“Not that way, ma’am,” said the man politely. “Professor McAndrew is the other way now. You will need an escort. And if you’d first please check in…”
McAndrew’s voice was starting to whisper in my ear. By the time that I had signed in, stated my identity, had my ID independently checked with a DNA mapper, been assigned a badge, and refused refreshments (how long did they expect me to be in the reception area?) Mac’s voice was shouting at me. “Help, Jeanie,” it screamed. “Help, help, help!”
This wasn’t the Penrose Institute that I had known, the place of casual procedure and superb science where Mac had worked for half his life. It had become a clone of a thousand Earthside technology offices.
And it got worse. When I, checked and signed and badged, was led away towards the new working offices, I still did not reach McAndrew. “In a few minutes,” said my guide, in answer to my question. “But first, the Director.”
I was ushered into a new chamber, starkly clean and sparsely furnished. My guide left at once and I looked around. There was no desk, no terminal. Over in one corner on an angular white chair sat an equally angular and thoughtful man, fingertips touching in front of his face.
“Captain Roker,” he said, and stood up. He smiled, very white teeth in a thin-lipped, worried countenance. “I’m Dorian Jarver, the Director of the Penrose Institute. I must say I didn’t expect a visit until you’d heard more about the project. But it’s a blessing that you’re here, because now we can all do our best to persuade you.”
“I’m persuaded already.” I realized that was true, and had been since I saw that ritzy new entrance foyer. “I’m reporting for duty right now.”
“For the expedition described in Professor McAndrew’s letter to you? But the mission and your role in it are not yet fully defined.”
“You can define that later. I’m here, and I’m ready to start.”
Dorian Jarver must have been surprised at both my arrival and my instant acceptance. “I’m delighted to hear that,” he said, though he didn’t sound it. “You come to us with the highest recommendations. And I have to admit that I’ve been a little worried about this proposed expedition. It could be dangerous, and Professor McAndrew is too valuable to risk. He’s one of our most priceless assets.”
No matter what else he didn’t know, he obviously understood McAndrew. It could be dangerous, because Mac would charge into Hell itself if he saw some intriguing scientific fact sitting in the innermost circle. He was too valuable to risk. But Jarver’s final word was disturbing to me. Not a scientist, not a human being. An asset.
“You have been to the Institute before?” added Jarver.
I nodded. I didn’t know what Mac had told him about me, but I suspected that the new director had no idea how close we were.
“Then you’ll have noticed the changes here. The Council had been worrying about the Institute for quite a while. When Director Limperis retired and I came in, the Council insisted that from now on operations would have to be organized rather differently.”
He talked about those changes for the next few minutes. Better equipment and facilities for the scientists. Bigger and cleaner offices. More attention by support staff to routine maintenance functions. Removal of the need for top scientists to waste their time on calls and letters and incoming requests for information, trivia that could be handled just as well by junior staff.
It all sounded terrific. But McAndrew’s strangely awkward letter stuck in my head. I wanted to see him, and make sure that he was all right.
With my mind on McAndrew as Jarver went on talking, I didn’t think that I was saying much in reply. But it must have been enough for the director, because after another few minutes he seemed to lose interest in the conversation, nodded, and said, “Now, Captain Roker, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to hear more about the expedition itself. Project Missing Matter will be testing some of the most fundamental ideas in cosmology; of course, you’ll get that better from McAndrew than you’ll ever get it from me.”
As we stood up I thought that I had Dorian Jarver pegged. I had seen him before, many times. Not the man himself, but the type. The upper levels of Terran government were full of them: competent, hard-working men and women, who started out as scientists, found that they were never going to be better than average, and at an early age substituted management and administration for research. Jarver had changed over the years from scientist to calculating bureaucrat.
Well, I’ve been wrong before. Let’s call that my first mistake on Project Missing Matter.
The director led me to an office down at the far end of the corridor and opened the door. It was big, far bigger than McAndrew’s old, cluttered den. It had the same antiseptic look as the rest of the new Institute. But even Jarver couldn’t do much about the appearance of the occupant.
McAndrew was lolling in an easy chair, staring vacantly at the wall. His shoes were off, his feet were bare and grubby. His thinning, sandy hair was standing up in little wispy spikes as though he had been running his hands through it, which he tended to do when he was thinking, and I could see from the redness of his finger and toe joints that he had been pulling them and cracking them, in the way that I hated.
He glanced up as we came in, swinging his chair casually in our direction.
“Jeanie Roker,” he said. He didn’t stand up, and he didn’t seem in the least surprised at my unexpected arrival. I glanced at Jarver out of the corner of my eye. If Mac wanted to convince the director that he hardly knew me, he should have acted quite differently.
“Professor McAndrew,” said Jarver to me. It could have been an introduction, or possibly an apology. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain Roker, I’ll leave the two of you to discuss the expedition. I’ll meet with you again later.”
As soon as he was gone I bent over and gave McAndrew a six-month separation hug. The hell with formal handshakes. He hugged me right back, then I flopped into the seat opposite and said, “Mac. What the hell is going on here?”
“You saw it already.” His face took on a gloomy, give-up expression that I didn’t like at all. “New offices, new procedures, all the other folderol. Now tell me, did I need a new office?”
“Does it matter that much? You can work as well in here as you could in your old place, and it’s nice to visit and sit on something softer than an optical scalar calibrator. And Jarver’s right, the Institute was getting a bit run-down. It looks good now. You’re becoming crabby in your old age.”
He glared at me. “If that were the whole of it, I might agree with you… but it’s not. You had that letter. Didn’t it make you wonder a bit?”
“Why d’you think I’m here?”
I don’t believe he heard me. “Due procedure,” he said, “that’s what they call it. But it’s beyond that. No messages or memos or papers or letters go out from here without stamps of official approval on them. You saw how my letter to you sounded after they’d done messing with it. All the incoming mail is opened, too — personal as well as professional — before we get to see it. Spoken messages are just as bad. Incoming and outgoing calls are all logged and recorded. Did you see that blasted bank of equipment in the front area, with administrative staff snooping on everything? I’m telling you, it’s like being in a bloody prison.”
“Mac, you’re overreacting. Jarver is used to running things Earth-style. They’re hot on procedure. It’ll take him a while to learn Institute ways. You and your buddies will sort him out.”
“Will we now?” McAndrew snorted. “Me and my buddies will sort him out, will we — when Emma Gowers and Wenig and Lucky Macedo have already resigned and left.”
That was a shocker. I knew all three, and there wasn’t one who didn’t make me feel, without their ever intending it, about as bright as a chimps’ tea-party drop-out.