics problem to solve. He looked at Cole. He was still dead, but he bled from a wound in his cheekbone this time instead of just above his eye, like in the red version.
Peter stepped back again. Infinite variations existed in the rainbow between red and orange, each showing the impact at a slightly different angle. From his perspective on the bank of the pool, each ephemeral view of the accident was like a thousand shimmering possible realities inside a kaleidoscope. Peter searched through the colors of the rainbow frantically, looking for one, just one, which might offer some hope…
He found it buried somewhere between blue and violet. In that image, the Land Rover sat on the side of the road. Lily gasped for breath and Brock clutched the sides of his seat, but they were all otherwise all right. It looked as if the accident had never happened. Without thinking, without any idea what he was looking at, Peter somehow knew what he had to do: he aimed at the precise place in the pool where that shade of blue-violet emanated, and he dove in.
Instantly he was back in the car, his arms outstretched. Sweat poured from his brow, and he trembled from head to toe. The silver Land Rover hovered over the BMW, suspended in mid-air.
Well, set it down then!
Cole shrieked.
The statement jarred him. What did that mean?
That was the moment Peter realized he was the one holding up the Land Rover. His lips started muttering something without his permission, but he could not tell what they said; the words were unfamiliar. As he spoke, the car reversed its trajectory and landed on the side of the road, in exactly the same place it had started.
Except for the hammering of their hearts, it was as if the whole thing had never happened.
But really, it had just begun.
Chapter 1
Two days earlier
Well, this is boring, Peter thought.
He had just finished setting up his work bench in chemistry class for the day’s titration experiment. The students around him dripped sulfuric acid into sodium hydroxide, trying to turn the latter solution pink, indicating that it had neutralized.
He had done this experiment in his back yard when he was seven.
It took a long time, as he recalled, and the payoff of a pink solution at the end really wasn’t that exciting. He scoped out the classroom to see if there was anything he could do instead that might feel less like a waste of time. Unfortunately for Peter, Mr. Collins had figured out long ago that as long as Peter was in the class, it was absolutely vital to lock up all chemicals not strictly necessary for the day’s lesson.
So, as usual, he would have to improvise.
With several glances over his shoulder to make sure Mr. Collins’ back was turned, Peter opened all the drawers, looked under the sinks for any chemical he could use, even some sort of cleaning solution… nothing. Then he felt something in his jacket pocket, and withdrew a half-eaten Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bar from lunch the day before. He stared at it for a minute with intense concentration. This could have potential…
No eating in lab,
said Tiffany Bristol bossily, eyeing him from the next lab bench over.
I’m not planning on eating it,
Peter said slowly, only half-paying attention to her. Then a flash of insight lit up his face, and he couldn’t resist staying out loud, Aha!
What are you doing?
she asked suspiciously, and crept over to spy on him.
Peter remembered seeing a prepackaged scalpel blade in his bench drawers. He retrieved it, fitted it to the scalpel blade handle, and deftly began to carve a slit into a piece of perfectly good plastic tubing.
You’re damaging school property!
Tiffany said, horrified.
Shhh,
he hissed. It’s just plastic tubing. Nobody will even notice it’s gone. Besides, this is gonna be brilliant. Just watch!
He attached one end of the tubing to the inverted beaker containing the sulfuric acid and dragged part of it onto the lab bench, and deposited the other end into the sodium hydroxide beaker a few centimeters away. I saw this old television episode once,
Peter explained excitedly, where a guy plugs a sulfuric acid leak using a chocolate bar. The sulfuric acid breaks down the chocolate into elemental carbon, and it gets sticky enough to make a plug for the leak.
As he spoke, he unwrapped the chocolate, positioned it beneath the break in the tubing, and rotated the acid spigot to the ‘on’ position.
But, he rotated the spigot a little too far, and the acid didn’t drip, like it was supposed to. It poured. The black-topped lab bench turned white everywhere the stream touched it with an angry, steaming hiss. Tiffany leapt back, too late: the sleeve of her lab coat started sizzling, and the fabric began to dissolve before her eyes. She started screaming, Get it off! Get it off!
