She poked her head in, asked how things had gone, and expressed herself satisfied with the results. In fact it had been a good day. No sales had been confirmed, but two big ones were on the cusp. And one they’d thought would back out was hanging in. But he still had a cloud over his head and wasn’t sure whether it was Reyna or the Happy Times debacle. Moreover, he couldn’t understand why the Happy Times problem really mattered to him.
He kept telling himself it had been a good day. But he felt no sense of exhilaration. In fact, he rarely did. He was capable of feeling good. But exhilarated? That was a thing of the past. That was a woman who took his breath away. Or maybe gliding through a system of moons and rings and spectral lighting. Over the years, after a successful day, he’d gone out with Emma and the others to celebrate. They’d headed out for Christy’s and toasted each other the way the researchers had when they discovered living cells on a remote world. But he’d just never felt very much.
“Headed home,” she said. “We have tickets tonight for Group Sex.” The show, of course. It was a live musical at the Carpathian. “By the way, you been near the news today? They’ve apparently given up on the new star drive.”
“Why?” he asked. “Did they say?”
“I guess because everybody says it won’t work.” She said good night and, minutes later, was gone. Matt put on the news, directed the AI to find the Locarno stories, and poured himself a coffee.
SILVESTRI INSISTS LOCARNO IS VALID, said the Capital Express.
The Post headlined: LOCARNO CRASHES.
The London Times said: STAR DRIVE FIASCO.
Commentary was similar: DEEP-SPACE SYSTEM SHOULD BE DUMPED.
WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
He found an interview with a Prometheus spokesman. The guy was small and washed-out and tired-looking. But he claimed the Foundation hadn’t made up its mind yet. “We’re still looking at our options.”
Would the Foundation risk its remaining ship in another test? “Anything’s possible.”
The spokesman could say what he wanted, but it was easy enough to read the signals. Unless someone intervened, the Locarno was dead.
Two people, one of each sex, discussed the drive itself on The Agenda. They were both identified as physicists, and they claimed to have gone over the theory. Both found it defective. It looks good on the surface, the woman said, but it doesn’t take into account the Magruder Effect. She was unable to explain the Magruder Effect in terms lucid enough for Matt. Her colleague agreed, adding that Silvestri had also not allowed sufficient flexibility for the required level of interdimensional connectivity. “You’d be able to get a vehicle out to Pluto,” he said, “but you wouldn’t recognize it once it arrived.”
“How do you mean?” asked the interviewer.
“It would be bent out of shape by hypertronic forces. That’s what happened to the Happy Times.”
“Jenny.” Matt was speaking to the AI. “Get me what you can on Jonathan Silvestri. On his scientific reputation.”
“One moment,” she said. Then: “Where would you like to start?”
The only working physicist Matt knew was Troy Sully, to whom he’d sold a villa outside Alexandria two years earlier. Sully worked for Prescott Industries, which manufactured a wide range of electronic equipment. He’d come to the NAU from northern France, expecting to remain only a year, but had instead found his soul mate—his expression, not Matt’s—and elected to stay.
“There’s no way to know, Matt,” Troy told him over the circuit. “Let me advise you first it’s not my field.”
“Okay.”
“You get into some of this highly theoretical stuff, and you have to do as Silvestri says: Run the tests. Until you do that, you just don’t know.”
“But if almost every physicist on the planet says it can’t happen, which appears to be the case, doesn’t that carry some weight?”
“Sure.” Troy was a big, rangy guy. He looked more like a cowboy than a researcher. Except for the French accent. “But you have to keep in mind that what people say for the record isn’t necessarily what they really think. When physicists are asked to comment, officially, they tend to be very conservative. Nothing new will work. That is the safe position. One does not wish to be branded an unskeptical dreamer. If it should turn out that this Silvestri’s notions were in fact to prove correct, you would hear every physicist within range of a microphone explaining that he thought there was a chance it would happen because of so-and-so. You understand?”
“I assume if you were to bet—”
“I’d say the odds against it are substantial. But the truth is, with something like this, there’s no way to know until you try it.”
Jon had dinner at Brinkley’s Restaurant across the park and came back to another flurry of messages. “There’s one that might be of interest,” Herman said. “Do you know a Mr. Matthew Darwin?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He wants to know if you need a new test vehicle.”
Jon was planning on spending the evening watching Not on Your Life, a Broadway comedy. He needed something to laugh at. “What have you got on Darwin, Herman? Who is he?”
“A real estate agent, sir.”
He snickered. “You sure? Have we got the right guy?”
“That’s him.”
“A real estate agent.”
“There’s something else of interest.” There was a sly pause. “He used to pilot superluminals, mostly for the Academy.”
“Really? You think he knows where we can lay our hands on a starship?”
“I don’t know, sir. It might be worth your time to ask him.”
“Did he indicate whether he was representing someone?”
“No, Jon.”
“All right, let’s get him on the circuit and hear what he has to say for himself.”
Matt Darwin was seated by a window. He looked too young to be a guy who’d been piloting for years, then built another career in real estate. It was hard to tell a person’s age this side of about eighty if he took care of himself and got the treatment. These days, of course, everybody got the treatment. Darwin could have been in his twenties.
He looked efficient rather than thoughtful. A bit harried rather than at ease. He had black hair, brown eyes, and there was something in his manner that suggested he had no doubts about himself. “I appreciate your calling, Dr. Silvestri,” he said. “I’m sure this has been a hectic time for you.”
Jon was in no mood for idle chitchat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Darwin?”
“I might be able to do something for you, Doctor. I’ve been watching the reports about the Locarno. I’m sorry things went wrong yesterday.”
“Thank you.”
“It sounds as if the Foundation won’t try again. Is that true?”