Zero history

60. RAY

Milgrim, in his stocking feet and shirtsleeves, lay on the white foam, pleasantly lost in a new and deliciously seamless experience. Above him, near the room’s high ceiling, illuminated by the large Italian floor lamp with its silver umbrella, the matte-black manta ray was turning slow forward somersaults, almost silently, the only sound the soft crinkling of its helium-filled foil membrane. He wasn’t watching it. Instead, he was focused on the screen of the iPhone, watching the feed from the ray’s camera as it rolled. He saw himself, repeatedly, stretched on the white rectangle, and Fiona, seated at the table, working on whatever she was assembling from the contents of the cartons Benny had brought in. Then, as the ray rolled, white wall, the brilliantly illuminated ceiling, then over again. It was hypnotic, and all the more so because he was causing the roll, maintaining it, executing it each time, with the same sequence of thumb movements on the phone’s horizontal screen.

It swam in air, the ray. Modeled on a creature that swam in water, it propelled itself, with a slow, eerie grace, through the air.

“It must be wonderful outside,” he said.

“More fun,” she said, “but we aren’t allowed. Once anyone knows we have them, they’re useless. And they cost a fortune, even before the modifications. When we were first shopping for drones, I said go for something like this,” meaning the rectangular thing she was assembling on the table. “It’s faster, more maneuverable. But he said he thought we should recapitulate the history of flight, start with balloons.”

“There weren’t balloons with wings, were there?” Maintaining concentration on his thumb work.

“No, but people did imagine them. And this thing can only stay up for a while. Batteries.”

“It doesn’t look like a helicopter. It looks like a coffee table for dolls.”

“Eight props, that’s serious lift. And they’re protected. It can bump into something and not be instant rubbish. Give ray a rest and look at this.”

“How do I stop?” asked Milgrim, suddenly anxious.

“Just stop. The app will right it.”

Milgrim held his breath, took his thumbs from the screen. Looked up. The ray rolled up, executed an odd little wing-tip flutter, then hung suspended, rocking slightly, its dorsal surface to the ceiling.

Milgrim got up and went to the table. Nothing had ever been quite as pleasant as this afternoon with Fiona, in Bigend’s Vegas cube, though he kept surprising himself with the recognition of just how pleasant it was. There was nothing to do but play with Bigend’s expensive German toys, and talk, while the toys, and learning how they worked, provided a perfect topic for conversation. Fiona was working, technically, because she had to assemble the new drone from the parts in the two cartons, but she seemed to enjoy that. It involved a set of small screwdrivers mainly, color-coded hex wrenches, and videos on a website on his Air, via the red dongle. A company in Michigan, two brothers, twins, with matching eyeglasses and chambray shirts.

It didn’t look like a helicopter, though it did have those eight rotors. It was built of black foam, with a bumper of some other black material around its edge, and two rows of four holes, in which the rotors were installed. It stood on four slanted wire legs now, about six inches above the table. Its four batteries, currently charging at a wall socket, slotted into each of the corners, equalizing weight. It had a slender, streamlined black plastic fuselage underneath, housing the camera and electronics.

“No testing this indoors,” she said, putting down the screwdriver. “It’s together, though. I’m exhausted. Up all night. Feel like a nap?”

“A nap?”

“On your foam. It’s wide enough. You sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s have a nap.”

Milgrim looked from one blank white wall to the next, then up at the black ray and the silver penguin. “Okay,” he said.

“Turn off your laptop.” She stood up while Milgrim shut the Air down. She walked over to the umbrella light and dialed it down low. “I can’t sleep with these pants on,” she said. “There’s Kevlar.”

“Right,” said Milgrim.

There was a ripping of Velcro, and then the sound of a zip. A big one, by the sound of it. Something, maybe Kevlar, rustled to the floor. She stepped out of the armored pants, already barefoot, and went to the white foam, which seemed to glow faintly. “Come on,” she said, “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“Okay,” said Milgrim.

“You can’t sleep in Tanky amp; Tojo,” she said.

“Right,” Milgrim said, and began to remove his shirt, which had far too many buttons on each sleeve. When he’d gotten it off, he hung it on the back of the chair, over his new jacket, and took off his pants.

He could see her, dimly, pulling the MontBell out of its bag. He felt like screaming, or singing, something. He walked toward the foam, then realized he was wearing his black socks from Galeries Lafayette. That seemed wrong. He stopped and removed them, almost falling over.

“Get under,” Fiona said, having spread the open bag as wide as it would go. “Good thing I never use a pillow.”

“Me neither,” lied Milgrim, sitting down, tucking his socks quickly under the edge of the foam. He swung his legs under the Mont-Bell and lay down, very straight, beside her.

“You and that Heidi,” said Fiona, “you’re not a number, are you?”

“Me?” he said. “No!” Then lay there, eyes wide, awaiting her response, until he heard her softly snoring.