Curved Space-Time and Radiation by Rainich G. Y.

By Rainich G. Y.

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Guilty as charged. Up for two days straight doing speed, where reality became psychedelic in stages so gradual we weren’t aware of it until we realized that we were babbling to each other about the stupidest things; making love standing up in the shower as the two hundred mics of LSD started to come on, then, later, staring in amazed delight at the patterns the rain made on the window; doing shots of tequila and realizing that there were a lot of Old Earth jokes that she hadn’t heard, and watching her dissolve into giggles over the pig with the wooden leg.

From the lead guitarist’s expression, he wasn’t taking things too seriously, which I liked as well. After watching him for a while, I decided he was sharing some sort of inside joke with the keyboard player; at least, they’d look at each other and laugh whenever they played a C-major seventh. I still wished I could hear the vocals. Rich and Jamie set off once more, this time on a quest for drinks. By the time they returned, the band had taken a break, and there was canned music coming over the PA at just about the same volume.

There was a neat stack of a dozen boxes just inside the door, each box about two feet by one by one. I hefted one and it weighed about fifteen pounds, which wasn’t bad. I looked at the label and smiled. ” “We should sample it,” said Rich. ” I looked. ” I looked again. ” He nodded, picked it up, stopped, and his brows knitted. He set it down again. ” He pointed. There was the tiniest lump at one end of the box, near the seal. I said, “Don’t ask me. ” “I think I will,” he said. ” “No. ” “The other room.

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