That was all. It was quite enough. Instantly Peterson felt two conflicting emotions: elation, and a sudden disappointment that he had not asked for more. Who had written the note? What else did they receive? He realized ruefully that he had assumed the sod getting the signal would obey the instruction and then go on and tell how he got it, what he thought it meant, or at least who he buggering well was.
But no, no, he thought, sitting back. This was enough. This proved the whole colossal business was right. Incredible, but right. The implications beyond that were unclear, granted—but this much was certain.
And as well, he thought with a touch of pride, he had done it all himself. He wondered for a moment if this was what it was like to be a scientist, to make a discovery, to see the world unlocked if only for an instant.
Then the bank manager knocked hesitantly on the door, the mood was lost, and Peterson pocketed the sheet of yellow.
He stayed at the Valencia Hotel in a suite overlooking the cove. The park below was part gnawed away by the encroaching surf, as evidenced by the sudden termination of some walkways. All along the coast the waves had undercut the conglomerate soil. Shelves stuck out above the surf, ready to topple. No one seemed to notice.
He told his security men and limo to clear off for the night. They made him conspicuous and he had been under the limelight quite enough for one day. His mind was churning with the success at the bank. He dissipated some of the energy with thirty laps in the hotel pool, and then with unsuccessful forays into
the shops near the hotel. The clothing stores interested him most, but they were the sort which could not simply display their wares and stand aside, but set them in scenes of English manor houses or French chateaux. There was still money here, though most of it seemed misdirected. The people were bright and clean and glossy. At least being prosperous set one apart in England; here it guaranteed nothing, not even taste.
The sidewalks thronged with old people, some quite rude if you didn’t step aside for them. The younger men, though, were bright and athletic. The women interested him more, crisply fashionable, immaculately groomed. There was a certain blandness to them, though, an indefinable stamp of prosperous neutrality. Part of him envied this life. He knew that these people striding so confidently along Girard were hemmed in by as many restrictions as the English—Southern California was a mass of limits on immigration, buying houses, water use, changing jobs, automobiles, everything—but they looked free. There was still not much of the worldweariness here which Europeans often equated with maturity. He had always missed a certain complexity among the women, as well. They seemed interchangeable, their faces carefully smooth and open. Sex with them was healthy, competent, and matter-of-fact. If one propositioned them, they were never surprised or shocked. Their no meant no and their yes meant yes. He missed the challenge of the no that meant maybe, the elegant game of seduction. These Americans didn’t play games; they were energetic and skillful but never devious or secret or subtle. They preferred direct questions, gave direct answers. They liked to be on top.
At this point in his musings, he stopped before a wine store, and decided to see if he could get a few cases of good California wine flown back to England. One never knew when the chance would come again.
He was waiting in the bar for Kiefer when the thought struck him. What if he’d simply sent a letter to Renfrew, with the message inside? Given the post these days, it might not have even reached him by now, never mind being acted upon. In that case, after he’d got the yellow paper today, he could’ve rung up Renfrew and ordered him not to send the message. What would Markham make of that?
He finished his gin and then remembered the business about the loops. Yes, the scheme he’d just devised would have thrown everything into an indeterminate state. That was the answer. But what kind of answer was that?
“Damn streets,” Kiefer complained. “Getting like a slum.” He wrenched the steering wheel around a sharp curve. Tires howled.
For Peterson this change of topic was a decided improvement. Kiefer had been reciting the virtues and benefits of eating fresh vegetables brought in at something approximating the speed of light from “the valley,” a cornucopia needing no further name.
To encourage this new line of discussion Peterson ventured mildly, “It all looks very prosperous to me.”
“Yes, well, of course, you don’t see it if you keep to the avenues. But it’s getting harder to maintain standards. Look around you here, for instance. Notice anything?”
They were high in the hills now, on winding narrow roads that afforded glimpses of the ocean between Spanish ranches and miniature French chateaux.
“See how they’re walled in? When we first came here, oh, almost twenty years ago now, they were all open. Great views from every house. Now you can’t even call on your neighbor without standing out in the street pushing buttons and talking into an intercom. And frap, you should see the antiburglar networks! Electronics worth a hundred German shepherds. Backup batteries for brownouts, too.”
“The crime rate is bad, then?” Peterson asked.
“Terrible. Illegal aliens, too many people, not enough jobs. Everybody feels he has a right to a life of luxury —or at least comfort—so there’s a lot of frustration and resentment when the dream craps out.”
Peterson began to replan his schedule. He would leave time to find the best electronic security system he could. Stupid of him, not to think of it before. That sort of thing was precisely where the Americans excelled. He would have use for a good system, adaptable and rugged. If possible, he would carry it back with him on the plane. Again he wished for a private jet.
“The town is getting carved up into sealed-off enclaves,” Kiefer went on. “Oldsters, mostly.”
Peterson nodded as Kiefer cited statistics for California, which was second only to Florida in percentage of old people. Since the foldup of the Social Security system, the Senior Movement lobby had been pressuring even harder for special privileges, tax breaks, and extra favors. Peterson was sure he knew more of the demographics than Kiefer; the Council had got a worldwide picture on them two years ago, including some confidential projections. Attaining the zero-population-growth birth rate had left the US and Europe with a bulge in the population curve, now hitting retirement age. They expected hefty monthly checks, which had to come from the reduced ranks of younger people through taxes. It led to an “entitlement syndrome.” The old felt they’d paid heavy taxes all along and then been put on the shelf before they could earn the immense salaries now going to junior executives. They were “entitled,” the Senior Movement argued, and society had damned well better cough up. The oldsters voted more often and with a sharper eye for self-interest. They had power. In California a gray head had become a symbol of political activism.
“—they don’t come out for
Peterson nodded with a show of interest, still thinking about rearranging his schedule. The car swung into a steep driveway as the gate opened before it. They climbed up towards a long white house. Bastard Spanish, Peterson classified silently. Expensive, but without style. Kiefer parked in the carport and Peterson noticed bicycles and a wagon. Christ, children. If he had to share the dinner table with a crew of American brats—
It looked as though his fears were going to be realized when they were met at the door by two young boys jumping at Kiefer and both talking at once. Kiefer managed to quiet them down long enough to introduce them to Peterson. Both children then trained their attention on him. The older boy dispensed with preliminaries and asked directly, “Are you a scientist like my dad?” The younger fixed him with an unwinking stare, shifting from foot to foot in an irritating way. Of the two, he was potentially the noisier and more troublesome, Peterson decided. He knew the older boy’s type—earnest, talkative, opinionated, and nearly uncrushable.
“Not exactly,” he began, but was interrupted.
“My dad is studying diatoms in the ocean,” the boy said, dismissing Peterson. “It’s very important. I’m going to be a scientist too when I grow up but maybe an astronomer and David’s going to be an astronaut but he’s only five so he doesn’t really know. Would you like to see the model of the solar system I made for our science project?”
“No, no, Bill,” Kiefer answered hastily. “I know it’s very nice but Mr, Peterson doesn’t want to be bothered now. We’re going to have a drink and talk about grown-up things.” He led the way to the living room, followed by Peterson and the two boys. Kiefer would be the sort of parent who called adults “grown-ups,” Peterson thought drily.
