“Why not orient on the galaxy, then?” Ivo asked. “The stars are pretty stable relative to each other inside it, aren’t they?”
“Too easy, Ivo. That implies that the galactic rotation can be ignored, and it can’t. You jump thirty thousand light-years toward galactic center and you carry a sizable energy surplus with you. Angular momentum must be conserved. It’s like the Coriolis force, or Ferrel’s Law on Earth. You—”
“If I may,” Harold Groton said, interrupting him politely. “I have been this route myself. Ivo, did you ever whirl a noisemaker at the end of a string?”
“No, but I know what you mean.”
“And you know what happens when you pull it short?”
“Buzzes around twice as fast.”
“That’s what happens when you pull in toward the center of the whirling galaxy.”
“If we had instantaneous transport,” Brad said. “But the problem is academic, so I suppose it doesn’t matter if our maps are outdated before we can make them up.”
The meal was done, and Ivo realized that he had enjoyed it without paying any attention to what it was. Chocolate cake for dessert, and—
“Come on, Bradley,” Groton said. “Relax your top-heavy mind with a sprout.” And light wine, and—
Brad laughed. “You never give up. Why don’t you take on Ivo?”
Groton obligingly turned to Ivo. “Are you familiar with the game?”
“And mashed potatoes—” Ivo said, then blushed as they glanced at him in concert. He had to stop letting his thoughts run away with him! “Uh, the game. I guess not, since I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Afra was looking restless again, and now Ivo was also beginning to wonder. Brad knew he wasn’t going to have Schön for the coming crisis with officialdom. Why did he persist in this party-game banter? It was costing crucial time. Brad should be setting things up to divert the senator and postpone disaster.
Still, what could any of them do, but play along? Brad’s mind operated far more subtly than most people suspected, and he never gave up on a problem.
Groton brought out a sheet of paper and two pencils. “Sprouts is an intellectual game that has had an underground popularity with scientists for a number of years. There are several variants, but we’ll stick to the original one this time; it’s still the best.” He put three dots on the paper. “The rules are simple. All you do is connect the dots. Here, I’ll take the first turn.” He drew a line between two dots, then added a new dot in the center of that line. “One new spot each time, you see. Now you connect any two, or loop around and join one to itself, and add a spot to your line. You can’t cross a line or a spot, or join a spot that already has three lines connected to it. The new ones formed on the lines actually have two connections already made, you see.”
“Seems pretty simple to me. How is the winner determined?”
“The winner is the one who moves last, before the spots run out. Since two are used up and only one added, each turn, there is a definite limit.”
Ivo studied the paper. “That’s no game,” he protested. “The first player has a forced win.”
Brad and Afra laughed together. “Nabbed you that time, Harold, you old conniver,” Brad said.
“I’ll be happy to play second,” Groton said mildly. “Suppose we start with a simple two-dot game, to get the feel of it?”
“That’s a win for the second player.”
Groton glanced at him speculatively. “You sure you never played this game before?”
“It’s not a game. There’s no element of chance or skill.”
“Very well. You open a three-spot game, and I’ll take my luck with that nonexistent chance or skill.”
Ivo shrugged. He marked a triangle of dots
and drew a line between the top and the left, adding a spot to the center.
Groton connected the center spot to the isolated one.
Ivo made a loop over the top of the figure.
Groton shrugged and added to it.
Two more moves put an eye inside and a base below.
Ivo finished it off with an arc across the bottom, leaving Groton with two points but no way to connect them, since one was inside and the other outside.
“Now,” Groton said, “how about trying it for higher stakes? Say, five or six spots?”
“Five is the first player’s win, six—” he paused for a moment — “six is the second’s. It’s still no game.”
“How can you know that?”
Brad broke in. “Ivo’s special that way. He knows — and he can beat us all at sprouts, right now, I’m sure.”
“Even Kovonov?”
“Could be.”
Groton shook his head dubiously. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Ivo looked up and caught Afra looking at him intently. “Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I thought I explained about that. It’s nothing. Just a trick of reasoning. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”
“You interest me,” Groton said. “Would you mind telling me when you were born?”
“Don’t do it, Ivo!” Brad said. “You’ll be giving away all your life secrets.”
“He will not!” Afra cried. “Why be ridiculous?”
Ivo looked at each of them, trying not to linger too long on Afra’s face, so lovely in its animation. “Have I missed something?” Again? he added internally.
“Harold is an astrologer,” Brad explained. “Give him your birthday to the nearest minute and he will draw up a horoscope that really has your number.”
Groton looked complacently pained. “Astrology is a hobby of mine. You may consider it a parlor game, but I’ll stand by its validity when properly applied.”
Ivo regretted his involvement in this dialogue, not because he was at all concerned with the subject but because he saw that he was being used to tease the man. He could not decide that he liked Groton, but cruelty, even this mild, was not in his nature. Brad sometimes seemed to be insensitive to the foibles of those less intelligent than he. “March 29th, 1955,” he said.
Groton noted it on a little pad. “Do you happen to know the exact time?”
“Yes. I saw it on the record, once. 6:20 a.m.”
Groton noted that too. “And I believe you mentioned that you were born in Philadelphia. Pennsylvania or Mississippi?”
Ivo tried to remember when he could have mentioned such a fact. “Pennsylvania. Does it make a difference?”
“Everything makes a difference. I could explain if you’re interested.”
“Let’s not make this a classroom session,” Afra said impatiently. Ivo could see that there were parameters of insensitivity about her, too; or perhaps it was merely impulsive emotion. She was like a race-horse, fretful, impatient to be moving, and unappreciative of the more devious concerns of others.
Why had Brad desired a race-horse?
Why did Ivo?
“Interesting figure of speech,” Groton said, seemingly unperturbed. “Astrology might well be taught in the classroom. I wish I had been exposed to it a dozen years earlier.”
“I don’t understand,” Afra said with measured frustration, “how a competent engineer like you can take up with a common superstition like that. I mean, really — !”