Gregory Benford: Timescape

“The grandfather paradox.”

“Right,” Markham broke in. “There are some subtle points involved with doing that. We think it leads to a sort of intermediate state, in which a little heat is generated and a few tachyons get launched. But I’m not sure.”

“I see…” Peterson struggled with the ideas, scowling. “I’d like to go into that some time later, once I’ve had a thorough reading of the technical material. Actually, I’m not depending on my own judgment alone in this—” he glanced around at the two intent men beside him “—as you’ve probably guessed. I got an assessment from Sir Martin at the Council, and from that fellow Davies you mentioned. They say it’s the straight stuff.”

Markham smiled; Renfrew beamed. Peterson held up a hand. “Hold on, though. I really stopped by here to get the scent of things, not to make the final decision. I’ve got to make my case to the Council itself. You want electronics flown in from the American labs, and that means wrangling with the NSF.”

“Are the Americans thinking along the same lines?” Renfrew asked.

“I don’t think so. The Council’s attitude is that we must pool our resources. I’m going to urge that you fellows get the backing and the Americans chip in.”

“And the Soviets?” Markham asked.

“They say they have nothing along these lines.” Peterson sniffed in disdain. “Probably lying again. It’s no secret that we English have a big role in the Council only because the Soviets are keeping a low profile.”

“Why are they?” Renfrew asked innocently.

“They figure our efforts are going to blow up in our faces,” Peterson said. “So they’re giving token support and probably hoarding their resources for later.”

“Cynical,” Markham said.

“Quite so,” Peterson agreed. “Look, I must get back to London. I’ve got a number of other proposals—conventional stuff, mostly—the Council wants a report on. I’ll do what I can for you.” He shook hands formally. “Dr. Markham, Dr. Renfrew.”

“I’ll walk out with you,” Markham said easily. “John?”

“Of course. Here is a folder of our papers on tachyons, by the way.” He handed it to Peterson. “Plus a few ideas about things to transmit, if we’re successful.”

The three men left the building together and paused in the bare parking lot. Peterson turned towards the car Renfrew had noticed there that morning.

“So that was your car,” Renfrew blurted out involuntarily. “I didn’t think you could have got here that early from London.”

Peterson raised an eyebrow. “I stayed the night with an old friend,” he said.

The flash of amused reminiscence that touched his eyes for a split second indicated clearly to Markham that the old friend was a woman. Renfrew missed it, being busy putting on his bike clips. Also, Markham suspected, it was not the kind of thought that would occur to Renfrew. A good man, but basically dull. Whereas Peterson, though almost certainly not a good man by anyone’s definition, was equally certainly not dull.

MARJORIE WAS IN HER ELEMENT. THE RENFREWS DID not entertain often and when they did, Marjorie always gave John and their guests the impression of bustling activity and even of domestic disasters narrowly averted. In fact, she was not only an excellent cook but a highly efficient organizer. Every step of this dinner party had been meticulously planned in advance. It was only out of a subconscious feeling that she should not intimidate her guests by being too perfect a hostess that she darted back and forth from the kitchen, chattering constantly, and pushing back her hair as though it were all a bit too much for her.

Heather and James, as their oldest friends, had arrived first. Then the Markhams, a correct ten minutes late. Heather was looking startlingly sophisticated in a low-cut black dress. In heels, she was the same height as James, who was only five feet, six inches and sensitive about it. As usual, he was impeccably dressed.

They were drinking sherry now, except for Greg Markham, who had settled on a Guinness. Marjorie thought that a bit odd right before dinner, but he looked as though he had a large appetite, so it would probably be all right. She found him a little disconcerting. When John had introduced him to her, he had stood just a little too close and stared at her and asked her rather abrupt and unconventional questions. Then, when she had backed away—both physically and from direct answers to his questions—he had appeared to dismiss her. When she had offered him some expensive nuts later, he had scooped up a large handful while continuing to talk and had hardly acknowledged her presence at all.

Marjorie resolved to let nothing disturb her. It was now over a week since the awful incident with the squatters and—she brushed the thought away. She resolutely turned her attention to her bright, fresh party and to Markham’s wife, Jan. Jan was quiet, of course—hardly surprising, as her husband had been dominating the conversation ever since they arrived. His technique was to talk very rapidly, skipping from one subject to the next as they came to mind, in a sort of verbal broken-field running. A lot of it was interesting, but Marjorie had no time to think about a subject and work up a comment before the conversation lurched off in another direction. Jan smiled at his verbal leaps, a rather wise smile which Marjorie interpreted as signifying depth of character.

“You sound a little English,” Marjorie probed. “Is it rubbing off on you already?”

This served to break them off from the circle of talkers. “My mother’s English. She’s been in Berkeley for decades, but the accent sticks.”

Marjorie nodded receptively and drew her out. It developed that Jan’s mother lived in the Arcology being built in the Bay Area. She was able to afford it because she wrote novels.

“What kind of thing does she write?” Heather broke in.

“Gothics. Gothic novels. She writes under the absurd pen name of Cassandra Pye.”

“Good heavens,” Marjorie said, “I’ve read a couple of her books. They’re jolly good, for that sort of thing. Well, how exciting to think that you’re her daughter.”

“Her mother’s a marvelous old character,” Greg interjected. “Not all that old, really. She’s—what, Jan?—in her sixties and will probably outlive us all. Healthy as a horse and a little crazy. Big in the Senior Culture Movement. Berkeley’s full of them these days and she fits right in. Whizzing around the place on her bike, sleeping with all kinds of people, dabbling in mystical nonsense. Transcendent snake oil. A little over the edge, in fact, isn’t she, Jan?”

This was obviously a standing joke between them. Jan laughed easily in response.

“You’re such an unrelenting scientist, Greg. You and Mother just don’t inhabit the same universe. Just think what a shock you’d get if you were to die and find out that Mother was right all along. Still, I agree that she’s become a trifle eccentric lately.”

“Like last month,” Greg added, “when she decided to give all her worldly possessions to the poor of Mexico.”

“Whatever for?” James asked.

“To show support for the Hispanic Regionalist cause,” Jan explained. “That’s the people who want to make Mexico and the western US a free region, so people can move around as economy dictates.”

James scowled. “Won’t that simply mean the Mexicans will move north en masse?”

Jan shrugged. “Probably. But the Spanish-speaking lobby in California is so strong maybe they can force it through.”