[stylist] Story I just Wrote

[Shelley J. Alongi]

Hi Chelsea, Taking a while to get back to you it seems I've been a litle 
distracted lately. I took a look at your story I'd like to comment on it 
more and I will tomorrow but the first thing I noticed is that the title 
"When Worlds Collide" is the title of a book written in the thirties which 
you might know about though I can't remember the author's name right now and 
haven't looked it up yet. It's about plans to save the human race when an 
astroid or planet comes right for earth. The description of the impact is 
stunning. The sequel is called "After Worlds Collide" and both books are 
wellw ritten. Wonder if you've heard of them? More later from the cat house.
Shelley J. Alongi
Home Office: (714)869-3207
**
NFBWD "Slate and Style" editor
http://www.nfb-writers-division.org

**
"What sparked your interest in trains?"
"The face of an engineer who knew he was going to get killed by a freight 
train."
---SJA for anyone who wants to know
To read essays on my journey through the Chatsworth train accident, train 
travel, and now meeting the engineers, Metrolink 111 or other interests 
click on 
http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=&author=AlongiSJ&alpha=A

updated November 1, 2009
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Chelsea Cook" <astrochem119 at gmail.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, December 29, 2009 2:46 PM
Subject: [stylist] Story I just Wrote


> Hello all,
>  I realized this list had been quiet with the writing, so decided to post 
> a story I just finished.  Please let me know what you think.  I won't give 
> any secrets away now.  It's below my signature.
> Chelsea
> "I ask you to look both ways.  For the road to a knowledge of the stars 
> leads through the atom; and important knowledge of the atom has been 
> reached through the stars."
> Sir Arthur Eddington, British astrophysicist (1882-1944), Stars and Atoms 
> (1928), Lecture 1
>
> When Worlds Collide
>
>
>  Cold surrounded me.  I couldn't explain why everything in this place was 
> frigid.  The snow was cold; the wind was cold; the counter in the lab was 
> cold.  Nothing was warm.
>  Absolutely nothing.
>  Except another human.
>  Oh but you couldn't call the other people inhabiting this place human. 
> They weren't.  They were gray and strict and stern, mechanical robots 
> inhaling oxygen and possessing no thermal energy.
>  I drew these conclusions on the first day of class.  One student dropped 
> his chemistry book and didn't pick it up until ten minutes had passed, 
> even when I let him know.  He gave me a disgusted look.  Didn't he realize 
> how valuable a science textbook--of any field--was?
>  Apparently, no one did.  I was surrounded by fellow students leaving 
> lectures or labs in droves.  I asked one about the experiment we had just 
> conducted.
>  "What do you think we could have done to reduce the electrostatic 
> discharge emitted?"
>  "The what?" Her voice was high-pitched, as if she were disgusted by what 
> I had just said.
>  "Electrostatic discharge." I repeated the term clearly, wondering why 
> this student was in a third-year physics course.  She obviously didn't 
> care, or had been completely zoned out for the past ninety minutes.
>  "Oh, the lab.  I don't know." Then she turned to her friend: "Nora, what 
> do you think my nails should be this time? And do you want to get some 
> pizza later at the lounge?"
>  I let the blonde girl and her friend, Nora, accelerate past me.
>  Thus was my introduction to the science department of the new university. 
> At my old college, at least you could still hear the trails of an equation 
> or procedure three meters out the lab door.  Now it was nails and pizza 
> ten centimeters out.  I smiled to myself, thinking that anonymous blonde 
> girl had stated a polish color with more syllables in it than the contents 
> of a chemist's home lab.  I just hoped the faculty wasn't as unconcerned 
> about their areas of research.  But they were faculty.  They shouldn't be 
> ...  right?
>
>  Why was I so tired?
>  I knew why:
>  Exams to prepare.
>  Papers to grade.
>  Bosses to deal with.
>  Classes to lecture.
>  Students who didn't care.
>  That was the main reason, the prime factor contributing to my exhaustion 
> at the end of the day.  I lectured; few took notes.  I ran lab; few 
> showed, and those who did often sat and acted as though they were 
> collecting real data.  I got empty spreadsheets at the end of the period 
> and blank reports at the end of the week.
>  I kept pondering retirement.  The stress wasn't worth it.  I would soon 
> break apart.  My fellow faculty members were even sucking up to the 
> students, giving them added GPA points I knew they didn't deserve.
