Considering the small size of the video camera and the fact that it was wireless, the technician knew that camera #86 could be transmitting from just about anywhere within the heavily guarded compound—a densely packed collection of thirty-two separate buildings covering a half-mile radius. The only clue was that the camera seemed to have been placed somewhere dark. Of course, that wasn’t much help. The complex contained endless dark locations—maintenance closets, heating ducts, gardening sheds, bedroom wardrobes, even a labyrinth of underground tunnels. Camera #86 could take weeks to locate.

But that’s the least of my problems, he thought.

Despite the dilemma posed by the camera’s relocation, there was another far more unsettling matter at hand. The technician gazed up at the image the lost camera was transmitting. It was a stationary object. A modern-looking device like nothing the technician had ever seen. He studied the blinking electronic display at its base.

Although the guard had undergone rigorous training preparing him for tense situations, he still sensed his pulse rising. He told himself not to panic. There had to be an explanation. The object appeared too small to be of significant danger. Then again, its presence inside the complex was troubling. Very troubling, indeed.

Today of all days, he thought.

Security was always a top priority for his employer, but today, more than any other day in the past twelve years, security was of the utmost importance. The technician stared at the object for a long time and sensed the rumblings of a distant gathering storm.

Then, sweating, he dialed his superior.

17

Not many children could say they remembered the day they met their father, but Vittoria Vetra could. She was eight years old, living where she always had, Orfanotrofio di Siena, a Catholic orphanage near Florence, deserted by parents she never knew. It was raining that day. The nuns had called for her twice to come to dinner, but as always she pretended not to hear. She lay outside in the courtyard, staring up at the raindrops… feeling them hit her body… trying to guess where one would land next. The nuns called again, threatening that pneumonia might make an insufferably headstrong child a lot less curious about nature.

I can’t hear you, Vittoria thought.

She was soaked to the bone when the young priest came out to get her. She didn’t know him. He was new there. Vittoria waited for him to grab her and drag her back inside. But he didn’t. Instead, to her wonder, he lay down beside her, soaking his robes in a puddle.

"They say you ask a lot of questions," the young man said.

Vittoria scowled. "Are questions bad?"

He laughed. "Guess they were right."

"What are you doing out here?"

"Same thing you’re doing… wondering why raindrops fall."

"I’m not wondering why they fall! I already know!"

The priest gave her an astonished look. "You do?"

"Sister Francisca says raindrops are angels’ tears coming down to wash away our sins."

"Wow!" he said, sounding amazed. "So that explains it."

"No it doesn’t!" the girl fired back. "Raindrops fall because everything falls! Everything falls! Not just rain!"

The priest scratched his head, looking perplexed. "You know, young lady, you’re right. Everything does fall. It must be gravity."

"It must be what?"

He gave her an astonished look. "You haven’t heard of gravity?"

"No."

The priest shrugged sadly. "Too bad. Gravity answers a lot of questions."

Vittoria sat up. "What’s gravity?" she demanded. "Tell me!"

The priest gave her a wink. "What do you say I tell you over dinner."

The young priest was Leonardo Vetra. Although he had been an award-winning physics student while in university, he’d heard another call and gone into the seminary. Leonardo and Vittoria became unlikely best friends in the lonely world of nuns and regulations. Vittoria made Leonardo laugh, and he took her under his wing, teaching her that beautiful things like rainbows and the rivers had many explanations. He told her about light, planets, stars, and all of nature through the eyes of both God and science. Vittoria’s innate intellect and curiosity made her a captivating student. Leonardo protected her like a daughter.

Vittoria was happy too. She had never known the joy of having a father. When every other adult answered her questions with a slap on the wrist, Leonardo spent hours showing her books. He even asked what her ideas were. Vittoria prayed Leonardo would stay with her forever. Then one day, her worst nightmare came true. Father Leonardo told her he was leaving the orphanage.

"I’m moving to Switzerland," Leonardo said. "I have a grant to study physics at the University of Geneva."

"Physics?" Vittoria cried. "I thought you loved God!"

"I do, very much. Which is why I want to study his divine rules. The laws of physics are the canvas God laid down on which to paint his masterpiece."