Laura & Ben Richards, college professors, and members of the lucky, employed class find themselves the parents of a friend's orphan baby boy, Chris Lumiére. A very unusual boy who defies modern medicine's attempts to scan him, and who somehow exudes...
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"Now, just look up at the ceiling while I do your eyes . . ."
In her flat's sitting room, Chelsea remained very still. She wore a large paper bib around her neck. The makeup artist applied the proper color to best accentuate Chelsea's features, she'd explained, because of the bright lights and the meticulous eye of the high-definition vid camera. A technician was setting up studio lighting with what looked like large white parasols and rectangles of white fabric at precise angles. The director was hunched over a display screen making adjustments of some kind. Selby Hancock, her interviewer, should arrive any minute.
"Almost finished," said the makeup artist, dabbing a triangular wedge of sponge.
Chelsea could hardly contain her excitement. She'd dreamed of this life since she was old enough to use the pubcomm. The request to be interviewed by Ms. Hancock, publisher of the most prestigious online social registry network, came as a complete surprise. She'd said she wanted to capture—in Chelsea's own words—the scope and spectacle of one of the most exciting events of the year: her exotic wedding to one of London's most eligible bachelors. London's Nouveau Social Season would begin just after Christmas, and the interview would be a striking launch to kick off the season, now that she was officially Mrs. Chelsea Venizelos. Oh, the sound of it! Mrs. Chelsea Venizelos.
Ms. Hancock had said that the mystique of the Venizelos family shipping empire—not to mention the couple's stunning good looks, especially Evan's tall, dark, and handsome physique—had become a top sensation in London's social circles. Combined with the Greek venue, the story was irresistible.
"Visitor arriving. Quantity one," announced the seccomm's pleasant female voice.
"I'll show her in," offered the director. "She'll freak if she has to wait even a second."
Selby Hancock rushed in. Chelsea, keeping her head steady, strained to get a look at her. The Selby Hancock!
"All done," said the makeup artist with a final stroke to Chelsea's eyebrow, yanking off the paper bib.
Selby darted across the room, set her briefcase down without slowing, and landed in the chair across from Chelsea. The artist pulled out a fresh paper bib and tucked it under Selby's collar.
"Ms. Hancock, it's such a pleasure to meet you," said Chelsea. "In person, I mean. I've followed you online since I was a teen. I'm your biggest fan."
"The pleasure is all mine," said Selby, beaming. Then her expression snapped to one of exasperation. "That's fine. Enough!" She waved her hands. The makeup artist backed off and snatched the bib away. Selby's smile returned.
The director gave final instructions and called for quiet. The technician held a slate in front of the camera. Digital clock digits raced across its face. The technician pressed a button on the slate. Clap!
