A Vomit of Diamonds (9 page)

“How did Dr. Macnamara react when he
saw you guys?” she asked the other group at large. “He didn’t,” was
one answer. “As in slowly,” another chimed in. “It took him a few
seconds to realize we weren’t you guys,” said a third. All present
chuckled in great good humor at this scene.

“
I’ve finally gotten around to
watching The Big Bang Theory,” Maxine informed her circle later on;
“It’s hilarious!” Nobody objected. “Sheldon is such a character,”
chimed in a second year with curly brown hair, from the other
Coonabara group. “Actually,” Maxine thought aloud, turning to
address Bouchard with wide eyes; “You remind me of Sheldon
Cooper!”

“
Yeahhh,” Minho protracted the
word, as if it all made sense now. “That’s kind of true,” Annika
agreed, seeing Bouchard in a new light. Perry smiled knowingly.
Meanwhile those from the other Coonabara group, who had not been
around Bouchard long enough to draw such comparisons, observed the
string of revelations and its victim with curious
interests.

“
I’m sure I don’t know what you
mean,” Balzac responded with perfect aristocratic innocence. “Wait,
really?” Minho interjected, not picking up on the sarcasm. “Oh,
Minho,” Maxine dramatically sighed in acquiescence. The party went
on past one.

“Perry?” Balzac called from his bed,
where he had tucked himself like in a cocoon; “Do you think we’ll
find an exoplanet with life on it during our lifetime?” This was a
question Zimmerman had himself on occasion pondered, thus he had a
ready answer; “The Kepler telescope has already found exoplanets in
the habitable zone,” he allowed, “and that’s just from looking at a
relatively small patch in the night sky. So yeah, I guess the odds
are in our favor. However unless we can actually send a satellite
over there to confirm its existence, we’ll never be a hundred
percent sure.” There was no response.

“Do you ever feel like you were born
in the wrong century?” Balzac asked, after an interval had elapsed;
the image of stars sprayed across the night sky still fresh in his
mind. There was something melancholic in the way he asked that
question. “Is that how you feel?” Perry asked, his tone gentle,
wise and sympathetic. “Sometimes,” the other admitted with a grave
sigh; “I don’t know. Maybe Star Trek has corrupted me.”

XXV

Come Sunday morning Sarah and her ten
followers departed Coonabara Observatory in their white van; most
sitting in the same spots as when they arrived. Minho, who had a
passion for all things soccer, started a conversation with Perry on
the topic. “You watching the game next week?” he asked
enthusiastically. Bouchard filtered out everything after this
prelude; he did not watch sports, nor did he enjoy playing
them.

Two hours into the road trip, and not
able to figure out a problem by himself, Bouchard required
Zimmerman’s genius. “Perry,” Balzac called, engaging his friend;
“So we know that light gets trapped in black holes. But what
happens to the light once it’s inside?” he asked with a gravity
that immediately put the other in a frame of mind to answer. “Hmm,”
Perry murmured, frowning wisely; “There are probably some weird
time effects that might affect the light’s behavior,” he mused to
himself, “and I’m pretty sure that light doesn’t just pool at the
center. Because light is always in motion. So it probably gets
converted into another form of energy.” Here Bouchard ventured a
guess: “Heat energy?”

“It’s likely,” Perry allowed, though
he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “So does that mean it’s hot
inside black holes?” Balzac asked with interested concern. “I’d
imagine it’d be pretty hot near the center,” Perry supposed,
nodding. “But no heat escapes,” Balzac chimed in, “or else we would
have been able to detect them using infrared cameras.” A pause.
“How is it that the heat cannot escape?” Balzac resumed. Zimmerman
appeared to consider this for a moment. “Heat is transmitted
through collisions between particles,” he recollected, “but since
no particles can escape the gravitational field of a black hole,
the heat remains trapped. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there
is some weird state of matter at the center. Things should behave
very strangely there.”

Later that afternoon the van and its
occupants entered a large town. “We’ll stop to have dinner here,”
Sarah spoke up from the driver’s seat, shaking up her passengers
from their drowsy languor; “there’s a burger place here that’s
really good. I always stop on my way back to Canberra.” Minho
perked up; “I’m bloody starving!” said he in his usual manner.
“Typical,” Maxine observed, shaking her head fondly. “What?”
returned Minho, a guilty smile on his lips.

