"Perhaps I was mistaken," he said, following her in and looking around the room as though he expected to have to write a report on it.
Rainy Keating felt that she, at least, had a really good sense of humor, and the way she diagnosed that was that she saw a lot of comedy in herself. For instance, it was funny that she had let what she called her "dating skills" get rusty. She had had plenty of practice, after all, and not that far in the past. And anyway, dating lore was all high-school stuff, passed from sophomores to freshmen around the time of the menarche, and all simple. Lesson One: Talk about what he is interested in. So she finished turning on the lights, set out a tray of glasses and said, "What do you think, Tibor? Does this kind of circus do any real good?"
He smiled suddenly and sat down, seeming to relax. "Good? I don't know. But I am sure that to stay away from it would bring ultimate harm."
"Meaning no money?" She brought him a whiskey and soda—not very large, because she wasn't having so much fun that she wanted to protract it indefinitely.
"Exactly no money. These senators and congressmen are important people. They would tell you that they do not want to be flattered, and that's true. But it would surprise them so if we did not, that they would be quite unable to vote our appropriations. Are you married?"
Sitting down near him, Rainy was startled enough to misjudge and bump into the arm of the chair. "What kind of question is that, right off?"
"I just like to know, since you wear no ring."
"I used to be married. What about you?"
He nodded, as though it was the answer he had expected. "I used to be married, too, but now I'm divorced. For six years—no, this is December already. For six years and two months."
"And two weeks and three days and five hours and twenty-two minutes? Oh, wow, Tibor, you know what I bet? I bet the divorce was your wife's idea." He shrugged. "And you didn't want it to happen, right? And you're still not happy about it."
He said stiffly, "If I said something that upset you, I'm sorry."
"Why should you upset me? I'm used to it. My ex-husband knows exactly how long it is, too. "
"And he didn't want the divorce either?"
She laughed, relenting. "No, he didn't. Let's start over, okay? I'm not divorced—yet. I've been separated four months, and as soon as it's a year I'll get the papers, and, yes, my ex-husband didn't want it and he still hassles me about it . . . and I'm not usually so touchy." He had gulped his drink; penitently, she freshened it and tried again. "Are you worried about losing your funding?"
"Not me personally, no." He hesitated, then let her add ice to the glass. "There is a great need for more observation stations all over the United States—particularly in California. There are thousands of square miles that we cannot monitor at all. We had the funds for expansion, but NSF has cut back—I have been asked to testify about the importance before these politicians, hoping they will restore the money. I do not, honestly, have much hope. I suppose it is the same with you?"
"Well, not really," she said with a touch of pride. "I'm JPL's pet exhibit of economy, because my own project is pretty nearly all pure profit. They sent me here to tell the committee that, so they can see what a good investment space missions are. There are some big ones that need funding—a Venus radar orbiter, a cometary mission. Some really nice ones."
"They will get the funding, of course."
There was an edge to his tone that made her look at him curiously. "Why do you say that?"
"Oh, space, you know. It is the glamor department of science, after all—and very close to rockets and missiles."
"I don't have anything to do with missiles!"
"Not directly," he conceded, and then spoiled it by adding, "perhaps. But it is all much the same thing."
"The hell it is, buster."
He looked at her in astonishment,, then scowled. "Well, Miz Keating," he said with heavy irony, "I have enjoyed this little talk. I apologize for touching so often where you are so touchy."
She stood up with him. "I am not in the least touchy about my work," she corrected him angrily.
"Oh, you feminists!" he exploded.
"What do you mean, feminists'?"
He had an infuriating smile, she realized. "After all, you play both sides against the middle, do you not? When you want a favor, all sexual and sweet. When you discuss your work, hard-nosed, all men together—"
"Hold on a bloody minute. Where did 'sexual' come into this?"
"At the very beginning, of course, are you denying this? The scenario is obvious. You ask me to drive you home, and of course there is the implied possibility that you will allow me to kiss you at the door, yes?, and then perhaps to go farther, even in the direction of your bed, all according to expectation."
"What goddamn expectations?"
"The expectations of the whole world! They are very clear. If a woman indicates to a man that she does not dislike him, the world expects him to make an advance—it is his obligation; he must spare her the embarrassment of making sexual overtures herself. Even if he does not particularly wish to! And if he fails in this he has insulted her—he has indicated she is not sexually attractive; what rudeness!"
Rainy Keating was holding the heavy tumbler in her hand; to her surprise, she realized she wanted to throw it. "You've got hell's own nerve, fellow! If I wanted to go to bed with you I'd let you know!"
"You see how angry you are?" He nodded. "Because I have not picked up my cue properly. Listen to me, Missus Keating, you're right, I did not want my wife to divorce me. But I accepted her decision, because that was what was expected of me. Now what is expected is that I must accept the decision of every woman I hand a drink to at a party! How ridiculous! The unpleasant mornings I have spent, waking up after a night with some wholly unaccept able woman simply because I could not offend her by failing to make the overtures—"
"Get the hell out of here, Sonderman!"
He blinked. "Did I say something offensive?"
"Get out of here!"
He did, with dignity. Outside the door he said severely, "You have taken this in quite the wrong spirit."
"God," she cried, and slammed the door in his face.
In the early Eighteenth Century Charles Boyle, the fourth Earl of Orrery, was known as one of England's most enthusiastic amateur astronomers. An inventor named George Graham made, and gave to the earl, a clockwork mechanism that represented the course of the known planets around the sun. The device did not show the moons of Mars, because no one knew they existed, but neither did it show Jupiter's Galilean satellites, though they had been seen by everyone with a telescope. Perhaps the mechanism was not delicate enough to deal with things so tiny and so remote. The earl enjoyed the device. He liked it so well that he permitted it to be called an "orrery ", after himself. The feelings of George Graham about this are not recorded.
Thursday, December 3d. 7:30 AM.
The house that Rainy Keating had borrowed had a back lawn enclosed in a stone fence. Two young people finished the first joint of the day and rolled up their sleeping bags; they had spent the night in the shelter of the wall. "Eat first or haul tail first, Dennis?" the young woman asked.
Dennis Siroca put his arms through the straps of his pack frame. "Let's get out of here before the people wake up. We'll eat up the hill a little." He shrugged the pack into position uncomfortably. It was warm enough, but damp. "Maybe we'll smoke a little more dope first."
"Now?"
"Up the hill, Zee." He helped her with the bedroll, and then stood waiting while she methodically snapped the harness and fastened all the ties on her quilted jacket. Siroca was a tall man of about thirty. His full beard was sulfur yellow, and so was his hair, which he wore pulled to the back through a leather thong. He inspected the little house with approvaclass="underline" the solar panel meant the owners had respect for the ecology (though maybe that didn't matter any more). As they started across the front yard he glanced at the porch, and something made of bright glass caught his eye. It hung like a Calder mobile, and when the crystal globes touched each other in the morning breeze they tinkled. "Hey, that's pretty," he said, pleased. "You go ahead, Zee. I want to take a look."