Mr. Collins appeared beside her in a flash, his face puce, and his mustache trembled. He shoved Tiffany under the emergency shower and pulled the triangular handle. The amount of water that dumped from the ceiling onto Tiffany’s head was so absurd it seemed almost like a practical joke. When it finally stopped, she wasn’t screaming anymore, but she glared at Peter underneath her sopping bangs, looking like a drowned rat.
Mr. Collins rounded on Peter. I don’t even want to know what you did,
he said in a barely controlled whisper, and extended his left arm fully toward the door, index finger jabbing into the air like an exclamation point. Out!
But –
Peter protested, and looked back down at the chocolate bar. Sure enough, it had congealed into a sticky, gooey mess, and the acid was now flowing through the repaired tubing straight into his fuchsia solution at the other end. But Mr. Collins was not impressed.
"Now!"
Fifteen minutes later, Peter stared glumly at the empty maroon leather chair in Mr. Stone’s office, still waiting for his punishment. She should have minded her own business, he thought bitterly. Then none of this would have happened. But he knew it probably wouldn’t have mattered. After three years of secondary school, Peter’s offenses had become so commonplace that the teachers often sent him to the headmaster’s office just to get rid of him.
Peter really didn’t mean to be difficult. He wanted nothing more than to be just like all the other kids, but he simply didn’t understand how to fit into the complex social hierarchy that was secondary school. He was special,
according to his father Bruce, although when he said it, the word special
sounded like a euphemism for awkward.
Boredom plagued Peter most of the time when he was at school. He didn’t much care for languages or history or any of that rubbish (as he called it). He did care about the maths and science curriculums, but he learned almost nothing from them. His dad worked as a physicist at the university, and Peter had taught himself most of the concepts his peers were just learning now by the age of seven. So, he had to invent ways to keep himself entertained… and he did. Regularly.
He shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair and glanced at the clock. He had been waiting alone in the office for almost twenty minutes. It used to be that the headmaster delivered his punishments swiftly in order to serve as a warning to other would-be rule breakers, but now even the headmaster was at a loss for what to do with him, and tended to drag his feet.
Peter recalled his previous visit to the headmaster’s office only three days ago, when he had borrowed some liquid nitrogen and copper wiring from the chemistry lab, and tried to design a superconducting magnet in one of the sinks in the boys’ locker room. None of the teachers ever would have found out about it if he hadn’t accidentally shorted out the electricity in the entire building. After a very brief and spectacularly unfair exchange of words with Coach Hendricks, Peter found himself sitting in the strategically low chair across from Mr. Stone’s desk for the fourth time that school year.
Today made the fifth… and it was not even October yet.
Ah, Mr. Stewart,
came a tired, colorless voice from the doorway. Peter turned to see the all-too-familiar elderly form clad entirely in brown and gray tweed, the very picture of an Oxford academic, though they lived in Norwich. Done it again, have you?
Peter smiled and shrugged apologetically.
I spoke with your father after the last time you were here. I don’t suppose he told you about the solution I proposed?
Peter shrugged again. He mentioned it.
But you are not interested?
The headmaster seemed concerned, almost nervous, as he ran a hand absently over his coarse gray hair. His manner suggested that he was very eager for Peter to become someone else’s problem. As I told your father, Peter, beginning your A-levels at the university several years early, for a boy of your – er, talents – seems to make far more sense than keeping you here and inventing a program track exclusively for you. It’s obvious that you do not consider the curriculum we offer at King’s to be sufficiently challenging.
Here his manner grew vaguely defensive. Why would you wish to stay?
My friends are here,
said Peter.
Mr. Stone raised his eyebrows fractionally.
I have friends!
he protested. Cole and Mr. Richards….
Mr. Richards is your maths teacher, he is not your friend,
said Mr. Stone sternly.
Peter pursed his lips, looked at his shoes, and fought the childish urge to retort, he is. Besides, I can teach myself what I like here as well as there.
But – you would be surrounded by university students. All new friends! And you could enroll in university-level classes,
the headmaster continued, with too much enthusiasm. I’m sure your father must have enough connections that he could get you a position in research in a physics lab, if that’s what you wanted, as well. Collins tells me you’re a whiz.