>  But they all had their positions to consider.
>  So did I.
>  Or did I? Could I break this cycle?
>  Not alone.  It was too difficult.  The bureaucracy was woven too tightly 
> together.
>  But with a student by my side ...
>  Yes, that was all it would take! Someone just as enthusiastic about 
> learning and science and life as I was.
>  Wishful thinking.  Where could I find such a student, particularly here? 
> Was there one left in all of academia? There couldn't be.  They were all 
> gone.
>  Or were they? Sometimes, we are all wrong.
>
>  I was always alone in the lab, staying long after other students had 
> left.  Don't know why; didn't plan for it to be like this; it just always 
> was.
>  I don't even remember what experiment I was doing, just that it was a 
> combined physics and chemistry one (my favorite): just that I was standing 
> at a cold, white, slightly intimidating counter, trying not to let the 
> particular procedure overwhelm me.
>  Then the air changed.  The kinetic energy of the gases increased.  And 
> these weren't the ones in my experiment.
>  I turned.  "Hello, Professor Simms.  Mind if I stay here a little 
> longer?"
>  "No.  Stay as long as you like.  And please: It's Karen."
>  "I couldn't do that."
>  "Then Prof.  And I insist."
>  I nodded and returned to my numbers.  This professor was not typical: she 
> was comfortable both at the lectern and in the laboratory.  She held 
> control over both domains, yet there was room for intellectual freedom of 
> a sort.  She said if we could find it, she wouldn't give us the final.  I 
> happened to think it was because she didn't like exams.
>  She came over.  "What are you working on?"
>  "I'm not quite sure yet." I tried to hide my work.
>  "New research?" She smiled, more coming through there than in her words.
>  I sighed and looked down.  "I wish.  It's actually not for your class 
> ..." I stopped there, not wanting to speak ill of her colleagues and get 
> us both expelled from the university.
>  "I understand.  Some of my colleagues have killer experiments.  Need any 
> help?"
>  This was unreal! A professor was offering help, to me, on another 
> project.  Assigned by one of her colleagues.  Didn't all teachers work 
> together to make misery; that if one did not, it was certain another 
> would? And she had just offered it in nothing short of an incomplete 
> sentence.
>  I accepted and we worked for awhile, two scientists doing pure science. 
> We got to talking, and I had never met any teacher like her.  Not even in 
> high school.
>  When she had entered the lab a half hour before, she seemed tired and 
> waned.  Now she was just as enthusiastic about the project or conversation 
> as I was.  It turned back to jobs, and her eyes got a downcast gaze in 
> them.  I asked why.
>  She smiled again, though this time only faintly.  "You're a true 
> scientist, always asking questions.  Chemistry was never really my 
> specialty.  I accepted teaching positions in it because I was good at it, 
> but biology and marine ecosystems are what I'm really crazy about. 
> There's just something in the world's oceans that's magical." She leaned 
> back, and this time it was a sigh and a smile of content.  "Tell me, if 
> you will, why are you in my chemistry course? You transferred here, 
> correct?"
>  More questions.  Oh well, that was science.  "Yes.  At my other 
> institution, people weren't taking their studies seriously.  Kind of like" 
> (I paused, then went on when there was no change in her expression), "like 
> they do here.  I didn't think it would be the same."
>  "Sorry.  It is.  Until you get out."
>  "Why haven't you gotten out?" The question was more direct than I had 
> intended.
>  Prof.  Simms didn't notice.  "I couldn't find a bio research position. 
> Discovery's my mission.  I'm actually thinking about leaving the 
> university life altogether.  I finally have the money to do so.  But that 
> doesn't answer my initial question: Why are you in chemistry? It's not 
> your major, is it?"
>  "No.  I love the stars and what happens to them.  And a little bit of 
> physics doesn't hurt."
>  She nodded.  "I had physicist brothers.  Guess it runs in the family for 
> me."
>  I laughed.  "Wow, that sounds incredible!"
>  "You don't want to play football with them.  They'd give their teammates 
> a talk about momentum, and their opponents a lecture on calculus once 
> they'd won.  These people were all what we'd call non-science majors, so 
> you can imagine the outcome."
>  I could, very well.  I was the first scientist in my circle of immediate 
> family and friends.  I told her so.
