Free Breathless by Dean Koontz

were waiting to be told by the maître d’ that their dinner tables were ready, but those at the bar had not come for dinner. They were mostly men, but whether men or women, they fled the casino for a respite from self-destruction.
    Their moods ranged between forced gaiety and somber reflection,but the impression they all made on Lamar was of desperation.
    They had come to the games of chance with hope. Emily Dickinson, the poet, had written that “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul …” But if your hope was hope for the wrong thing, it could be a sharp-beaked hawk that ravaged the soul and the heart.
    In his easy way, Lamar chatted up six fugitives from cards and dice, as they came and went. Eventually, in each conversation, he briefly waxed philosophical, and then said, “Don’t think, just answer. What’s the first word comes into your mind when I say
hope?”
    As he nursed his beer, he didn’t know what answer he would find appealing, but it wasn’t among the first five:
luck, money, money, change, none
.
    The sixth of these brief companions, Eugene O’Malley, appeared to be in his late twenties. He had such an innocent face and such a humble manner that beard stubble and bloodshot eyes didn’t make him appear dissolute, only harried.
    Both arms on the bar, hands around a bottle of Dos Equis, he replied “Home,” in response to Lamar’s question.
    “Where’s home, Mr. O’Malley?”
    “Call me Gene. Home’s just down the road in Henderson.”
    “What’s at home that gives you hope?”
    “Lianne. She’s my wife.”
    “She’s a good wife, is she?”
    “Lianne’s the best.”
    “So why’re you here, O’Malley?”
    “Supposed to be at work. Night-shift construction foreman.”
    Lamar said, “I don’t see anyone constructing anything around here except hangovers.”
    “In this economy, who needs a night shift? Lost my job a week ago, can’t bring myself to tell Lianne.”
    “But my dear O’Malley, if she’s a good woman …”
    “She was fired in July. We’ve got a baby coming in six weeks.”
    “So you figured your luck had to turn.”
    “Figured wrong, Ed.”
    Lamar had introduced himself as Edward Lorenz. Now he asked, “You lose a lot?”
    “Anything is a lot right now. I dropped fourteen hundred, half my severance pay. Don’t know what happened, sort of lost my mind.”
    After finishing his bottle of Elephant Beer, Lamar said, “You aren’t fighting Irish, are you, O’Malley? Don’t take a poke at an old man just because he asks a rude question.”
    “You’re not that old, and I can’t see you being rude.”
    “No lie—are you a degenerate gambler or just a damn fool?”
    Gene laughed softly. “You have a way about you, Ed. I’m a damn fool who doesn’t ever want to see the inside of a casino again.”
    “I guess I’ll believe you. Never known an O’Malley to lie.”
    “Have you known a lot of O’Malleys?”
    “You’re the first one. O’Malley, do you know who Sir Isaac Newton was?”
    “A scientist or somebody.”
    “Both somebody and a scientist. For centuries, Newtonian physics gave science the tools it needed to build the modern world. Newton’s theories and methods still work, but we now know that many of them are incomplete or even wrong.”
    “How can they work if they’re wrong?”
    “It has to do with reductionist observation and the power of approximation in the reliability of short-term effect.”
    “Well, of course,” O’Malley said, and rolled his eyes.
    “Einstein destroyed Newton’s illusion of absolute space and time. Quantum theory put an end to the notion of a controllable measurement process.”
    “How many beers have you had, Ed?”
    “This all relates to something good that’s soon going to happen to you, O’Malley. You know Galileo?”
    “Not personally.”
    “Galileo was a great scientist, too, and one of his theories, related to the oscillation of a pendulum—that its period remains independent