Here Peter sat up straighter. Research?
he repeated. He hadn’t thought of that. How had he not thought of that? Of course his dad could pull some strings! A physics teacher himself and a senior investigator in theoretical topics like superstring theory and noetics, his dad’s recommendation (and his dad’s genes) ought to be more than sufficient.
Mr. Stone looked relieved, and pressed his advantage. Yes, think of it! You could indulge your academic curiosity to your heart’s content. A university level researcher at only fourteen years of age!
He nodded for emphasis, his double chin jiggling. I’ll tell you what, Peter. I’ll place a call to Dr. Stewart and discuss it with him, and see if we can’t set up a transfer for you to the university mid-semester. You run along to class, and if all works out well, we should be able to have you out of here by next week at the latest!
A flicker of chagrin crossed the headmaster’s face, betraying that he’d been a bit more honest than he had intended to be. Yes, well,
he said, and coughed unnecessarily. Off you go, then.
Peter left the headmaster’s office and made his way through the corridor lined with locker bays painted an atrocious shade of orange. The bell rang for next period, and chatting and laughing students crowded the corridor. Some walked to their next classes, but most loitered about, flirting with each other or gossiping about their adventures the previous weekend.
Peter watched the familiar faces that passed by, none of whom bothered to acknowledge his presence, and felt conflicted. On one hand, Peter had dreamt of being a real scientist ever since he was four years old, when his dad explained how gravity worked using salt and pepper shakers to represent celestial bodies. Every night over dinner (which Peter had prepared for as long as he could remember, since outside of a laboratory, Bruce could not be trusted with an open flame), he listened eagerly as his dad described in harrowing, colorful detail the abstract intellectual battles fought between his peers with multi-colored dry wipe pens.
But then he tried to picture himself as a university student at fourteen years old. If he thought he appeared scrawny next to the football players at King’s, he could only imagine what a shrimp he would look like compared to university boys. There wouldn’t be any girls his age, either. Why would anybody bother talking to him if they were all so much older than he was?
King’s Secondary School was familiar, and familiar was comforting. However, even though Peter had grown up with the same classmates since primary school, he did not fit in, no matter how hard he tried. There were several reasons for this: Peter had just finished his last growth spurt the previous summer, and now stood an awkward five foot ten, with shoulder blades protruding where the flesh and muscle had yet to catch up with the rest of him. His hair was the color of sand, his blue eyes were oddly bright, and his skin was so pale that it appeared translucent, betraying his every emotion – a feature that only added to his awkwardness. While other boys (cool boys, he thought bitterly, like Brock Jefferson) could play off any situation with a cavalier, devil-may-care attitude, everybody knew exactly how Peter felt, and there was no point in trying to hide it. It was a social vulnerability Brock, and the rest of the football team, exploited to its fullest potential.
Usually Peter’s classmates made fun of him just for being a freak, like when he was in English Literature and it was his turn to read from Macbeth.
He had been so engrossed in a textbook on Differential Equations (which he’d hidden inside his copy of the play) that he missed his cue, requiring Mrs. Ferguson to actually walk across the room and rap his desk with her pointer before he realized they were waiting for him. He turned a humiliating shade of scarlet and mumbled his way through the piece, provoking Brock and his sidekicks (Richard and Harry) to refer to him for weeks afterward as the talking tomato.
(Not very original, Peter thought, but at least it had the alliteration thing going for it.)
Then there was the immense social liability of his intellect. He would have traded being smart for being cool in a heartbeat. He winced as he remembered the first day of science class, when Mr. Collins had asked everybody to introduce themselves, and tell their favorite joke. Peter didn’t really tell jokes, but just the day before, his dad had told him one he’d heard in the lab about three particles that walked into a bar.
He thought it was hilarious, and was already cracking up when he got to the punch line… but nobody laughed. He could literally hear a pin drop somewhere in the back of the room.
So, King’s might be familiar, but familiar was not necessarily a good thing.
Pete!
Cole’s voice interrupted Peter’s thoughts. Peter turned around to see Cole’s blond buzz cut and broad face bouncing toward him energetically and he smiled, grateful to see a friendly face.
Hey, glad I caught you! I have a free period. Want to go to the LCR and get a coffee?
