Now he stood behind the bathroom door, wishing that the first words out of Dr. Nez’s mouth hadn’t made it pretty much impossible for him to step out and let them know he was there.
“I wouldn’t say this in front of the rest of the team,” Dr. Nez said, “but I feel I must say to you that I don’t approve of your plans, not in the least. You’re violating the trust that both the SFS and Dr. Hobbard have invested in us-and for what reason? So we can see a site a few weeks earlier than we might otherwise.”
Dr. Whittaker put on his “more in sorrow than anger” expression, one Anders knew all too well. His dad never yelled at anyone if he thought he could make them feel guilty instead. Dr. Nez had to know that, too, since he’d been Dad’s grad assistant for years before he got his own degree.
“Langston,” Dr. Whittaker said gently. “I don’t see this as a violation of trust. You heard me ask Dr. Hobbard today whether we were free to take a look at public lands, as long as we didn’t bother treecat colonies. She said that was fine.”
“You implied,” Dr. Nez said implacably, “that we wanted a chance to examine a picketwood grove or two, so we would have baseline data about how they develop without the influence-or contaminating factor-of treecat dwellings. You didn’t say anything about planning to go to that abandoned nesting site.”
“True,” Dr. Whittaker smiled. “Sometimes it is easier to ask forgiveness than permission. You’ve heard the arguments at some of these meetings. For a while there, I thought we were going to be blocked even from reviewing the tapes made by the SFS of the recovering and relocated treecats. That Jordan Franchitti is pretty canny. His argument that the actions and reactions of a ‘captive population’ might bias our interpretations of a wild population was very convincing.”
“You have a point,” Dr. Nez said reluctantly. “Still, I’d be happier if we weren’t being so ‘creative’ in our interpretation of Dr. Hobbard’s permissions.”
“Langston,” Dr. Whittaker said, “I would agree but for one very important consideration. Every day we wait, the physical artifacts on that site are deteriorating. I want to get pictures before they do. I’d remove items if I didn’t think that would create trouble. However, fresh images, temperature and moisture readings, as well as investigations of fecal materials before they fully deteriorate, are all things that must be done sooner, rather than later.”
Anders couldn’t see Dr. Nez’s expression, but he must have looked at least somewhat persuaded, because Dad’s voice warmed.
“I see you understand. Moreover, although the data are scarce-humans haven’t known about treecats very long and so haven’t had enough cycles of the longer Sphinxian year to confirm initial impressions-there are indications that treecats do most of their migration in the summer and early autumn.”
“Because,” Dr. Nez added as if thinking aloud, “those are the times when there are surplus resources. Winter travel is further complicated by snow. Spring-especially early spring-is a lean time. What you’re saying is that if we don’t look at this site, we might not locate another so fresh for an entire Sphinxian year. Couldn’t we bring that up to Dr. Hobbard and have her ask the SFS for permission? Surely they’d see our desire is only reasonable.”
“Dr. Hobbard would,” Dad said. “She’s an anthropologist. I’m not so certain about the SFS. They’re overly protective of the treecats-even if our confirming the species’ obvious intelligence is the best protection the ’cats could have. The Forestry Service is also over-reacting to this ‘fire season.’ I can’t believe how much of their staff is simply sitting around waiting for a fire. I actually resent it when I think about how pre-Bolgeo researchers were given such accommodation-even though they hadn’t been hand-picked as our team has been.”
“You can’t really blame the Forestry Service for their priorities,” Dr. Nez protested. “They get their funding from the human citizens. They need to show they’re doing something for human interests-not just for the native ecology.”
“An ecology,” Dad countered, “that many of the locals would just as soon do without. I’ve had a couple of very good chats with Marjorie Harrington when I’ve dropped Anders by the Harrington place. She admits to having no trouble getting funding because everyone wants her to develop hybrids that will enable humans to have all the comforts of home here on a colony planet.”
“Humans are funny that way,” Dr. Nez agreed. “Over and over again, they go to new planets, then try to make them just like the places they left behind.”
Dr. Whittaker nodded. “Now, Langston, if you’re uncomfortable with my plans, I’ll offer you an ‘out.’ I don’t plan for this to be a long jaunt. If you or any other member of the team feel uncomfortable with my intentions, then you can stay behind. You, especially, won’t have any problems justifying that. Xenobiology and exotic botany are not your specializations.”
Anders knew none of the other team members would refuse to go. Both Kesia Guyen and Virgil Iwamoto required Dr. Whittaker’s approval before they could take that final step forward to the grand day when they could put Ph. D. after their names. Dr. Emberly was an xenobiologist and would not miss this opportunity.
Dr. Nez knew this too. There was a note of resignation in his voice when he next spoke.
“I’ll consider your offer, Bradford,” he said, “but I think I’ll come along. I’m no less eager than you to see a newly abandoned treecat settlement. I simply wish we could go about it more directly.”
“So do I,” said Dad, “but when it’s a matter of etiquette or science, science must always come first.”
And where it’s a matter of making sure you don’t go overboard in your enthusiasm for science, Anders thought, I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t have his career to worry about, so I’d better make sure I go along, too.
Stephanie’s wild excitement over getting her provisional license (rather than the dreaded learner’s permit) was somewhat dampened when it became clear that Mom and Dad planned to let matters go on much as before. The Harringtons owned three vehicles. One was Dad’s Vet Van-equipped not only with a portable lab, but with what amounted to a complete surgery. Mom had recently traded in her sedan for another tailored van, this one equipped with racks to hold plants of various sizes and shapes. Stephanie had hoped the family air car would be hers to use.
Stephanie had, in moments of fantasy, even imagined that her birthday gift would include an air car of her very own. She’d known that was unlikely, but both Chet and Trudy had cars of their own, and they didn’t even live as far away from Twin Forks as the Harringtons did. She’d felt a slight letdown when, a few days after she had passed the air car license test, no car materialized.
A couple days after she got her license, Dad had said at breakfast, “I’m actually available to coach at hang-glider practice today. I don’t think you have Forestry Service duty, either. So, if I don’t have any emergency calls, we should have a nice relaxed time.”
“I don’t have ranger duty,” Stephanie replied, “but SFS is really stretched thin with fire-watch. I was thinking if I could get out to the ranger station, I could free someone up. Maybe I should take the car and fly over after practice?”
Richard Harrington flashed a quick grin that told Stephanie without words that he saw through her ruse.
“I don’t think so. You tend to get carried away when you get involved with your SFS work. Remember, legally, your license is only good when conditions are visually safe: dawn to dusk, and no bad weather.”
Stephanie knew better than to try to get around Dad when he had that look. Better to wait and see what other approaches she could come up with.
Dynamics within the hang-gliding club had changed in the couple of days since Stephanie’s birthday party. Trudy had been heard to say quite loudly-obviously not caring that Dad was close enough to hear-that the only reason she’d gone to that boring party was that her folks hadn’t wanted to offend the doctors Harrington.