>  "Must have been hard," she mused, nodding sympathetically.
>  "Oh, it was."
>  "Then ...  Why did you pursue it?"
>  I sat back on a lab stool, leaning against the counter.  "Astronomy's 
> part of me.  Finding out about the universe is what I do, or at least, 
> what I've always wanted to do.  Physics describes the world." Could there 
> not be a more encompassing answer to a science person?
>  She understood.  I could tell by the way she looked when brushing back 
> her auburn hair, revealing blue glasses and a shell earring.  To this 
> moment, I can't describe the look, but it was one of pure recognition that 
> will remain in my memory forever on that day in the lab.
>  We sat in equilibrium for a moment, then Prof.  Simms said, "Sorry, but I 
> must get going."
>  "Can we talk again?" My voice sounded like I was twelve and a parent was 
> leaving.
>  She didn't take it that way.  "Of course we can.  My office is open and 
> the times posted.  When is your next experiment?"
>  I checked my scheduled list.  "In a week and a half."
>  "It's a lab date."
>  We both smiled one more time as she flittered out the door, her earrings 
> sparkling in the fluorescent light.  I shut down my computer, watching the 
> numbers disappear from the screen.  Then, as I gathered my equipment and 
> purse, I wondered: What had I done? Had I just made a "lab date" with my 
> professor?
>
>  Had I found her?
>  I couldn't tell.  Not right away as I left the laboratory, but I couldn't 
> stop thinking.  That was one thing both of us did--continuously.
>  I had never had any children, yet the more I talked with this young woman 
> in my lab, the more it surfaced that she was the daughter I always wanted. 
> Intimate for just meeting the girl, I know, but there came to be a soft 
> spot for her in my heart.
>  She proved herself and continued to amaze me in class.  She was the 
> enthusiastic one, always working problems that were blackboards long in 
> front of an entire lecture hall, always answering my assignments with 
> clear and purposeful, even original, language foreign to the rest of the 
> science majors in my charge.  In lab, she was spectacular, pouring 
> chemicals and making machines do incredible things.  I just hoped she 
> could survive the university.  If she could, there was no stopping her.
>  But I had to concentrate on matters other than students as I left that 
> enjoyable lab session.  The Dean of Science wanted to see me, and I 
> couldn't imagine what for.
>  I found out the second I opened his heavy wooden oak door.  Copies of my 
> courses syllabi were spread over his desk.  Piles of old exams.  What had 
> I done this time?
>  "Professor Simms?" His voice was curt, all business, no room for 
> unnecessary words.
>  I didn't give him any.  "Yes."
>  "The department committee and I have decided to cancel some of your 
> classes for next term.  It is not because you are unqualified to teach 
> them; student interest prevails in this subject.  Research dictates what 
> we teach.  You will not be teaching organic chemistry next year.  Is that 
> clear?"
>  My mouth dropped open.  He had said everything so fast and crisp, it took 
> me a minute to close it after the words had soaked in.  Organic chemistry 
> was the one course, the closest to biology that I had ever come teaching 
> here, and now I was going to lose it.  But I couldn't defend myself.  THEY 
> had spoken.
>  "Are mine the only classes canceled for next term?"
>  "No.  The high-level astronomy courses are going as well.  We can't 
> afford having classes students don't have an interest in taking.  You will 
> be compensated with more administrative duties and more labs." He stood 
> up.  "Would you like these? If not, they're going in a drawer." He waved 
> at my papers covering half of his desk.  I reached down and took a few 
> exams and copies of a syllabus, then withdrew.  He gathered the rest of 
> the pile and aligned them.
>  "Was that all, sir?"
>  "Yes, Professor Simms.  Have a good finish to your semester."
>  "You, too." I turned and left the office, with none of the joy that was 
> present when I had left the lab.
>  There was no yelling, as I had expected there to be.  Calm and quiet 
> pervaded.  The ordeal had been civil.  No one had exploded.  No one had 
> refused.
>  At least not on the outside.
>  But on the inside ...
>  What would I do now? Was panic the emotion? No, not quite.  Rebellion? 
> Maybe a hint.  Anger? Most definitely.
>  But what could I do?
>  It just so happened that half a week later, my bright and curious lab 
> partner solved my problem as well as her own.
>
>  Why did I hear so much noise?
