as he obviously intended, she said, in part to keep him off balance, “What’s the reality behind these odd clouds we’re seeing? I heard a bit on the news about a Frenchman saying they were a new type, something—”
“Can’t say,” Peterson said abruptly. “Can’t really say. I get awfully behind, you know.”
Marjorie thought, quite an artful dodger, yes. “Brazil, then. What can the World Council tell us about that?”
“The bloom is spreading and we are doing what we can.” Peterson seemed to warm to this subject, perhaps because it was already public.
“Is it out of your hands, then?” she asked.
“Largely. The Council identifies problems and directs research, integrating them with political considerations. We pounce on technology-related sore spots as soon as they become visible. Most of our function is integrating the satellite ecoprofiles. We sift through the data for telltale changes. Once a supernational riddle appears, it’s really up to the technical types—”
“—to solve it,” John finished, returning with the sherry. “It’s that putting-out-fires psychology that makes untangling a riddle so sodding hard, though, y’see. With no continuity in the research—”
“Oh, John, we’ve heard that speech before,” Marjorie said with a gay lilt in her voice she did not feel. “Surely Mr. Peterson knows your views by now.”
“Right, I’ll pack it in,” John agreed mildly, as if remembering where he was. “Wanted to focus on the equipment thing, anyway. I’m trying to convince Ian here to get on the phone and get me help from the Brookhaven people. It takes clout, as the Americans say, and—”
“More than I have, regrettably,” Peterson broke in. “You have a mistaken notion of how much, or rather what kind of influence I have. The scientific types don’t like Council people moving them about like pawns.”
Marjorie said, “I’ve noticed that myself.”
John smiled fondly. “No point in being a prima donna if you don’t get in the occasional aria, is there? But no —” turning back to Peterson “—I merely meant that some of Brookhaven’s advanced equipment would cut through our noise problem. If you—”
Peterson compressed his lips and said quickly, “Look, I’ll press from this end. You know what that’s like— memos and committees and review panels and the like. Bar a miracle, it will take weeks.”
Marjorie put in loyally, “But surely you can exert some, some…”
“Markham’s the one who can do that best,” Peterson said, turning to her. “I’ll lay the groundwork by telephone. He can go and see the chaps in Washington and then Brookhaven.”
“Yes,” John murmured, “yes, that would do it. Greg has connections, I think.”
“He does?” Marjorie said doubtfully. “He seems, well…”
Peterson smiled with amusement. “A bit off? A bit in bad taste? A bit not quite the thing? But he’s an American, remember.”
Marjorie laughed. “Yes, isn’t he? Jan seems much nicer.”
“Predictable, you mean,” John said.
“Is that what I mean?”
“I think,” Peterson said, “that is what we usually intend. Doesn’t rock the boat.”
Marjorie was struck by the agreement between the two men. It had a certain wry, sad quality to it. She hesitated for a moment as they both, almost as if on signal, stared into their glasses. Each tilted his glass and ice cubes tinkled against the sides. The amber fluid swayed and turned. She looked up at the silent, hovering room. On the dining room table the polished wood reflected the bouquet of flowers she had arranged, and the glossy vision of the vase seemed a cupped hand, upholding the world.
Had Peterson told John something earlier, some bit of news? She searched for a way to break the mood. “John, more sherry?”
“Right,” he said, and got up to fetch it. He seemed vexed. “What was that earlier in the car, about the woman from Caltech?” he called to Peterson.
“Catherine Wickham,” Peterson said with a flat voice. “She’s the one working on those micro-universes.”
“The papers you showed Markham?”
“Yes. If it explains your noise level, it’s important.”
“So that’s what you put the call in about?” John asked, pouring sherry. “Like another?” He held up the whisky.
“Would, yes. I got through to her, and then Thorne, the fellow who’s running that group. She’s coming over on the next flight.”
John stopped halfway through pouring. “
“I know Thorne’s contract monitor.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Quite.”
“Well, let’s not bore your wife by talking about business,” Peterson said. “I’d like to see your garden, if I may. I spend most of my time in London or traveling and I must say it’s delightful to see a real one-family home like this.”
He glanced sideways at her as they got up. A deliberate play for her sympathy, she wondered?
“Does your wife travel with you?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“No, I suppose she couldn’t, with her business. She must be doing very well with it.”
“Yes, I believe it’s flourishing. Sarah usually does well with anything she undertakes.” His voice gave nothing away.
“Do you know his wife, Marjorie?” John asked, puzzled. They were out on the terrace, at the head of the steps to the lawn. The sun was still high.
“No, not personally, but I know of her. She used to be Lady Sarah Lindsay-Stuart-Buttle, you know.”
John looked blank.
“Oh, you wouldn’t know. Anyway, she designs these marvelous little dresses now. Sarah Lindsay. You don’t have any children, do you, Mr. Peterson?”
“No, I don’t.
They walked across the lawn. Somewhere off to the right a cock crowed.
“Your chickens?” Peterson asked her.
“Yes, we keep half a dozen for eggs. Sometimes for eating too, though I hate killing the silly things.”
“What kind do you raise? Orpingtons or Leghorns, I suppose, if they’re mainly for eggs.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You know something about hens, then, do you? Yes, we’ve got some Orpingtons. No Leghorns. They’re good layers, but I like the brown-shelled eggs better than white.”
“Right. And Leghorns are highly strung, too. They tend to cause chaos in a small run, which is what I suppose you have. How about Rhode Island Reds? They lay nice brown eggs.”
“I’ve got a couple of pullets right now. They haven’t started laying yet.”
“You’re going to crossbreed, are you? That rooster didn’t sound like a Rhode Island Red.”
“I’m surprised you know so much about them.”
He smiled at her. “I know a lot of things that surprise people.”
She smiled back politely, but tried to keep her eyes cold. She was one woman who was not so easily charmed. The man was despicable, she told herself. He had no interest in her at all. He automatically flirted with her just because she was a woman.
“Would you care to have dinner with us this evening, Mr. Peterson?” she asked, rather formally.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Renfrew. Thank you, but I already have a dinner engagement. As a matter of fact,” he added, looking at his watch, “I should probably be going. I’m supposed to meet someone at 7:30 back in Cambridge.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to go back to work this evening, too,” John said.
“Oh, no,” she protested. “That’s too bad of you.” She was feeling rather tipsy now and in the mood for company. She also felt full of energy, almost twitchy, as if she had drunk too much coffee. “I haven’t seen anything of you for ages and I was going to make a shrimp souffle for dinner. I absolutely
“Sounds like a tempting offer. I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment if I were you, John,” Peterson said with
