The Last Stoic Read Online Free Page A

on the
question long.  Solitude and fatigue inflamed his imagination.  He had his eye
on the curious, artless foreigner.  Who is he talking to on that pay phone
right now, so seriously?  What is he doing alone in that old, beat-up car out
there among the rigs?  Patrick crossed the diner to a window booth to watch
Mark hang up the pay phone and return to the car. 
    He’s up to something and I’m
going to find out what it is.   
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Shortly after dawn, following a
cup of scalding, flavourless coffee, Mark wheeled the car back on to the busy New Jersey turnpike bound for New York.  In fifteen minutes it became all too clear that
the Phoenix had not recovered.  He pulled over.  A knocking came from her
engine block and curls of hot, white vapour poured from her grille.  Water
dribbled from spots of green on the radiator. 
    The appointment in New York was that afternoon.  Mark gathered his belongings into his knapsack, triaging the items he least needed, slung it over his shoulder, and started walking.  Five hundred
yards later he was at the next exit.  The vapour that had initially gushed from
the grille had narrowed to a thin strand.  Mark sighed and left the freeway.  
It took about an hour and a half at the nearest crossroads to hitch a ride to
the Newark bus station.  Once at the station, he realized he had left the keys
in the ignition. 
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Patrick Jr. had watched and
waited in vain that night, and then had fallen asleep on his bench.  He was
awoken with a start when the old cook-woman rattled his booth with her mop.  He
rubbed his eyes roughly and stared out the window.  The old car in which Mark
had spent the night was gone. Patrick rose unsteadily to his feet and lunged at
the old woman like he was going to strike her.  When she cowered, he pulled
back and tumbled away to get himself an egg sandwich and cola for breakfast.
    An hour later he was in the
passenger seat of a rusty Ford 150 picked up by a shift worker on his way
home.  Trundling down the freeway about twenty minutes outside of Newark they passed the empty Phoenix. 
    “Stop!  Stop the truck!”
    The driver, startled from his
after-work stupor, now regretted his generosity.
    “This is the freeway.  I can’t
stop here.”
    “Just pull over to the shoulder
and let me out.  It’s important.”
    As quickly as he was able, the
driver eased the pickup to a halt on the shoulder, with the impatient, morning
rush hour traffic bustling by.  The truck had barely stopped before Patrick
jumped out of the passenger door and slammed the door behind him.  The truck
squawked back into traffic.
    Patrick descended on the derelict
car.  He checked the gauges; there was still three quarters of a tank, but the
temperature was high.  He lifted the hood, examined the engine, and quickly
found the leak in the radiator.  The car had overheated.  Abandoned.  He
must be in a hurry, the keys are still in the ignition .  It occurred to
Patrick that if he could wait twenty minutes to let the engine cool on its own,
he could limp off the freeway, find a garage and pick up a bottle of Bar’s
Leaks to dump in the radiator.  Provided no cops came by first. 
    He rummaged through the glove
compartment and found nothing but maps, some batteries, a roll of Lifesavers,
and a half empty tissue box.  On the back seat there was a bag of pita bread,
several empty beer cans, an unrolled sleeping bag, and some clothing.  In the
trunk he found a mouldy dome tent and a flashlight.  And the hunting knife Andy
had given to Mark as a departing gift. 
    He’s roughing it.  Doesn’t want
to be seen? 
    Under the driver’s seat he found
a pile of four notebooks containing drawings and schematics.  It was part of
Mark’s graduate thesis; designs for an experimental parallel computer. 
Patrick, who had dropped his drafting and electricity and computing courses in
high school, did not see an ingenious supercomputer in those