Gregory Benford - Timescape

“Can your staff dig that out?” Cathy asked.

“Perhaps. A lot was lost with the Central Park nuke, I’m told. The network files were in Manhattan. News programs 35 years old aren’t kept in multiple copies, either. I’ve put a woman to searching, but Sir Martin’s got a crash program going on this—” He broke off suddenly.

“You think it was this Bernstein who left that note in the bank?” Markham asked.

“Possibly. But if that is all the effect Renfrew’s beams have had, the ocean information hasn’t got through.”

Markham shook his head. “Wrong tense. We can still keep transmitting; if one message made it, others can.”

“Free will again,” Cathy said.

“Or free won’t,” Peterson said mildly. “Look here, I’ve got to go into Cambridge, see to a few matters. Could you give me a briefing on your work, Cathy, before I go?”

She nodded. Markham said, “Renfrew’s having a little party tonight. He means to invite you, I know.”

“Well…” Peterson looked at Cathy. “I’ll try to come round. Don’t absolutely have to be back in London until tomorrow.”

He and Cathy Wickham went into Renfrew’s small office, to use the blackboard. Markham watched them talking through the clear glass paneling of the door. Peterson seemed caught up in the physics of the tachyons, and had largely forgotten the supposed usefulness of them. The two figures moved back and forth before the board, Cathy making diagrams and symbols with quick swoops of the chalk. Peterson studied them, frowning. He seemed to be watching her more than the board.

MARKHAM GESTURED WITH THE HAND THAT HELD his drink, spilling a little on the Renfrews’ gray carpet. Absent-mindedly he dabbed at it with his foot, as if uncertain whether it was due to him, and went on talking to Cathy Wickham. “Those new equations of yours have some funny solutions. There’s the old probability wave for the causal loops, yes, but…” He kept on in a dreamy, thoughtful way, at the same time in the back of his mind hoping Jan would arrive soon. He had called her from the lab when Renfrew told him that this gathering was to be a sort of informal bon voyage party for him. Renfrew was pinning hopes of overcoming the noise problem on the Brookhaven equipment, and Markham’s dexterity at talking them out of it. “Pissing down out, isn’t it?” Renfrew remarked, peering out a window. It was. A brooding gloom had followed the sudden, thundering rain. Peterson, driving in from Cambridge, had had to roll his window down and lean out to see the gate. Markham walked to the window and caught the heavy scent of damp earth and sodden leaves. Winged sycamore seeds spiraled down into the wet hedgerows. A soaked world.

Marjorie Renfrew hovered at the edge of the Peterson-Wickham-Markham triangle, unable to join in the casual science chat. John Renfrew prowled the room, pushing little plates of finger food a centimeter nearer the true center of the little tables. His face was flushed and he seemed to have drunk quite a lot already.

The doorbell rang. None of them had heard an approaching car in the hammering rain. Marjorie dashed to answer, looking relieved. Markham heard her voice in the hall, running on with no pause for an answer. “What a terrible evening! Isn’t it absolutely awful? Come in, haven’t you got a raincoat? Oh, you must to live here, no matter what, I’m glad Greg reached you. It was at the last minute, yes, but I am quite surrounded by scientists here and need someone to talk to.”

He saw rain dripping steadily from the edges of the porch roof behind Jan, before Marjorie closed the door, bucking it with her shoulder to get it into the jamb. “Hi, hon.” He kissed her with a casual warmth. “Let’s get you dry.” He ignored Marjorie’s fluttering and tugged Jan into the living room.

“A real wood fire! How lovely,” Jan said.

“I thought it would cheer things up,” Marjorie confided, “but actually in a way it’s depressing. It makes it seem like autumn and it’s still only August, for goodness sake. The weather seems to have gone haywire.”

“Do you know everyone?” Greg asked. “Let’s see, this is Cathy Wickham.”

Cathy, now sitting on the sofa with John Renfrew, nodded to her.

“Oh, to be in California, now that August’s here, eh?”

“And this is Ian Peterson. Ian, my wife, Jan.” Peterson shook hands with her.

“Well how did the experiment go?” Jan asked the company at large.

“Oh heavens, don’t start them on that,” Marjorie said quickly. “I was hoping we could talk about something else now you’re here.”

“Both good and bad,” Greg said, ignoring Marjorie. “We got a lot of noise, but Cathy’s detailed explanation of the noise level and spectrum sounds good, so with better electronics John here can sidestep some of the problem.”

“I’m surprised Peterson can’t get it for you with a telephone lift of his finger,” Cathy said sharply. Heads turned towards her. She wagged her jaw back and forth, the sidewise swaying intense and unconscious.

“My omnipotence is overrated,” Peterson said mildly.

“It’s impressive to see the scientific tail wagging the CIA dog.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“People ought to put files back the way they found them.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are—”

“Are you going to hide behind that memorized sentence forever?”

Marjorie stared at the two in horror, caught by the spark of tension. “Won’t you have something to drink, Jan?” she broke in desperately, her voice a little too loud. Peterson’s brittle retort drowned Jan’s quiet reply.

“Here in England we still rather think discretion and civility oil the wheels of social intercourse, Miss Wickham.”

“Doctor Wickham, if we’re going to be formal, Mister Peterson.”

“Doctor Wickham, of course.” He made the word an insult. Cathy straightened, her shoulders rigid with fury.

“Your sort can’t bear to see a woman as anything but a mindless lay, can you?”

“I assure you that is not the case in relation to yourself,” Peterson said silkily. He turned to Renfrew, who looked as though he wished himself a thousand miles away. Markham sipped his drink, looking from one to the other with alert interest. Better than the usual party small talk…

“Funny, that wasn’t the impression I got this afternoon,” Cathy continued doggedly. “But then you haven’t learned to take rejection very well, have you?”

Peterson’s hand clenched on the stem of his glass, knuckles bleached white. He turned slowly. Marjorie said feebly, “Oh my goodness.”

“You must have misunderstood something I said, Dr. Wickham,” he said at last. “I would hardly raise the subject with a woman of your—ah—persuasion.”

For a moment no one else moved or spoke. Then John Renfrew walked to the fireplace and stood in front of it, legs planted firmly apart, holding his mug of beer. He frowned, looking every inch the solid English squire.

“Look,” he said, “this is my house and I expect my guests to behave civilly to each other in it.”

“You’re quite right, Renfrew,” Peterson replied promptly. “I apologize. Put it down to intolerable provocation.” It had the effect of making Cathy seem ungracious.

“Oh, God,” she said ruefully. “John, I’m sorry that I had to get carried away in your house. But I did enjoy being rude to him—”

“That’s it ,” Renfrew declared. “No more,” He waved his mug in dismissal.