Heavy Water: And Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

knows. That sense of pregnant arrest. Of felt life in its full … Thank you, Alistair. Thank you, I have to say that it rather reminded me of my own early work.”
    Alistair nodded.
    Having talked for quite some time about his own maturation as a screenplay writer, Sixsmith said, “Now. Just tell me to shut up any time you like. And I’m going to print it anyway. But I want to make one tiny suggestion about Offensive from Quasar 13.”
    Alistair waved a hand in the air.
    “Now,” said Sixsmith. He broke off and ordered a prawn cocktail. The waiter looked at him defeatedly. “Now,” said Sixsmith. “When Brad escapes from the Nebulan experiment lab and sets off with Cord and Tara to immobilize the directed-energy scythe on the Xerxian attack ship—where’s Chelsi?”
    Alistair frowned.
    “Where’s Chelsi? She’s still in the lab with the Nebulans. On the point of being injected with a Phobian viper venom, moreover. What of the happy ending? What of Brad’s heroic centrality? What of his avowed love for Chelsi? Or am I just being a bore?”
    The secretary, Victoria, stuck her head into the room and said, “He’s coming down.”
    Luke listened to the sound of twenty-three pairs of legs uncrossing and recrossing. Meanwhile he readied himself for a sixteen-tooth smile. He glanced at Joe, who said, “He’s fine. He’s just coming down to say hi.”
    And down he came: Jake Endo, exquisitely Westernized and gorgeously tricked out and perhaps thirty-five. Of the luxury items that pargeted his slender form, none was as breathtaking as his hair, with its layers of pampered light.
    Jake Endo shook Luke’s hand and said, “It’s a great pleasure to meet you. I haven’t read the basic material on the poem, but I’m familiar with the background.”
    Luke surmised that Jake Endo had had his voice fixed. He could do the bits of the words that Japanese people were supposed to find difficult.
    “I understand it’s a love poem,” he continued. “Addressed to your girlfriend. Is she here with you in L.A.?”
    “No. She’s in London.” Luke found he was staring at Jake Endo’s sandals, wondering how much they could possibly have cost.
    A silence began its crescendo. This silence had long been intolerable when Jim broke it, saying to Jake Endo, “Oh, how did ‘Lines Left Upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree, Which Stands Near the Lake of Easthwaite, on a Desolate Part of the Shore, Commanding a Beautiful Prospect’ do?”
    “ ‘Lines’?” said Jake Endo. “Rather well.”
    “I was thinking about ‘Composed at—Castle,’ ” said Jim weakly.
    The silence began again. As it neared its climax, Joe was suddenly reminded of all this energy he was supposed to have. He got to his feet saying, “Jake? I guess we’re nearing our tiredness peak. You’ve caught us at kind of a low point. We can’t agree on the first line. First line? We can’t see our way to the end of the first foot.”
    Jake Endo was undismayed. “There always are these low points. I’m sure you’ll get there, with so much talent in the room. Upstairs we’re very confident. We think it’s going to be a big summer poem.”
    “No, we’re very confident, too,” said Joe. “There’s a lot of belief here. A lot of belief. We’re behind ‘Sonnet’ all the way.”
    “Sonnet?” said Jake Endo.
    “Yeah, sonnet. ‘Sonnet.’ ”
    “ ‘Sonnet’?” said Jake Endo.
    “It’s a sonnet. It’s called ‘Sonnet.’ ”
    In waves the West fell away from Jake Endo’s face. After a few seconds he looked like a dark-age warlord in mid-campaign, taking a glazed breather before moving on to the women and the children.
    “Nobody told me,” he said as he went toward the telephone, “about any sonnet.”
    The place was closing. Its tea trade and its after-office trade had come and gone. Outside, the streets glimmered morbidly. Members of the staff were donning macs and overcoats. An important light went out. A fridge door slammed.
    “Hardly the