Art's heart was pounding, and his breathing was loud in his ears.

"That is one hell of a steep trail." Sven was jogging beside him.

It was Saturday morning, and the two men had decided to get some exercise. In their case, this involved running up the path to Utopoint, a hill at the city's southern edge.

He had been up here a couple of times, and he recognized the teahouse they were passing. It was closed. "We're almost at the top now."

The trees surrounding them were bereft of summer's foliage—dark fingers reaching into gray fog. The air from their lungs formed fleeting phantasms in the freezing air, but Art felt warm, thanks to the blessings of functional clothing.

Art hadn't slept well. Thoughts of murder and its motives had kept him awake. Yet the regular trot, the strong pulse of his heart, and the deep breathing triggered by the exertion had made him feel better, alive. They reminded him of his more active days back in California.

Need to do this more regularly.

The path leveled out before them. The outline of a two-storied, steep-roofed building materialized in the mist—the hotel at the top of the hill. And, at its side, like the emaciated but more elegant cousin of Eiffel tower, a construction of metal struts and ties reached skyward, its top lost in the fog above.

"We're almost there." Art had never tried to ascend the tower running. His feet rang on the first of the 178 steel rungs leading to its viewing platform.

If I reach the top without stopping, I'll get Monica released.

As a child, he had sometimes made deals with fate—deals like this one.

Some twenty-five steps up, he gained the first landing. The first one of five... or six?

"I'll take a break here," said Sven behind him.

Art waved a hand at his friend but didn't stop. The next section of the stairs looked the same as the one before, but its steps felt higher. The cadence of his breathing gained speed and urgency.

Reaching the next landing, he looked up at the maze of steel above him. Steps, girders, landings, fog—he didn't see the top platform.

His thighs ached as he worked on another flight of steps. He grasped the metal railing. It was cold to the touch, but pulling himself along helped.

The next landing was a larger one. He considered walking it to catch his breath, resuming his running when reaching the rungs at its end.

No, that would be cheating.

He crossed the landing in a jog, arriving at the next steps way too soon.

Breath rattling, he ascended.

Step, step, step. Hands numb from the frigid steel. Heart pounding, not in his chest, but in his ears now.

Another landing was just three strides long, offering no respite.

His burning legs were moving through maple syrup, his lungs were in agony. His body had become his enemy—only his brain was still his own, sending its electrical commands to limbs that had stopped paying him allegiance.

Electrical pulses instructing a body to tear itself apart.

One more landing passed. It had to be the last. But the flight of steps before him ended in yet another one.

Why was he doing this? His having a heart attack on this bloody, foggy tower had nothing to do with getting Monica out of prison.

Yet still...

Step, step, step.

This was so silly.

Fate would not mind him walking the last few steps.

Would she?

Darkness descended upon him as he continued. He missed a step, stumbled, but he caught himself on the railing and continued.

I must stop, this is madness.

Darkness deepened. His world was the pounding of a laboring heart, the ragged breathing of cold air, the pained muscles giving in to exhaustion, the desperate tapping of feet on metal rungs.

Light returned as he passed an opening. Still running.

The opening in the top platform.

"Wow, you were in a real hurry to get up here." Sven strolled onto the platform and stopped beside Art.

Art's breath was still quick, but not frantic anymore. His knees were shaking. He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.

"What a view," Sven said.

The view consisted of a railing and of the gray void beyond it—no ground, no sky, no horizon, just fog.

The two men drifted on their platform through nothingness in mutual silence. 

Two castaways on an endless ocean.

Art cleared his throat. "Makes me wonder if there's anything at all beyond that fog."

"Good thought. I feel like one of the ancient Greeks, looking at a piece of copper and wondering if there is anything within it... if it has any structure."

Art remembered his history lessons. "These Greeks were philosophizing about everything being made of atoms. But they never knew for sure."

"Yes, it took humanity millennia to figure this out... to find proof."

Figuring things out, finding proof. This is what I need.

Art looked at his friend, then he gestured at the fog. "If you physicists have something like this... something you don't understand. And if you want to find out what it's made of, how it ticks, what's behind it... What do you do?"

Tiny water droplets clung to the Swede's dark hair. A smile found his lips. "We prod it."

"Huh... you prod it? How?"

"With anything we have." Sven poked a finger into the fogscape. "We prod it with electrons or protons and observe how they are scattered. We prod it with photons at all wavelengths and see what comes back. We prod it with tiny needles to explore its surface. We send something its way and observe its reply."

"You prod it." Art nodded. "I see."

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dan

People say that life is peaceful in Tavetia, that nothing ever happens here.

Bullshit.

Tomorrow, my neighbors and I are going for a trip into the mountains. There's supposed to be heaps of snow up there, and they want to go snowshoeing.

The thought of these heaps of snow makes me uneasy. Think avalanches, snow slides, freezing to death, suffocating, etc.

This made me buy some winter gear today. Now I'm broke.

But it doesn't stop there.

In the murder case I wrote you about, the police have found a suspect. One of the neighbors, a woman named Monica. She's held in custody now. I don't think she did it, though.

I'm afraid that the killer is among the other tenants, the ones I'm going snowshoeing with tomorrow. Call me crazy, but I want to help Monica.

My guts say it was a guy named Jake. He's only moving in now, but he had the keys to the house all that time because he is the victim's nephew. And there are rumors that she had some money, and he was her closest relative. But then, the police have checked him out, and he seems to have a solid alibi.

So it may be someone else. I trust no one.

I'll prod them all and see what happens. Prodding is how these physicists do their exploring, and they should know.

Wish me luck.

Art

He pressed the send button and reached for the machine's lid to close it. A chime announcing a new mail stopped him.

Google lottery notification: You have won 1'500'000 Euro

Such a lot of money. Fate was on his side, finally.

Grinning at the thought, he deleted the junk.