Free A Vomit of Diamonds by Boripat Lebel Page A

from
the seniors of course, appeared equally as unprepared as Bouchard
was for this turn of events. Perry and Minho each muttered a
startled “whoa” while Maxine shared some choice words. Annika held
onto the station for support. The structure was making its famed
rotation.
    When all came to a standstill, Hanah
furiously inputted some more commands and voila! a mini Saturn
appeared on the screen, rings and all; albeit in black and white.
“Aww, no color?” said Minho, disappointed. “Sorry,” Hanah replied,
smiling regretfully; “The photos you see on posters have all been
photoshopped.” For some reason this revelation — that of a thing
pizzazzerized to appeal to a wider audience — made Bouchard think
of raisins covered in chocolate; decidedly the only tolerable way
to eat mummified grapes.
    Some minutes later, when the novelty
of mini Saturn began showing signs of decline, Sarah consulted
Hanah, asking: “Is it ok if I take them up top?” The latter thought
this a great idea and so readily consented. “Up top?” Maxine voiced
with renewed interest, her eyes rolling to the ceiling.
    Being perfect gentlemen, the ladies
were allowed to go first. In the meantime, Hanah invited the three
remaining males of the species to settle themselves in the lounge
corner; made up of threadbare sofas, a used coffee table and near
it, a kitchenette whence midnight stimulants could be prepared. For
entertainment Hanah opened up a conversation, which, to Bouchard’s
disadvantage, progressed from easy to technical rather fast. But so
as not to appear disengaged and thus offend their hostess, he
listened in on the wise exchange with a caveman’s wonder. This went
on for more than fifteen minutes.

XXII
     
    They all heard the comedienne before
they saw her burst through the door. Minho thought out loud;
“Finally!” said he in an exaggeratedly exasperated voice. The boys
walked over to join Sarah.
    The door opened out onto a railed
balcony. “Oh Borg,” thought Balzac, as he emerged into darkness,
the July breeze splashing over his face like a bucket of iced
water. “We’ll stand here for a few seconds,” Sarah commanded; “so
our eyes get a chance to adjust.” A dozen foggy breaths later the
four began to slowly make their way up the stairs, eyes partially
blind and hands gripping the icy balustrade with appropriate
concern for tomorrow. “This is bloody dangerous,” Minho decided out
loud.
    When he reached the top, Bouchard
could just make out a railed bridge spanning across the summit of
the slanting roof. They shuffled over to its center. “We’ll stop
here,” said Sarah: her command was obeyed immediately; “and hold
onto the rails. It’s windy.” She did not have to tell them twice.
Looking down from the bridge, Bouchard could just make out the
silhouette of a telescope poking out slightly from the roof’s
aperture. “It’s like looking into the eye of a Cyclops,” Balzac
said to no one in particular. “Um, Balzac?” Perry whispered beside
him. “What is it?” returned the other, still trying to make out the
giant black eye below; “Do you see something?” There was a
momentary pause. “Try looking up,” came the suggestion. Bouchard
did; and his jaw dropped. The Milky Way in all its sinewy
resplendence and sparkling excessiveness appeared to him like a
vomit of diamonds on a carpet of infinite darkness.
     

XXIII
     
    Silence reigned for some time over the
four humans standing atop the barn-shaped observatory out in the
Coonabara Ranges, the sheer awesomeness of space and infinity
overloading their sensoria beyond comparison with any past
experience. “Bloody hell,” Minho gasped at last, first to break the
silence. “Pretty much,” chimed in an equally awed Perry. “To be
sure,” said Balzac, gazing fixedly at the spectacle with fanatical
worship, as if beholding a vision of Venus stepping out of her
shell. Sarah smiled at the youths’ short but loaded responses; she
agreed with them