Ken Liu - Broken Stars

I chuckled. This is what made Mark special. He was an interesting person, and he always took me to see interesting people.

“Remember to be polite when you meet her.” We were standing in front of an ordinary apartment building. Mark looked reverential, a rare expression for him. “She cares about that.”

A bit uneasy, I followed him up the stairs, trying to imagine what a clairvoyant would look like. The light in the stairwell brightened and dimmed as we wound our way up, and the air was redolent of dust…. This was not where I envisioned finding a clairvoyant.

He stopped at the top of the staircase—a second later, the door opened. I saw a slender girl whose face was tender and kind.

Yes, a girl , maybe fourteen years of age. Her hands and feet were thinner and more elongated compared to an adult’s. She was dressed in a black leotard and a pair of black tights, and her pale neck rose like a stalk, topped by a round, childish face. But contrary to her general appearance, her gaze was sharp and tolerant, like an old woman’s.

“Ed! You’re here!” She wrapped me in a tight hug as though we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in ages. Abruptly, she let me go, took two steps back, and gracefully nodded. “I’m sorry—I forgot that we don’t know each other yet.”

I wasn’t sure what was going on. How did she know my name? Admiringly, Mark said, “I’m so glad you know Ed Lin already. I was worried about disturbing you with a stranger.”

“It’s good that you brought him. Thank you.” She hesitated, as if trying to recall something. “… Mark?”

“That’s right!” Mark’s grin was exaggerated. “You remember me!”

She smiled and gestured for us to come in. “Ed, I prepared your favorite chai.”

Her home was as unusual as her person. The bed was filled with books, while her desk was covered with snack trays and a tea set. The round dining table’s legs had been sawed off, and the top was then covered with a variety of cushions. The eccentric furnishings appeared odd at first, but gave off a sense of comforting familiarity after a while.

“It’s too messy,” she said apologetically. Then she muttered to herself, “What was I doing?” Turning to me, she smiled and indicated the cushioned dining table. “Please have a seat.”

I sat down on the table gingerly while Mark remained standing. I was amused by his hesitancy. Mark was forty-three, with dual doctorates in molecular biology and psychology, and had just been granted tenure. He had always strutted around with a swagger, like an energetic crab—oh, he had been my dissertation advisor, too. But in front of this girl he appeared as awkward and deferential as a kid in elementary school. She poured a cup of chai for me and brought it over.

She stopped and stared at Mark suspiciously. “Who are you? When did you get in here?”

“Just now—”

“No!” Her voice was shrill. Then she turned to me and asked in a much softer voice, “Ed, who is he? Why is he here?”

I was utterly baffled. “Um… Mark brought me here….”

“Oh, so it’s Mark.” She seemed at ease again. “Thank you,” she said to him.

Mark scratched his head, embarrassed. “No problem. I came to ask you—”

“I can’t answer your question.” She handed the chai to me. “I don’t know your daughter’s test score.”

“Right, that’s why I came.” Mark looked even more anxious than before. “Her grades are dropping…. Is there anything I can do?”

“How can I possibly know the answer to that?”

“Because you’re a clairvoyant. You can see the future.”

She frowned, an expression that mixed youthful arrogance with aged authority. “Fine. What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a scientist.”

“All right, Mr. Scientist, tell me: what is the principle behind warp drives?”

“That… ah…”

Mark’s face turned red.

“Just as you can’t tell me what I want to know about science, I can’t tell you—”

I started to laugh at her retort when she cried out, “Watch the cup!”

The scalding hot liquid spilled out of the cup onto my hand as I shook from laughing. I winced from the pain.

She took the cup from me in a hurry, muttering, “I’m so sorry. I should have reminded you.”

She blew on my hand, her expression focused and tender.

“Have we met before?” I asked, even more confused than before.

She paused for a moment. “We will.”

After graduation, I didn’t want to pursue a career in science; instead, I became a reporter. I wanted my life to always be filled with the new and exciting. The clairvoyant didn’t strike me as particularly interesting, other than the fact that she made Mark behave like a mouse in front of a cat. The episode soon faded in my memories.

One day, three years later, the editor in chief summoned me into his office.

“Lin, I have an assignment for you.” He handed me a slip of paper. “They call her the greatest psychic of this century.”

I recognized the address. “The greatest psychic?”

“Look at her record: the World Cup, the US presidential election, the South American earthquake, and so on. She predicted the result perfectly every time. Oh, and look at this, a Weibo post she made the day before yesterday: ‘Blood and fire tomorrow at 4:00 p.m.’”

I shuddered. The words were probably a bit too obscure two days earlier, but now it was clear that they were about the plane crash yesterday.

Even the hour was exactly right.

“She never talks to the media. However…” The editor paused deliberately. “When I sent her an email query, she agreed to talk to us immediately, provided that we send you.”

I was thrilled. “Did she say why?”

He shook his head. “Maybe she’s interested in you.”

I laughed. “I’m going to demand better treatment around here. Maybe I’m going to be the president someday.”

He squinted. “Even if you’re the president, I’m still going to hold you to your deadlines.”

Once again, I stood in front of the building. I was feeling slightly nostalgic for that younger version of myself when a window above me opened.

“Ed!” she called out.

I was pleased by the familiarity in her voice. It calmed me.

She was still living by herself, and a delicious-smelling pot of soup was simmering on the stove. She was taller than I remembered, and more filled out. I was amazed that I remembered her so clearly. Her room had been rearranged, though the furniture remained eccentrically familiar. I sat down and got up again. “I’m here for work.”

She grinned. “Grab your list of questions then.”

I took out my notepad. It was my habit to draft an outline of questions ahead of time. Apparently, she had foreseen it.

She glanced at the list and turned to rummaging in the pile of books on her bed. Returning, she handed me a sheet of paper. “I remember them well. These should do it.”

I read the sheet, growing more astonished with each sentence. She had written out answers to every question I was going to ask.

“How did you know what I was going to ask?”

“Have you forgotten my profession?”

It was a most impressive demonstration.

“You’re only allowed to quote from that sheet,” she added.

I read the answers with more care. She had been cautious and meticulous, phrasing everything in a way that was ambiguous. The answers seemed to at once say everything and nothing.

“You can’t expect me to write a profile with so little—”

“They’re more than enough for your article.” Her tone brooked no disagreement.