Gregory Benford - Timescape

“I’m not sure what I want yet.”

“And she wants what?”

“Look, we’re finding out. Be reasonable, Mom.”

“You throw up to me reasonable? That I should lie down and die and say nothing? I can’t stay here and watch you two love birds cooing to each other.”

“So don’t watch. You have to learn who I am, Mom.”

“Tour father would—” but she didn’t finish. In the cool wan light she jerked erect. “Leave her.” Her face was rigid.

“No”

“Then walk me to my bed.”

When he returned to their bungalow Penny was reading; Time and eating cashews. “How’d it go?” She tugged her mouth to one side wryly wearily.

“You’re not going to win the Susie Semite contest.”

“I didn’t think I would. Jesus, I’ve seen stereotypes before but…”

“Yeah. That dumb stuff of hers about Roth.”

“That wasn’t what it was about.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed.

The next morning his mother phoned him from her motel. She was planning on spending the day walking around town, seeing the sights. She said she did not want to take up his time at the University, so she would do it on her own. Gordon agreed that was probably best, since he had a busy day ahead; a lecture, a seminar, taking the seminar speaker to lunch, two committee meetings in the afternoon, and a conference with Cooper.

He returned to the apartment later than usual that evening. He called her motel, but there was no answer. Penny came home and they made supper together. She was having some problems with her course work and needed to get in some reading. By nine o’clock they finished cleaning up and Gordon spread some of his lecture materials out on the dining room table to do some overdue grading. Around eleven he finished, entered the grades in his book, and only then remembered his mother. He called the motel. They said she had a “do not disturb” sign out and wanted no calls put through. Gordon thought of walking over and knocking on her door. He was tired, though, and resolved to see her first thing in the morning.

He woke late. He had a bowl of shredded wheat while he looked over his lecture notes in Classical Mechanics, reviewing the steps in some of the sample problems he would work for the class. He was putting the papers away in his briefcase when he thought of calling the motel. Again, she was out.

By mid-afternoon his conscience was nagging him. He came home early and walked over to the motel first thing. There was no answer to his knock. He went around to ask at the desk and the clerk looked in the little mail slot under her room number. The man fished out a white envelope and handed it to Gordon. “Dr. Bernstein? Yes. She left this for you, sir. She’s checked out.”

Gordon tore it open, feeling numb. Inside was a long letter, repeating the themes of the alleyway in more detail. She could not understand how a son, once so devoted, could hurt his mother this way. She was mortified. It was morally wrong, what he was doing. Getting involved with a girl so different, living like that—a terrible mistake. And to do that for such a girl, such a shtunk of a girl! His mother was weeping, his mother was filled with worry for him. But his mother knew what sort of a boy he was. He would not change his mind easily. So she was going to leave him alone. She was going to let him come to his senses on his own. She would be all right. She was going up to Los Angeles to see her cousin Hazel, Hazel who had three fine children and who she hadn’t seen in seven years. From Los Angeles she would fly back to New York. Maybe in a few months she could come and visit again. Better, he should come home for a time. See his friends at Columbia. Come visit people in the neighborhood; they would be overjoyed to see him, the big success of the block. Until then, she would be writing him and hoping. A mother always hopes.

Gordon put the letter in his pocket and walked home. He showed it to Penny and they talked about it for a while and then he resolved to put it in the back of his mind, to deal with his mother later. These things usually cured themselves, given time.

“WELL, WHERE THE HELL IS HE?” RENFREW EXPLODED. He paced up and down his office, five steps each way.

Gregory Markham sat quietly, watching Renfrew. He had meditated for half an hour this morning and felt relaxed and centered. He looked beyond Renfrew, out the big windows the Cav sported as the prime luxury item in its construction. The broad fields beyond lay flat and still, impossibly green in the first rush of summer. Cyclists glided silently along the Coton footpath, bundles perched on their rear decks. The morning air was already warm and lay like a weight. Blue shrouded the distant spires of Cambridge and ringed the yellow sun that squatted over the town. This was the blissful fraction of the day when there seemed an infinite span of time before you, Markham thought, as though anything could be accomplished in the sea of hushed minutes that stretched ahead.

Renfrew was still pacing. Markham stirred himself to say, “What time did he say he’d be here?”

“Ten, damn it. He set out hours ago. I had to call his office about something and I asked if he was still there. They told me he’d left very early in the morning, before the rush hour. So where is he?”

“It’s only ten past,” Markham pointed out reasonably.

“Yes, but hell, I can’t get started until he gets here. I’ve got the technicians standing by. We’re all set. He’s wasting everybody’s time. He doesn’t care for this experiment and he’s making it hard on us.”

“You got the funding, didn’t you? And that equipment from Brookhaven.”

“Limited funds. Enough to keep going, but only just. We’ll need more. They’re strangling us. You know arid I know that this may be the only chance of pulling us out of the hole. What do they do?—make me run the experiment on a shoestring and then that sod doesn’t even care enough to show up on time to watch it.”

“He’s an administrator, not a scientist. Sure, the funding policy does seem short-sighted. But look, the NSF won’t send anything more without more pressure. They’re probably using it for something else. You can’t expect Peterson to work miracles.”

Renfrew stopped his pacing and stared at him. “I suppose I have made it rather obvious that I don’t like him. I hope Peterson himself isn’t aware of it or it might turn him against the experiment.”

Markham shrugged. “I’m sure he knows. It’s clear to anyone you two have different personality types, and Peterson’s no fool. Look, I can talk to him, if you want—I will, in fact. As to you turning him off the experiment—tripe. He must be used to being disliked. I don’t suppose it bothers him at all. No, I think you can count on his support. But only partial support. He’s trying to cover all his bets and that means spreading support pretty thin.”

Renfrew sat down in his swivel chair. “Sorry if I’m a bit tense this morning, Greg.” He ran thick fingers through his hair. “I’ve been working evenings as well as days—may as well use the light—and I’m probably tired. But mainly I’m frustrated. I keep getting noise and it scrambles up the signals.”

A sudden flurry of subdued activity in the lab caught their attention. The technicians who had been casually chatting a minute before were now looking purposeful and prepared. Peterson was threading his way across the lab floor. He came to the door of Renfrew’s office and nodded curtly to the two men.