>  At least, it seemed like a great volume of sound and voices as I 
> approached the main student foyer, where I noticed a small queue of my 
> fellow--well, close enough to fellow--scientists milling around the main 
> bulletin board.
>  "Can you believe it?"
>  "How can they do that to us?"
>  "Remind me: Why am I spending my tuition here?"
>  "They don't even have what I want in the first place.  I was forced to 
> come here, and now they've taken away the only class that's mattered!"
>  Practically everyone had spoken now, so I added my two cents: "What?"
>  Someone pointed.  "That's what.  All astro courses in the three hundreds 
> and above are canceled."
>  "As well as organic chem and some bio," someone added.
>  The sign posted confirmed what everyone was saying.  I skimmed it for a 
> moment, seeing my beloved course titles and CANCELED, in big red letters 
> next to each and every one of them.
>  Now I couldn't believe it either.  I was shocked into just standing 
> there, not moving, not speaking, not breathing.
>  Everything came into my head: the stressful transfer, the seemingly ideal 
> classes.  Why had I come here? To finish my astrophysics degree.
>  And now, it wouldn't happen.
>  But it had.
>  And now I had to deal with it, to react.  How I would manage that one, I 
> wasn't entirely sure.  But something had to change.  I was confident about 
> that: something had to change.
>  I headed up to my dorm to think.  My roommate wasn't there; I didn't want 
> to see her now.  I plopped down on my bed, sank down into the pillows, 
> almost in total despair, and then sat right back up again.
>  I had it.  Like the flash of insight that comes over when a calculation 
> is done perfectly, a small piece clicked.
>  And then, as I grasped the idea, more pieces began to click into place, 
> until by the time I had stood from the bed, the solution was clear, 
> outlined, and only requiring implementation.
>  Though I couldn't wait.  The theorist that I was, I always kept a pad of 
> blank paper beneath the equation sheet tacked to my wall.  I snatched it 
> up and started scribbling furiously.  I could not, would not, forget this 
> ingenious plan.
>  At least, I thought it was genius.  I'd have to run it by Prof.  Simms 
> and see if she was in on the matter.  I hoped she would be.
>  I didn't want to leave her behind.
>
>  What was that yellow rectangle doing next to my computer?
>  I came closer and realized that it was a posted note several sheets 
> thick.  By the scrawl, I could immediately tell who had left it.  I read:
>
> EQUIPMENT REQUESTED FOR NEXT EXPERIMENT:
>
> 1.  2 hot plates (one for bio purposes)
> 2.  2 sets chem lab (beakers, tubes, flasks, cylinders).  (Again, one for 
> bio purposes)
> 3.  1 full set college texts (heavy in math and science, but grab what you 
> can under 20 kilos) (You should be able to get these easier than I can, I 
> do not have many left)
> 4.  Rubber hosing (heavy-duty fluid compression)
> 5.  50 m Electrical wire (conductive)
> 6.  Summer and fall clothing
> 7.  Any books you see fit to read
>
>  I stared at the seven-item list, wondering how all of it could possibly 
> be used in one experiment.  And why did we need so many college texts.  I 
> knew my student liked Steinbeck, but what was literature doing in a 
> chemistry and physics set-up? And why did she want me to bring books? My 
> books, the ones I treasured, the ones that had kept me company through 
> those boring hours of useless high school lecture.
>  No matter.  I ran around the labs and library for the next forty minutes, 
> gathering beakers from one lab set, test tubes from another, batteries 
> from a third physics kit I knew the professor would never use again.  I 
> brought them all back to my computer desk, looking at the stacks of 
> supplies looming over that small pad.  Then I flipped to the eighth page, 
> and read:
>
> Be HERE Friday night.  Prepare to stay late.  You won't be missed.
>
>  I wouldn't be missed? What was my student trying to do? Saturday morning 
> was our lab date, the highlight of both our weeks, I was sure.  And she 
> wanted me to spend the night in my office, in an uncomfortable chair? What 
> was she thinking?
>
>  "What are you thinking!"
>  The gruff man standing behind the counter barked the question at me, his 
> face glowing red, as if a girl even had the nerve to ask for this stuff.
>  I held my ground.  "Yes, I'd like these supplies and the plane.  How 
> much?"
>  "I'll give you that bucket of bolts.  You'll only have to pay for fuel 
> and the dried food you wanted."