The LCR stood for Large Common Room; it was the slang the students used to refer to their cafeteria.
Can’t,
said Peter. I have maths right now.
Aww, come on. It’s not like you ever pay attention anyway.
Cole bumped shoulders with him on purpose. "Just for a few minutes? I have news…" He said it in the significant tone of voice that could only mean one thing: Celeste.
Peter bit his lip and tried to pretend he wasn’t interested, but Cole triumphantly shoved him towards the door. Ha!
he gloated.
Dying grass lined the concrete path from the concrete main hall to the concrete LCR, and the leaves of the few trees were beginning to fall. King’s was a decidedly drab campus, but it had character. The students either loved it or they hated it.
Peter deliberately walked close enough to Cole that their words could not be overheard. Fine, talk,
he said grudgingly, his heart beating faster.
Brock and Celeste broke up.
Peter looked up sharply.
Watch out!
said Cole, and just in time: Peter narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a concrete column. He ducked his head down as he redirected his path and pushed through the revolving glass doors that led into the LCR, hiding his face until the flush of color subsided.
When?
he finally managed to ask Cole.
This weekend, I guess. I overheard Brock telling Richard last night.
As Brock’s younger brother, Cole was not above eavesdropping during Brock’s phone conversations. So… maybe you should make a move, huh?
Ha!
Peter laughed bitterly. Not likely.
Involuntarily he looked around the LCR, like he always did whenever he entered a large common space, scanning for Celeste’s heart-shaped face and her long dark hair. He didn’t see her, but if he had, he would have looked away quickly before she noticed… like he had for the last three years.
Girls like Celeste dated guys like Brock. They most certainly did not date guys like Peter Stewart.
Cole retrieved his drink from the vending machine: a black coffee. Peter got the same thing, even though he didn’t like black coffee. He had been so engrossed in the conversation that he hadn’t been paying attention. He went to the bar to add some milk after they paid the cashier, lost in thought. He felt perplexed, but he wasn’t sure why. In fact, he suddenly felt more inclined, not less, to transfer to the university.
He glanced at the clock on the wall and added, I really should go to maths. I don’t like to bunk Mr. Richards’ class.
Cole shrugged. Catch up to you later, then.
Peter wondered as he trudged to Mr. Richards’ class why he felt so dejected. This ought to be good news. The girl of his dreams had just broken up with his archenemy. Yet somehow, the fact that she was theoretically now available only highlighted the fact that under no circumstances that he could envision would she ever, ever choose him.
Peter suddenly realized she was walking towards him on the path. She wore a blue sweater that made her cheeks look rosy, and she was deep in conversation with her best friend Katie. If he didn’t speak up soon, they’d pass him by without acknowledgement. He blurted out before he could stop himself, Hi Celeste.
She looked away from Katie mid-sentence, surprised, and distracted. Oh. Hi, Peter.
How was your first class?
he asked. It was the only thing he could think of to say. He looked down at his coffee, hoping for inspiration, and saw that he had forgotten to stir it after adding the milk. It had mostly blended in while he walked, but a few tentacles of white still laced their way through the blackness like the arms of a squid.
Uh, fine,
she said, and Katie giggled wickedly. Why are you staring at your coffee?
Celeste asked. Is there a bug in it or something?
Oh – no. I’m just watching the convection,
Peter blurted, and then added very quickly, You see, the cold milk molecules are moving a lot slower than the hot coffee molecules, so the milk cuts right through the coffee until both liquids reach a temperature equilibrium—
That’s…great, Peter,
Celeste interrupted, and Katie covered her mouth with her mitten to stifle a derisive giggle. We’ll see you later, okay?
Okay,
Peter mumbled miserably, his face burning as he watched her go. Once she was out of earshot, he muttered to himself, "I am such a moron…"
Chapter 2
"So Mr. Stone wants to get rid of you," Bruce said as he shoved a piece of steamed broccoli in his mouth and made a face. Peter cooked lots of broccoli because boiling was his primary culinary skill.
That’s nothing new,
Peter muttered.
No, but this time he actually enlisted my help.
Bruce put on his best stern voice. Peter, that experiment was totally inappropriate and completely irresponsible!
Then he added too casually, Did it work?
