Gregory Benford - Timescape

Kiefer’s movements and speech became less jerky as he began to talk about his work. Peterson guessed him to be in his late forties. There were lines about his eyes and his wiry black hair was gray at the sides but he looked fit and lean. He had the look of an ascetic, but his office belied it. Peterson had already noted, with that mixture of envy and contempt he often felt in America, Kiefer’s perks: deep pile of the fitted olive-green carpet, sleek expanse of rosewood desk top, moist hanging ferns and spider plants, Japanese prints on the walls, glossy magazines on the tile-topped coffee table, and of course the vast tinted windows with their Pacific view. He had a momentary vision or Renfrew’s cluttered cubbyhole in Cambridge. Apart from the view, however, Kiefer showed no pride in or even awareness of his surroundings. They sat down, not at his desk, but in comfortable chairs by the coffee table. Peterson calculated that quite enough had been done along the lines of intimidate-the-visitor and decided a gesture of indifference was needed.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, producing a cigar and gold lighter.

“Oh… I… well, sure.” Kiefer appeared momentarily flustered. “Yes, yes, of course.” He got up and slid the large window partly open, then crossed to his desk and spoke into the intercom. “Carrie? Would you bring in an ashtray, please?”

“I’m sorry,” Peterson said. “I seem to have violated a taboo. I thought smoking was allowed in private offices.”

“Oh, it is, it is,” Kiefer assured him. “It’s quite all right. It’s just that I’m a nonsmoker myself and pretty much try to discourage others.” He flashed Peterson a sudden crooked and disarming grin. “Hopefully, you’ll see the light soon. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay rather downwind of me, so to speak.” Peterson judged the “rather” was the usual American attempt at speaking English-English, the effect in any case spoiled by the grammatical error in the sentence before it.

The door opened and Kiefer’s secretary came in with an ashtray which she set before Peterson. Peterson thanked her, abstractedly tabulating her physical characteristics and giving her a good 8 out of 10. He realized with relish that only his status as a member of the Council had overridden Kiefer’s ban on smoking in his office.

Kiefer perched on the edge of the chair facing him. “So… tell me how you found the situation in South America.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.

Petersen exhaled luxuriously. “It’s bad. Not desperate yet but very serious. Brazil has become more dependent on fishing lately thanks to their shortsighted slash-and-burn policy of a decade or two ago—and of course this bloom seriously affects fishing.”

Kiefer leaned forward even more, as eager for details as any gossiping housewife, and at this point Peterson put himself on automatic. He revealed what he had to and extracted from Kiefer a few technical points worth remembering. He knew more biology than physics, so he did a better job than with Renfrew and Markham. Kiefer went into their funding situation—bleak, of course; one never heard any other tune—and Peterson guided him back onto useful stuff.

“We believe the whole food chain may be threatened,” Kiefer said. “The phytoplankton are succumbing to the chlorinated hydrocarbons—the kind used in fertilizer.” Kiefer leafed through the reports. “Manodrin, specifically.”

“Manodrin?”

“Manodrin is a chlorinated hydrocarbon used in insecticides. It has opened a new life niche among the microscopic algae. A new variety of diatom has evolved. It uses an enzyme which breaks down manodrin. The diatom silica also excrete a breakdown product which interrupts transmission of nerve impulses in animals. Dendritic connections fail. But they must have gone into all this at the conference.”

“It was mostly at the political level, what steps to be taken to meet the immediate crisis and so on.”

“What is going to be done about it?”

“They’re going to try to shift resources from the Indian Ocean experiments to contain the bloom, but I don’t know if it’ll work. They haven’t completed their tests yet.”

Kiefer drummed his fingers on the ceramic tiles. He asked abruptly, “Did you see the bloom yourself?”

“I flew over it,” Peterson answered. “It’s ugly as sin. The color terrifies the fishing villages.”

“I think I’ll go down there myself,” Kiefer muttered, more to himself than to Peterson. He got up and began to pace the room. “Still, y’know, I keep feeling there’s something else…”

“Yes?”

“One of my lab types thinks there’s something special going on here, a way the process can kinda alter itself.” Kiefer waved a hand in dismissal. “All hypothetical, though. I’ll keep you informed if any of it pans out.”

“Pans out?”

“Works, I mean.”

“Oh. Do.”

Peterson got away from Scripps later than he’d planned. He accepted an invitation to dinner at Kiefer’s to keep things going on the good-fellow front, always a wise idea. It was harder for a sod to cross you when he’s drunk some and told a joke and devoured a casserole in your company, however boring the conversation had been.

Peterson’s limo and tag-along security detail took him into La Jolla center for the appointment at San Diego First Federal Savings. It was a bulky squarish building, set dead among a brace of tedious stores of the shoppe variety. He thought of getting something as a traveler-home-from-the-wars gift, something he’d done more often when younger, but dismissed the idea after three seconds of deliberation. The shops were of the semi-infinite markup species and despite the rickety dollar, the pound was worse. All that would be quite to the side if the shops had been interesting, but instead they sported knickknacks and ornate lamps and gaudy ashtrays. He grimaced and went into the bank.

The bank manager met them at the door, primed by the sight of the security force. Yes, he had been advised of Mr. Peterson’s arrival, yes, they had searched the bank records. Once inside the manager’s office Peterson asked brusquely, “Well, then?”

“Ah, sir, it was a surprise to us, let me tell you,” the thin man said seriously. “A safety deposit box with the fees arranged for decades ago. Not your typical situation.”

“Quite so.”

“I… I was told you would not have the key?” The man obviously hoped Peterson would have it, though, and save him a lot of explaining to his superiors afterward.

“Right, I don’t. But didn’t you find the box was registered in my name?”

“Yes, we did. I don’t understand…”

“Let us simply say this is a matter of, ah, national security.”

“Still, without a key, the owner—”

“National security. Time is important here. I believe you take my meaning?” Peterson gave the man his best distant smile.

“Well, the undersecretary did explain part of it on the phone, and I have checked with my immediate superior, but—”

“Well, then, I’m happy to see things have worked out so quickly. I congratulate you on your speed. Always good to see an efficient operation.”

“Well, we do—”

“I would like to have a quick look at it now,” Peterson said with a certain undertone of firmness.

“Well, ah, this, this way…”

They went through a pointless ritual of signing in and stamping the precise time and passing through the buzzing gate. The huge steel doors were opened to reveal a gleaming wall array of boxes. The manager nervously fished appropriate keys from his vest pocket. He found the right box and slid it out. There was a moment’s hesitation before he surrendered it. “Thanks, yes,” Peterson murmured politely, and went directly to the small room nearby for privacy.