The dahs and dits faithfully float in across the ether just as Nick floats in and out of consciousness on a breezy afternoon. He caught the slower code practice and just lets it roll,
A S W I T H H A N D H E L D S O F T H I S S I Z E ,
He's pretty sure that a handheld is a handie-talkie, which is what ham types call walkie-talkies, and this sounds like a product review. The speed picks up after they identify themselves and say which issue page of the journal is being tapped out today. So does someone sit there and tap it out each time? Sounds too perfect. Must be a tape or maybe they automate it with programming and one of those sound cards for the PC, which would make a killer project some day if one had the funds.
He can copy pretty good into the seven and a half words per minute range, and some at the ten words.
Taking the license test would be a breeze if he could get it done soon, at least for the lowest class license. Actually, shouldn't say 'lowest', it's the entry-level class with the least privileges, ya gotta start somewhere. Actually if he does the code then he could get the higher frequency range as well as selected slivers of the shortwave bands, might as well do it all at once.
Nick had thought about contacting some of Pap's old club mates to see about the test, but it would mean taking a day to drive up there, and if he did that he'd feel obligated to stop by Gramma's.
"Now honey you wouldn't have to see her, she'd love it though, I might even go with you and stay with her," his mom would offer.
At one point he had asked Goody if he had any local contacts, he did, and was thinking of getting into radio himself.
After the code gets past his comprehension, still in the cattails but mentally rested, the gal floats into range as if astride the tallest horse in the cavalry, unstoppable, and even when they begin the inevitable fantasy she's impermeable, unwavering, willing yet not revealing any secrets, even though he can't help but imagine them completely unclothed, her bouncing on top, getting and giving as if in a deep state of worship, concepts he'll never understand in a thousand lifetimes-
"NICK what sounds good for supper?" Irene yells from the bottom of the stairs but somehow pierces like she's a foot away.
He jumps a foot and before trying to think of an answer he has to grin at how some things just never change.