Yeah. Nobody noticed, though, did they? As usual,
Peter said morosely. He hated getting yelled at, even though he knew his dad didn’t really mean it and only scolded him because other adults told him that was the parental thing to do. Peter stood up to get a second helping of chicken and dumplings, mostly to break eye contact with his dad, and almost tripped over the cat, who laid sprawled out luxuriously, basking in the heat of the stove. Newton!
Peter scolded, and nudged him with his foot. Newton gave him a reproachful look and did not budge.
Although I have to say,
Bruce added thoughtfully, the idea’s not half bad – transferring, I mean. At King’s, the best you can do is try to make your own superconducting magnet in the boys’ locker room using liquid nitrogen and a copper wire.
Bruce sounded stern at first, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Finally, he added reluctantly, "That was brilliant, by the way."
Peter grinned in spite of himself. He hadn’t known whether his dad had heard about that one yet, but he was pretty proud of the idea, and wanted his dad to appreciate it. Thanks. That one didn’t work, though.
Bruce continued, Just think... at uni, you’d be able to rub elbows with researchers involved in fusion and fission experiments with quantum energy! That’s a step up, wouldn’t you say? Maybe after a few semesters they’d even let you assist, eh?
Fusion and fission of what?
Peter asked, sitting back down again.
Bruce’s voice came garbled through the mouthful of food. Helium to hydrogen and back again.
So you’re making hydrogen bombs in your lab. Fantastic,
Peter joked.
No, technically, Ralph is,
Bruce winked. Of course, they won’t let us do it until we prove that we can control the chain reaction. Silly technicality, in my opinion.
Oh, yeah. Completely mental,
said Peter.
Well,
said Bruce, ignoring the sarcasm, it’s really not that hard to fuse four hydrogen atoms and stabilize the rest of them, as long as I stay focused.
Peter gave him an incredulous look and said, deadpan, Sure. Because all you have to do is basically just… tell them to chill out.
Of course. Using the Ancient Tongue, I grant you, but that’s the general idea, yes.
Peter shook his head, not sure whether Bruce was kidding or not. On one hand, his dad looked like a physicist, with the double-tiered bridge piece of his eye glasses held together with sellotape to keep them from sliding further down his nose, and several permanent cowlicks sticking up in the back of his brown hair defiantly. Peter adored his father, and thought he was brilliant, but he had the strangest ideas of any scientist Peter had ever even heard of. He always wore trousers that didn’t cover his ankles, with red and white striped socks that Peter knew went up to his knees, making him look like an oversized elf. Bruce called them his lucky socks,
and he had four identical pairs so that he never had to leave home without them. Peter used to get made fun of because of his dad’s appearance when he was younger, but by now everyone was used to his quirks. On several occasions, Peter heard him refer to the gremlins that snuck in on cold winter nights and closed the flue in their chimney (explaining why the living room was covered in ash the next morning), or the mischievous poltergeists who amused themselves by consistently winding every clock in their house a full ten minutes backwards, accounting for the fact that he was never on time for anything. He was never totally serious, of course, but then he was never totally kidding either.
Aloud, Peter said with a dry smile, I can’t imagine why you’re having trouble getting a research grant.
Newton rubbed up against Peter’s leg and then leapt into his lap when he sat down again, depositing long strands of white fur on his jeans.
I don’t think it’ll be hard, actually, once we publish the light bulb data,
said Bruce, nonplussed. When Peter shook his head incredulously, Bruce demanded, What?
I thought you were kidding about that,
Peter said in amazement.
Why would I be kidding?
Because… Dad, you can’t seriously think that there’s such a thing as an Ancient Tongue that can control the elements. You’re a scientist! You’re willing to try and get an experiment like that through the research board?
"I don’t think there is an Ancient Tongue, Peter. I know there is. I can speak it, Bruce said matter-of-factly, taking a swig of milk.
It’s just like I always told you when you were little. I’m not the only one, either. Every single person on this planet has an affinity for a particular element, in the ancient sense of course, not from the periodic table –"
I know, I know,
Peter said, hoping to change the subject quickly. Yours is light.
Why is that so incredible?