The diner was humid with sizzling
meat. “This is the bomb,” Maxine declared, hands clasping a
sizeable hamburger dripping juice. The others murmured some noises
in response; their mouths masticating huge mouthfuls. “Don’t you
eat meat?” Minho accosted Balzac, whose fish sandwich stood out
from the majority’s minced cow parts. “I never really developed a
taste for it,” was his simple reply.

As the journey’s end grew nigh, a sort
of campfire camaraderie settled within the van; the earlier energy
usurped by reflections and friendly remarks.

“
So after listening to all the
lectures and visiting the telescopes,” Sarah spoke up from the
driver’s seat, addressing the group at large; “any ideas on which
areas of research you guys might be interested in pursuing?” There
was a brief pause while everyone considered their answers; for the
good-natured seriousness of her tone deserved a serious
reply.

“
I’m thinking of stellar
evolution,” ventured a second year from the other Coonabara group.
“Definitely something to do with exoplanets,” chimed in a young man
with curly brown hair, also from that cohort. “Cosmology,” Minho
stated, matter-of-fact; the first voice from Bouchard’s team.
“Astrobiology seems pretty cool,” said Maxine, not one to be left
out or outdone; “What about you Annika?” and she turned to her
sitting companion. “Maybe astrochemistry?” Annika supposed; though
still not sure how she felt about midnight observations.
“Astroparticle physics,” asserted a bespectacled young lady, her
head held high and sitting erect. When it came to Perry’s turn, no
one was surprised by his choice: Theoretical
astrophysics.

“
And you, Balzac?” Sarah asked
after two more answers had been added to the pool; apparently she
had been keeping count. Nine pairs of eyes turned to Bouchard.
“What the Borg am I going to tell them,” he thought with great
unease; “all the good ones have been taken.” So thinking, he made
one up on the spot. “Astrophilosophy,” he offered. “Is that a real
field?” the bespectacled young lady inquired primly. “Why not?”
retorted Minho, coming to Bouchard’s aid; whether intentional or
not did not matter to the latter, he was grateful all the
same.

X
XVI

The van entered ANU’s grounds around eight
that evening, which was approximately as the agenda predicted.
Sarah was kind enough to drive through Daley Road, returning each
student to his or her respective abode. “Thank you Sarah,” Balzac
said politely, descending in front of Helena Hall. “No problems,”
she replied, turning to face him from the driver’s seat, a serious
smile on her lips. “See you later,” said Perry. “Yeah, live long
and prosper,” Maxine joined in, to the amusement of the rest in the
van.
Bouchard rolled his eyes and waved them a
dismissive goodbye.

As the van drove away on an empty
Daley Road, Balzac reflected: “Astronomers are a curious species of
scientists. Nocturnal creatures, solitary habits, hiking fashion,
and their favorite food is apple crumble.”

On the steps leading into the
building he hesitated for another moment, cold though it was, and
glanced up at the heavens to see—

“
Meh,” was his appraisal of the
city’s night sky; “Just a sneeze of stars.”

When his usual bedtime hour approached,
Bouchard did not feel the least bit sleepy; perhaps having
something to do with the two late nights in a row he had just been
put through. And so in spite of it going against routine, he did
not slip into bed when the clock struck ten; instead installed
himself at the table and turned on his laptop. “I might as well do
it while it’s still fresh in my mind,” Balzac reckoned, logging
into his Gmail account, from where he began to draft the promised
email for his grandfather in Perth; a task he approached with the
enthusiasm of a vicomtesse writing an epistle to her Parisian
friend, the lady marquise, during a sojourn in Saint
Petersburg.

“
Dear Grandpapa,

I have returned from astro
camp, and as was pledged in my previous communication, its history
shall now be related to in this letter. But before beginning the
narration so long awaited for, I am inclined to provide a
warning
. It is this:

The letter is pregnant with
similes and lofty words. High English with a dash of paprika. It
cannot be helped. For
its author is as
addicted to verbosity as the lavish Assyrian King, Sardanapalus,
was dependent on his stimulants.

That said
—

It all began a few months back,
when our pizzazzy and effervescent physics professor Nikolai
Romanova ended his vector topology lecture on a
cliffhanger...”

About the Author

“Boripat’s continuing passion is to
explore strange industries, to acquire new knowledge and ask many
questions, to boldly learn something he did not know
before.”

Thus, Boripat studied theoretical
physics, wrote about fashion, and took an internship at an online
marketing company. Currently, he edits papers intended for
peer-reviewed journals, conducts research in social science, and
manages a creative nonfiction blog.

Boripat’s interests are varied, but
his greatest joy comes from attempting the difficult.

To contact him, email:
[email protected]