The Last Theorem - Arthur Charles Clarke [128]
Ranjit had never doubted that she would be, but he joined in the celebration, picking her up in a great bear hug…and then setting her down as soon as seemed proper, because his daughter was already three centimeters taller than he, with a body composed largely of muscle. Myra offered a congratulatory kiss, and then began studying the document that bore the official seal of the International Olympic Committee. “There are ten of you that are confirmed,” she observed. “And who’s this R. Olsos from Brazil? He’s another solar-sail pilot. Sounds familiar.”
Natasha produced what could only be called a giggle. “That’s Ron,” she told her mother. “Ronaldinho Olsos, the hundred-meter boy you met on the moon.”
Myra gave her an inquisitorial look. “When did he stop being a runner and turn into a solar-sail pilot?”
“Oh,” Natasha said idly, “it might be that I had something to do with it. He kept sounding jealous of what I was doing. We’ve sort of kept in touch ever since.”
“I see,” said Myra, who hadn’t known anything of the kind. However, as Myra de Soyza had at one time been a teenage girl herself, and remembered quite well how little she had wanted her parents involved in her experimental dealings with boys, she didn’t press the matter. She sent the maid out to the nearest decent bakery for a non-birthday but definitely celebratory cake for Natasha, which she herself decorated with an approximate sketch of the solar-sail ship Natasha would sail, and made a party out of that night’s dinner.
The Subramanian family was used to parties. Out of considerable experience they had become very good at them, too, so by the time Natasha had blown out the candles on her cake and made her conventional wish (not to be told to anyone, especially her parents), they were all feeling warmly, affectionately jovial. That was when Robert threw his arms around his big sister and whispered in her ear.
Which made her look startled. She turned to her parents. “Is that true? You’re going to make Robert go to church?”
“Not church,” her father said. “It’s a Sunday school. We’ve checked, and they have a class that would be good for him—learning the stories about Jesus and his Sermon on the Mount and all. And it would make Surash happy to know that my father’s grandchildren aren’t being kept entirely away from religion—”
Natasha shook her head crossly. “I don’t mind being kept entirely away from religion. And Robert says you want me to go, too! Honestly, don’t you think I have enough to do already? School, solar-sail practice—”
“It’s only one evening a week,” her mother informed her. “We aren’t talking about Sunday school for you. You’d go to the church’s teenager group. They do talk about the Bible now and then, yes, but most of their time is spent on projects to make the world a better place.”
“Which, for now,” her father added, “is mostly working for Bandara Senior’s campaign for the presidency. I assume you might like to help with that.”
That was unquestioned for Natasha, or any of the rest of her family, either. It was the elder Bandara who had persuaded the university to set up the solar-sail simulation laboratory that gave Natasha her best hope of doing well in the race to come. The solar-sail lab was orders of magnitude less expensive than the lunar-gravity chamber she had had to practice in for the moon race; it was little more than a chamber in which all six of the walls were screens. But the computer programs to run it were complex—and expensive. It was a major outlay for the university, and would have been totally impossible for the Subramanian family alone.
“And,” her mother said, passing Natasha her personal screen, “I have a picture of the group when they had a beach party a few weeks ago. They look like kids you might want to be friendly with.”
“Huh,” Natasha said, studying the score or so of young people displayed on the screen.
She didn’t comment on the fact that at least four of the boys in the picture were notably good-looking.