Bruce persisted. We know that there are random fluctuations of energy in space that generate quantum particles and antiparticles all the time. Typically, they annihilate one other almost immediately so that the net effect is zero. But why is it so hard to believe that I might be able to control that fluctuation of quantum energy and use it to speak photons of light into existence?
It wouldn’t be hard to believe, if you had some sort of machine to harness the energy. But you’re saying you can do it with a magic language,
said Peter.
With the Ancient Tongue,
Bruce interrupted, as if this distinction made a material difference in his argument.
Peter continued stubbornly, It’s a complete departure from the scientific method. That’s the problem.
Noooo,
said Bruce in a patronizing tone, the scientific method involves experimental observation of the effects of changing a single variable in a controlled environment. In this case, I will be alone in a sealed chamber of absolute darkness with nothing but an unplugged light bulb, a photon detector, and my own voice. How much more scientific can you get?
Peter had no idea what to say to that. Was this Isdemus’s idea?
he finally asked. Bruce often referred to Isdemus as his boss,
although Peter knew that nobody by that name worked for the university at all, let alone in the physics department. Whenever Bruce had some new outlandish experiment in mind, though, Isdemus’s name always seemed to come up.
No,
Bruce said, and swallowed a dumpling with a loud gulp. Isdemus says he wants me to steer clear of noetics as much as possible, actually. He thinks that since it’s not a very well-respected branch of science, even if the experiments work, the rest of the scientific community will just write me off as a quack and won’t even read the paper… which would put us right back to where we started from.
Noetics, the study of the effects of the mind on the physical world, had long since proven to be something of a metaphysical idea (which, Peter thought stubbornly, was code for complete bunk. Deep down, he knows it too).
After a long pause, Peter put his fork down and looked his dad in the eye. Dad,
he began. Here’s the thing. You are so brilliant…
Why, thank you,
Bruce said, wagging his eyebrows teasingly.
But I don’t understand why you believe in stuff like that,
Peter continued. I feel like I’m missing something here.
Bruce put his fork down too. Peter,
he said at last, but then hesitated, rubbing his head and looking up. Finally, he said, Remember the legends I told you about when you were growing up?
Peter shoved his chair back from the table. Oh, no. Not this again.
Well, if you want to know, then that’s where I’ve got to start,
Bruce said in frustration. You haven’t even allowed me to broach the subject since you were seven years old!
Dad,
Peter said firmly. "The definition of the word legend is that it’s fiction. There’s absolutely no evidence that King Arthur or the Knights of the Round Table ever existed. When I was little, I wanted to believe more than anything, but it’s just not scientific –"
That is because history is subjective. It’s based on a lot of agreement,
Bruce argued.
No, it’s based on evidence,
Peter said, exasperated. If there’s no evidence that King Arthur existed, then there’s definitely none that establishes the existence of a magical Ancient Tongue, or a race of invisible fairy tale creatures –
But don’t you think it’s strange that there are so many stories about them?
Bruce persisted. Why do you think there are so many cultures that have stories of Arthur and Camelot if no such person ever lived? Why do you suppose fantasy creatures of the exact same description appear in almost every story down through the ages, with very little variation? Why do you think the concept of magic has always been such an enduring theme?
Peter felt a flush of frustration creep up his neck and into his cheeks. His dad could be so stubborn sometimes. How Mum put up with you for so long, I’ll never know,
he muttered spitefully under his breath, but loudly enough that his dad could hear.
Bruce let that comment go. They never talked about Peter’s mother, who had died in childbirth from a pulmonary embolism. Peter once looked it up, and discovered that though it was unusual for women to die in childbirth in modern times, when it did happen, that was frequently the cause. There were no pictures of her in the house, and Bruce never told him why, but Peter had assumed it was because his dad didn’t like being reminded of what had happened to her. Still, Peter was curious, and occasionally brought her up at strange moments just to see if he could catch his dad off guard and convince him to reveal anything new about her. His dad never fell for it.
Bruce took a deep breath, and changed the subject. Anyway,
he said, we could use another set of hands for lab cleanup – a gopher to start. I could talk to Al if you want. Just say the word.
Al was the head of the physics research department.
Mmm,
Peter murmured, noncommittally.
"What do
