Unknown 9 by Layton Green (each kindness read aloud txt) 📕

“Pull the ladder!” the pilot said as soon as they were up, and the helicopter began to ascend.

“What about Zawadi?” Andie said. She and Cal had squeezed into a pair of tight folding seats behind the cockpit. “We have to help her!”

“She told me not to wait,” the pilot said.

“I don’t care!”

“She gave orders. I’m sorry.”

No amount of cajoling would change his mind. As they climbed higher and higher above the copper dome of the basilica, the lights of Bologna a million lanterns blazing far beneath them, Andie could only watch in horror as the staccato muzzle blasts in the courtyard grew fainter and fainter.

“Look!” Cal said, gripping Andie’s arm as he pointed to their left. Behind the basilica, at the edge of the courtyard, a single headlight could be seen, just barely, weaving down the forested slope at a breakneck pace. “That’s got to be Zawadi—she doubled back on them.”

Andie gripped the back of the pilot’s seat as she watched the lone figure disappear into the trees. The last thing they saw before soaring out of range was the SUV at the bottom of the courtyard, whipping around to race back down the long drive.

“I hope she has a plan,” Andie said.

Cal slumped into his seat and let his shoulders sag in exhaustion. “I hope our pilot does too.”

AshevilleSummer 1970

“What sort of doctor are you?” Dr. Corwin said casually, though he was staring at Hans in the cozy lounge of the Grove Park Inn, analyzing every detail of the broad-shouldered German man. He cut quite a handsome figure, with his fashionable thin mustache, cleft chin and dimples, beige shirt with two buttons undone, and the most piercing blue eyes Dr. Corwin had ever seen.

The man had to be a close relative of Stefan Kraus, quite possibly his son. Yet to Dr. Corwin’s knowledge, no such person existed. The Society did not have a full record of all the Ascendants, or even most of them, but a child of Stefan Kraus . . . they should have known about this.

He had to assume Hans’s identity, his very existence, had been kept a secret. Yet why surface now? The Ascendants must have seen Waylan’s journal article and decided to send their own promising young member to investigate the rumors of Ettore Majorana’s reappearance.

“I’m a pediatric oncologist.” Hans held Dr. Corwin’s gaze as he took a seat in a leather armchair across from Waylan Taylor. Dr. Corwin caught the faint aromas of dark rum and a crisp citrus cologne wafting off the German. “And you?”

If Hans was an oncologist, then Dr. Corwin was a peach farmer. But it was a smart choice. No one in polite company would question the credentials of someone saving the lives of children.

Does Hans know of my true allegiance? “I’m a theoretical physicist at Columbia. I’m afraid I must be off, though. I’ve quite an early flight.” Though intrigued by the conversation with Waylan, Dr. Corwin had gained the information he needed.

“How disappointing,” Hans said. “I’m highly curious as to this common source of all things and the demystification of chance.”

“Yes,” Waylan said. He was looking warily at both men, aware of strange dynamics in play. “I’d be most keen to hear this myself before you go.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Corwin held up his palms. He might need to consult with Waylan in the future. “Why not?” he said, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a quarter. “I often make this argument with a deck of cards. But a coin will suffice. Let me start with a question: How do you believe the universe began? By design or by chance?”

Hans crossed his legs, revealing white suede loafers, and threw an arm over the back of his chair. “I’m of the opinion that the sooner we distance ourselves from superstitious beliefs, the better.”

“You reject design in the universe then?”

“Design by a white-bearded deity? Absolutely. Do you not?”

“Religion is irrelevant to my argument. Chance, then, is your answer? The luck of the draw? A big bang followed by a random confluence of celestial events that led to the miracle of life on Earth?”

“If you put it that way,” Hans said, “then yes. Unless there is another choice?”

“I’m not aware of one,” Dr. Corwin said. “Random chance, or a design of unknown origin. There is no middle ground.”

Waylan folded his arms as Dr. Corwin held the quarter in his palm for both men to observe. “At first blush, it would seem that luck and chance are everywhere. Take a coin flip—would you posit the outcome is simply a matter of fortune?”

“As long as you’re not a sleight-of-hand artist,” the German said.

“That, too, is irrelevant. In fact, no matter the medium, chance has nothing to do with the outcome of a coin toss.”

Hans was bristling. “I’m dying to hear your explanation.”

“The problem is, chance has become synonymous with probability. Playing the odds. I grant you there is close to a fifty-fifty mathematical probability that, on the average toss, a coin will land on heads.” Dr. Corwin wagged a finger. “But every single time, the outcome is predetermined long before the coin lands. For starters, we have to consider the strength and motion of the wrist, the atmospheric pressure, the landing surface, and the effect of gravity. Moving backward in time, one could argue for an almost infinite number of factors.”

“It’s a logical trap,” Hans said.

“Oh? How, then, would you ensure a random flip?”

“I’d hire someone to write a computer program that negated the effect of the environment in determining heads or tails.”

“And how would you exclude the influence of the computer circuits involved and the design of the program itself? Pure chance is still nowhere in sight. More equal probabilities perhaps, but not chance.”

“Yes, I understand the effect of the observer on an experiment can never be removed. But did Bohr and Heisenberg not prove the inherent uncertainty in the quantum realm?”

“A common misconception. All they proved was that