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.
CHAPTER NINE
“WELL, WHERE THE HELL
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
“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.
“Sorry I’m late, Dr. Renfrew,” he said, offering no explanation. “Shall we start on it right away?”
As Peterson turned towards the lab again, Markham noticed with mild surprise the caked mud on his elegant shoes, as though he had been walking in ploughed fields.
It was 10:47 a.m. Renfrew began tapping slowly on the signal key. Markham and Peterson stood behind him. Technicians monitored other output from the experiment and made adjustments.
“It’s this easy to send a message?” Peterson asked.
“Simple Morse,” Markham said.
“I see, to maximize the chances of its being decoded.”
“Damn!” Renfrew suddenly stood up. “Noise level has increased again.”
Markham leaned over and looked at the oscilloscope face. The trace danced and jiggled, a scattered random field. “How can there be that much noise in a chilled indium sample?” Markham asked.
“Christ, I don’t know. We’ve had trouble like this all along.”
“It can’t be thermal.”
“Transmission is impossible with this going on?” Peterson put in.
“Of course,” Renfrew said irritably. “Broadens the tachyon resonance line and muddles up the signal.”
“Then the experiment can’t work?”
“Bloody hell, I didn’t say that. There’s just a holdup. I’m sure I can find the problem.”
A technician called down from the platform above. “Mr. Peterson? Telephone call, says it’s urgent.”
“Oh, all right.” Peterson hastened up the metal stairway and was gone. Renfrew conferred with some technicians, checked readings himself, and fretted away several minutes. Markham stood peering at the oscilloscope trace.
“Any idea what it could be?” he called to Renfrew.
“Heat leak, possibly. Maybe the sample isn’t well insulated from shocks, either.”
“You mean people walking around the room, that sort of thing?”
Renfrew shrugged and went on with his work. Greg rubbed a thumbnail against his lower lip and studied the yellow noise spectrum on the green oscilloscope screen. After a moment he asked, “Have you got a correlator you could use on this rig?”
Renfrew stopped for a moment, thinking. “No, none here. We have no use for one.”
“I’d like to see if there is any structure we could bring out of that noise.”
“Well, I suppose we could do that. Take a while to scrounge up something suitable.”
Peterson appeared overhead. “Sorry, I’m going to have to go to a secured telephone. Something’s come up.” Renfrew turned without saying anything. Markham climbed the stairway.
“I think there will be a delay in the experiment, anyway”
“Ah, good. I don’t want to return to London just yet, without seeing it through. But I’ll have to talk to some people on a confidential telephone line. There’s one in Cambridge. It will probably take an hour or so.”
“Things are that bad?”
“Seems so. That large diatom bloom off the South American coast, Atlantic side, appears to be expanding out of control.”
“Bloom?”
“Biologist’s word. It means the phytoplankton are coming to terms with the chlorinated hydrocarbons we’ve been using in fertilizer. But there’s something more to this one. The technical people are scrambling to find out how this case differs from the earlier, smaller effects on the ocean food chain.”
“I see. Can we do anything about it?”
“I don’t know. The Americans have some controlled experiments in the Indian Ocean, but I gather progress is slow.”
“Well, I won’t keep you from the telephone. I’ve got something to work on, an idea about John’s experiment. Say, do you know the Whim?”
“Yes, it’s in Trinity Street. Near Bowes & Bowes.”
“I’ll probably need a drink and some food in an hour or so. Why don’t we meet there?”
“Good idea. See you round midday.”