>  "Fair." My tone remained cold; I had to be with this guy.  "Can I have 
> two more of those ultra-light tanks as well?"
>  "Making four?"
>  Wow, he could count.  "Yes, four total."
>  "Listen, girlie," he said as he moved around the outdoors shop, 
> collecting the two tanks.  "Who's going to fly this thing for ya? It takes 
> a lotta maintenance, these planes.  She'll still take off for me, but I 
> don't know ''"
>  "I am."
>  Now he laughed derisively.  "YOU are!" He dropped a tank and it clanged 
> on contact.  "That's ridiculous.  A petite thing like you ever flying. 
> Wait'll I tell the guys."
>  "I'm serious.  I learned to fly at nineteen, but the airlines won't hire 
> me, so I went to college for an astrophysics degree." My tone was serious, 
> emotionless now.
>  "Astrophysics! I can't even spell that.  No wonder the airlines won't 
> work with you.  You're too smart for your own good.  All right.  I've been 
> trying to get rid of that plane forever, so I'll give you the tanks.  Just 
> pay for fuel and food."
>  I did.  He took his post again behind the counter, accepted my currency, 
> then led me out to the plane.  It was an old prop, just big enough for 
> four seats, silver, but it had not gleamed in awhile.  I smiled at the 
> woodsman shopkeeper.  "It's perfect."
>  And it was, for what I needed it for.  I strapped the packets of dried 
> food into the backseat on the right, stowed the auxiliary tanks, and took 
> the left pilot's seat.  Then I started her up, waved to the man standing 
> outside his shop, and took off into the gray sky.  The guys who had driven 
> me to this barren place would not be picking me up again.  I had 
> transportation to spare now.  Freshmen couldn't have cars, but the 
> university had said nothing about juniors having planes.
>  But did I care what the university said? No, not anymore.  In a few 
> hours, the word university would be the furthest thing from my mind, but 
> right now, I had to find a place to set this winged wonder down on campus.
>
>  As stated by that all-knowing yellow pad of paper, I appeared in my 
> office that Friday evening, with the dusk falling and the stars just 
> poking through the atmosphere.  I sat in front of my computer, decided not 
> to turn it on, put my arms up on the sides of my chair, and settled in for 
> a night of late office work.
>  Though I wasn't actually working.  Anyone could see that.  I was waiting.
>  But for what?
>  The unexpected.
>  Would she come?
>
>  What time was it? I couldn't see my watch; its light was not powerful 
> enough in the pure darkness of the lab.  Not even the computer was alive.
>  But that was all for the better.  Nothing would look out of place.
>  I found the supplies I had requested--including exactly twenty kilos of 
> books--stacked around the monitor, next to my instructions and Prof. 
> Simms's sleeping form.  I took the books first, then the wire and hosing, 
> then a brief case (presumably full of clothes), then the lab equipment, 
> and finally, Prof Simms, out to the small plane, loading each carefully 
> and making multiple trips.  On the last one, I shut the office door.  For 
> good.
>  Neither of us would be coming back.
>
>  I was being lifted.
>  But somehow, I didn't resist.
>  My muscles knew not to resist, to stay safe.  That I would be safe with 
> whoever had just gently and quietly separated me from my chair.
>  I was carried for a short distance, then heard metal creaking, then felt 
> a soft material, almost a cushion of sorts, underneath me, then a click. 
> I lifted my hand subconsciously as a slightly familiar voice said, "It's 
> all right, there you go, we're getting out of here."
>  And I couldn't help but think the word: Experiment? Was this still part 
> of the experiment?
>
>  With the plane loaded to its maximum takeoff weight, I was the last item. 
> I entered quietly, trying not to wake my professor.  She was still asleep, 
> which was good (I did not want her waking until we had gained some 
> distance in both the horizontal and vertical directions) in the copilot's 
> seat to my right, her hand lightly grasped over a formula sheet.  I smiled 
> as I started the engine, thankful to Carnot that it was both efficient and 
> quiet.
>  I looked over my instruments, flipped a switch on Prof Simms's side (she 
> barely stirred), and saw that everything was go.  I gently pushed the 
> throttle forward.  The engine purred.
>  As we accelerated, I cracked a window, and cold night air rushed in.  Now 
> that we were in motion, I didn't care if Prof Simms awoke; I would tell 
> her soon enough.
