Phases of Gravity by Dan Simmons Read Free Book Online

was making noise. "Oh, you know. Expenses."
    "No," said Baedecker softly, "I don't know. What kind of expenses?"
    Scott frowned. His hair was very long and parted in the middle. With the beard, his son reminded Baedecker of an eccentric ground crewman he had known while flying experimental aircraft for NASA in the mid-sixties.
    "Expenses," repeated Scott. "Getting around wasn't cheap. Most of it I've donated to the Master."
    Baedecker felt the conversation slipping out of his control. He felt the anger that he had sworn he would not let come. "What do you mean you give it to the Master? For what? So he could build another auditorium here? Move to Hollywood again? Try to buy another town in Oregon?"
    Scott sighed and bit into a roll without thinking about it. He brushed crumbs from his mustache. "Forget it, Dad."
    "Forget what? That you dropped out of graduate school to come spend money on this fake guru?"
    "I said forget it."
    "Like hell. We can at least talk about it."
    "Talk about what?" Scott's voice was rising. Heads turned. An older man, in orange robe and sandals, his hair tied back in a ponytail, put down his copy of the Times and stubbed out his cigarette, obviously interested in the exchange. "What the hell do you know about it? You're so wrapped up in your American materialistic crap that you wouldn't know the truth if it appeared on your fucking desk someday."
    "Materialistic crap," repeated Baedecker. Most of the anger was gone now. "And you think that a little bit of tantra yoga and a few months in this ass-backward country is going to lead you to the truth?"
    "Don't talk about things you don't know about," snapped Scott.
    "I know about engineering," said Baedecker. "I know that I'm not impressed with a country that can't manage a simple phone system or build sewers. I know useless hunger when I see it."
    "Bullshit," said Scott, perhaps with more of a sneer than he had intended. "Just because we're not eating Kansas beef you think we're starving . . ."
    "I'm not talking about you. Or these others here. You can fly home anytime you want. This is a game for rich kids. I'm talking about . . ."
    "Rich kids!" Scott's high laugh was sincere. "This is the first time I've been called a rich kid! I remember when you wouldn't give me a goddamn fifty-cent allowance because you thought it'd be bad for my self-discipline."
    "Come on, Scott."
    "Why don't you just go home, Dad. Go home and watch your color TVs and ride your exerciser in the basement and look at your fucking photos on the wall and leave me here to go about my . . . my game."
    Baedecker closed his eyes for a second. He wished the day would start over so he could begin again. "Scott. We want you home."
    "Home?" Baedecker watched his son's eyebrows arch. "Where's home, Pop? Up in Boston with Mom and good-time Charlie? Your swinging-bachelor pad in St. Louis? No thanks."
    Baedecker reached out and took his son's upper arm once again. He could feel the tightening there, the resistance. "Let's talk about it, Scott. There's nothing here."
    The two men stared at each other. Strangers in a chance encounter.
    "There's sure as hell nothing there," said Scott fiercely. "You've been there, Dad. You know it. Shit, you are it."
    Baedecker leaned back in his chair. A waiter stood obtrusively nearby, uselessly rearranging cups and silverware. Sparrows hopped across nearby tables, eating from the soiled plates and sugar cups. The fat boy on the diving board called loudly and hit the water in a crude belly flop. His father shouted encouragement, and the women laughed from poolside.
    "I have to get going," said Scott.
    Baedecker nodded. "I'll walk you there."
    The ashram was only two blocks from the hotel. Devotees were walking up the flowered lanes and arriving by autorickshaw in twos and threes. A wooden gate and tall fences kept out the curious. Just inside the gate there was a small souvenir shop where one could buy books, photographs, and autographed T-shirts of the guru.
    The