Little Animals
Nancy Kress
1.
“I’VE GOT A signal,” Cora said. “Elena, come look!”
I rushed to Cora’s bank of computers. For six long, working-into-the-evening days, we’d gotten only the faintest of quantum signals, nothing usable. Our grant only gave us three weeks on the TU Delft equipment. Cora complained that Americans somehow seem to never get as much quantum-tech time as anybody else, which wasn’t fair . . . but, then, what didn’t Cora complain about?
I said, “Can you lock onto the signal? Is it strong enough?”
“Yes! And—oh my gods you won’t believe this—the subject is looking into a mirror!”
I didn’t know how she could tell that; the image on her screen was so watery and shifting it looked as if it were melting. Frantically Cora worked the amplifying equipment, her fingers flying over keys and buttons. If she couldn’t bring the image into sharper focus within the next few seconds, we’d lose this subject, too.
The portrait emerged. Cora breathed, “The clothing is right, wool, simple cut . . . Come on, you fucker, focus!” And then, “Be Vermeer!”
. . .