>  Within minutes, I felt the plane becoming lighter, all my stresses and 
> worries left behind on the ground.  I was intent on my flying, but there 
> wasn't much to it: exhilaration, adrenaline, being aware of your 
> surroundings, and watching the numbers.  Physics and flying went together; 
> they were just as easy and just as rewarding.  One assisted the other, and 
> as I activated my navigation unit and saw my acceleration turn to 
> positive, I sighed with relief.  We were going to make it.  We were 
> speeding toward freedom.
>
>  I awoke for a moment, felt cold air, saw brilliant stars, thought how 
> invigorating it would be to be up there.  I was close.
>
>  Within two hours, I knew we were close.  Not only did my GPS tell me, but 
> there came a feeling, a gravity of belonging, if the term can be so 
> stretched.  The green of the GPS showed ocean, and this one tiny island.
>  Then I saw the mountain, and took her in.
>
>  Was this still part of the experiment?
>  I awoke to bright sunlight.  I could tell we had stopped moving, but 
> where was the voice, the presence?
>  I saw sand outside, and water, and trees far off in the distance.
>  But no young daughter.
>  We had crashed!
>  But I would be hurting somewhere if that had occurred, and I felt fine. 
> I checked the instrument panel: for a powered-down ship, everything was in 
> order.
>  So we hadn't crashed.
>  It was beginning to get warm in the cockpit.  I unbuckled myself, 
> unlatched the door, and dropped down onto the hot ground.
>  I turned around ...  and stared in shock at the sight before me.
>  An island, an ocean, already I could see, filled with creatures, an 
> undamaged airplane.
>  I deduced my student's scheme quickly enough: she had flown me here for 
> research.
>  But what about the hot plates and hoses and biology books? Why had she 
> wanted me to bring all that?
>  At the moment I wasn't sure, hoped that she would soon return, and set to 
> work unloading some of the supplies.  If we had the same mind (I 
> wholeheartedly believed in the "Great minds think alike" theory), she 
> would be on the mountain I found gleaming in the sunlight, searching for 
> water.  But if she didn't find any, I would be ready with a makeshift lab 
> set up for electrolysis.  The ocean would be our water in both the literal 
> and figurative sense, our joy in body as well as intellect.
>
>  Conveniently enough, I heard a stream between green vegetation on the 
> mountainside.  Sweat poured from my face as I made my way to its source 
> and plunged a bucket into its cool depths, feeling the weight of the water 
> as I hauled it back to the surface.
>  I carried two buckets back to the beach easily, and saw Prof Simms 
> getting out of the plane with something in her hand.  She went over to the 
> ocean, seemed to fill it with liquid, and return.
>  Her auburn hair blew in the breeze, taking on the ocean currents, but in 
> wind instead of water.  Her shirt perfectly matched the color of the sea. 
> Her skin smiled.
>  I immediately knew.  She was free.
>  "Great minds think alike, don't they?"
>
>  I had not even seen my student come out of the trees, she blended in so 
> well.  When I heard her voice, I nearly dropped the sample I was holding.
>  I smiled.  "Apparently so.  How fresh is that water?"
>  "I don't know yet.  I'm about to find out.  Care to join me for a little 
> chemistry?"
>  How could I resist? We both knelt down in the sand, digging out one of 
> the equipment sets and testing each sample of water for density and 
> salinity.  As we worked together, I thought again of the relation between 
> teacher and student: each learning from one another, each blending.  We 
> were scientists, doing our pure science as well on a beach on some island 
> as in a university lab.  Nothing could change that.
>  We could make our own lab.
>
>  When dusk was falling, I stretched and told Prof Simms I had to leave. 
> She agreed.
>
>  I knew where this young woman was going '' her destiny, where she 
> inevitably had to reside.  This was why she had left the aircraft first.
>
>  Trudging to the summit of the small mountain, just slightly above the 
> trees, I found my telescope, fully charged, on the plateau.  The cool 
> breeze swept off the ocean, evaporating any traces of moisture from the 
> day's toil.  This was my home.
>  The air was clear here.  So was the sky; no earthly light or atmospheric 
> disturbance disrupted me from my work.
>  I was free to think again.
>  And as I gazed and wondered, like so many astrophysicists before me: 
> "What is up there?" I could only stand on that mountaintop, coming closer 
> to them, and take in the full beauty and majesty of the stars.
>
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