Nathan tossed his stubby piece of chalk into the air nonchalantly, but missed the catch and it fell to the carpeted floor.
Moneygrinder, slightly paler than the chalk, asked, «A major quake, you say?»
«Uh-huh.»
«Did … did the CalTech people make this prediction?»
«No, I did. They don’t agree. They claim I’ve got an inverted gamma factor in the fourteenth set of equations. I’ve got the computer checking it right now.»
Some of the color returned to Moneygrinder’s flabby cheeks. «Oh … oh, I see. Well, let me know what the computer says.»
«Sure.»
The next morning, as Moneygrinder stood behind the gauzy drapes of his office window, watching the cars pull in, his phone rang. His secretary had put in a long night, he knew, and she wasn’t in yet. Pouting, Moneygrinder went over to the desk and answered the phone himself.
It was Nathan. «The computer still agrees with the CalTech boys. But I think the programming’s slightly off. Can’t really trust computers, they’re only as good as the people who feed them, you know.»
«I see,» Moneygrinder answered. «Well, keep checking on it.»
He chuckled as he hung up. «Good old Nathan. Great at theory, but hopeless in the real world.»
Still, when his secretary finally showed up and brought him his morning coffee and pill and nibble on the ear, he said thoughtfully:
«Maybe I ought to talk with those bankers in New York, after all.»
«But you said that you wouldn’t need their money now that business is picking up,» she purred.
He nodded, bulbously. «Yes, but still … arrange a meeting with them for next Thursday. I’ll leave Wednesday afternoon. Stay the weekend in New York.»
She stared at him. «But you said we’d …»
«Now, now … business comes first. You take the Friday night jet and meet me at the hotel.»
Smiling, she answered, «Yes, Cuddles.»
Matt Climber had just come back from a Pentagon lunch when Nathan’s phone call reached him.
Climber had worked for Nathan several years ago. He had started as a computer programmer, assistant to Nathan. In two years he had become a section head, and Nathan’s direct supervisor. (On paper only. Nobody bossed Nathan, he worked independently.) When it became obvious to Moneygrinder that Climber was heading his way, the lab chief helped his young assistant to a government job in Washington. Good experience for an up-and-coming executive.
«Hiya Nathan, how’s the pencil-pushing game?» Climber shouted into the phone as he glanced at his calendar-appointment pad. There were three interagency conferences and two staff meetings going this afternoon.
«Hold it now, slow down,» Climber said, sounding friendly but looking grim. «You know people can’t understand you when you talk too fast.»
Thirty minutes later, Climber was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk, tie loosened, shirt collar open, and the first two meetings on his afternoon’s list crossed off.
«Now let me get this straight, Nathan,» he said into the phone. «You’re predicting a major quake along the San Andreas Fault next Thursday afternoon at two-thirty Pacific Standard Time. But the CalTech people and your own computer don’t agree with you.»
Another ten minutes later, Climber said, «Okay, okay sure, I remember how we’d screw up the programming once in a while. But you made mistakes too. Okay, look—tell you what, Nathan. Keep checking. If you find out definitely that the computer’s wrong and you’re right, call me right away. I’ll get the President himself, if we have to. Okay? Fine. Keep in touch.»
He slammed the phone back onto its cradle and his feet on the floor, all in one weary motion.
Old Nathan’s really gone ‘round the bend, Climber told himself. Next Thursday, Hah! Next Thursday. Hmmm.
He leafed through the calendar pages. Sure enough, he had a meeting with the Boeing people in Seattle next Thursday.
If there is a major ‘quake, the whole damned West Coast might slide into the Pacific. Naw … don’t be silly. Nathan’s cracking up, that’s all. Still … how far north does the Fault go?
He leaned across the desk and tapped the intercom button.
«Yes, Mr. Climber?» came his secretary’s voice.
«That conference with Boeing on the hypersonic ramjet transport next Thursday,» Climber began, then hesitated a moment. But, with absolute finality, he snapped, «Cancel it.»
Nathan French was not a drinking man, but by Tuesday of the following week he went straight from the laboratory to a friendly little bar that hung from a rocky ledge over the surging ocean.
It was a strangely quiet Tuesday afternoon, so Nathan had the undivided attention of both the worried-looking bartender and the freshly-painted whore, who worked the early shift in a low-cut, black cocktail dress and overpowering perfume.
«Cheez, I never seen business so lousy as yesterday and today,» the bartender mumbled. He was sort of fidgeting around behind the bar, with nothing to do. The only dirty glass in the place was Nathan’s, and he was holding on to it because he liked to chew the ice cubes.
«Yeah,» said the hooker. «At this rate, I’ll be a virgin again by the end of the week.»
Nathan didn’t reply. His mouth was full of ice cubes, which he crunched in absent-minded cacophony. He was still trying to figure out why he and the computer didn’t agree about the fourteenth set of equations. Everything else checked out perfectly: time, place, force level on the Richter scale. But the vector, the directional value—somebody was still misreading his programming instructions. That was the only possible answer.
«The stock market’s dropped through the floor,» the bartender said darkly. «My broker says Boeing’s gonna lay off half their people. That ramjet transport they was gonna build is getting scratched. And the lab up the hill is getting bought out by some East Coast banks.» He shook his head.
The prostitute, sitting beside Nathan with her elbows on the bar and her Styrofoam bra sharply profiled, smiled at him and said, «Hey, how about it, big guy? Just so I don’t forget how to, huh?»
With a final crunch on the last ice cube, Nathan said, «Uh, excuse me. I’ve got to check that computer program.»
By Thursday morning, Nathan was truly upset. Not only was the computer still insisting that he was wrong about equation fourteen, but none of the programmers had shown up for work. Obviously, one of them—maybe all of them— had sabotaged his program. But why?
He stalked up and down the hallways of the lab searching for a programmer, somebody, anybody—but the lab was virtually empty. Only a handful of people had come in, and after an hour or so of wide-eyed whispering among themselves in the cafeteria over coffee, they started to sidle out to the parking lot and get into their cars and drive away.
Nathan happened to be walking down a corridor when one of the research physicists—a new man, from a department Nathan never dealt with—bumped into him.
«Oh, excuse me,» the physicist said hastily, and started to head for the door down at the end of the hall.
«Wait a minute,» Nathan said, grabbing him by the arm. «Can you program the computer?»
«Uh, no, I can’t.»
«Where is everybody today?» Nathan wondered aloud, still holding the man’s arm. «Is it a national holiday?»
«Man, haven’t you heard?» the physicist asked, goggle-eyed. «There’s going to be an earthquake this afternoon. The whole damned state of California is going to slide into the sea!»
«Oh, that.»
Pulling his arm free, the physicist scuttled down the hall. As he got to the door he shouted over his shoulder, «Get out while you can! East of the Fault! The roads are jamming up fast!»
Nathan frowned. «There’s still an hour or so,» he said to himself. «And I still think the computer’s wrong. I wonder what the tidal effects on the Pacific Ocean would be if the whole state collapsed into the ocean?»