Читать книгу Space - Roger Reid - Страница 8

It started last Monday, because I had to go with my dad to his annual meeting of the Space Cadets. I’m not making it up. Space Cadets. That’s what they call themselves. When I was a little kid I used to think it was a great name for a club of astronomers. That was before I realized “space cadet” was just another way of saying “nerd.”

The Space Cadets—there are six of them now—had all been in college together. All of them studied physics and astronomy, and they formed this group while they were still in school. After graduation they went their separate ways and agreed to get together for a few days during the second week of June each year. June is not the best time of year for astronomy, it’s just the best time for them to get together, because, like my dad, several of them are teachers. My dad says, “Every one of us thought we would have unraveled the mysteries of the universe by now, but the universe turned out to be a lot more mysterious than we could have imagined.”

I always imagined going with my dad to investigate universal mysteries. I begged to go every year and was always told “no kids allowed.” That is, until last year. Last year my dad invited me along even before I asked. I thought it was because he no longer considered me a kid. I should have known better, and I did know better not long after I was introduced to Stephen A. Warrensburg.

Last year, about six months before the Space Cadets annual reunion, Stephen and his father were in a car wreck. Stephen was paralyzed from the waist down. His father was killed. You wanted to have compassion for the guy except for one thing: Stephen A. Warrensburg was and is the most obnoxious, self-inflating know-it-all I’ve ever met.

Stephen is two years older than I am, and it became obvious soon after we got to last year’s meeting that I was along to keep him company. I was not there to share my theories of the universe with the Cadets. I was there to keep Stephen from getting bored. I was the babysitter for a guy two years older than I was.

His mom and dad were both Space Cadets. After the car wreck his mom said she didn’t think she could leave him with the grandparents anymore. She said the grandparents couldn’t take care of a child in a wheelchair. My bet is the grandparents wouldn’t let him in their house. Stephen A. Warrensburg had a personality that even his mother had a hard time loving. I saw that for myself several times during last year’s trip.

This year when my dad invited me along for the twentieth anniversary gathering of the Space Cadets, I said, “No thanks.”

“No?” Dad said. “You begged me for years to come along.”

“Is Stephen Warrensburg going to be there?” I asked.

“Oh,” said my dad.

“Oh,” I said.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I could say to make you change your mind,” my dad said. “Is there any way I could bribe you?”

And that’s how I got my new iPod. And that’s how I found myself on my way to Alabama.

Yeah, you heard right. Alabama. Angie Warrensburg, Stephen’s mom, works for NASA, and it was her turn to pick the location. She picked Huntsville, Alabama, her home and the home of NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center.

The last time I was in Alabama three guys tried to kill me. I wasn’t so sure a week in Huntsville with Stephen Warrensburg would be any easier.

I was right.