“Pat, I am concerned about this trip. I hate exposing us, you in particular, but we need some help, some idea of what’s going on.” He poked at his green beans then went on. “Frankly, even without the risk, I always have mixed feelings with these people. Individually and collectively they’re very bright. They have an excellent track record for making progress on seemingly intractable problems, like ours, and the fact that they do serve on Jason gives us something in common, I suppose. But I can’t help thinking they’re still academics. The fact that they choose that sort of life, rather than committing themselves to the front line like some of us are compelled to do, means we have a different mindset. A basically different view of the world, life.”
He shrugged.
“I think I understand,” Danielson said. “I guess I’m pretty nervous meeting with them for another reason, but it’s related. I’ve never had to do any Agency business in public, outside of Langley, except for that liaison with the Cambridge Research Lab, but that was just work. Now I’ve got to try to explain what I’ve done, what I’ve been thinking, to professional scientists, trained skeptics. It’s a little frightening.”
He looked her seriously in the eyes.
“You know your stuff,” he said confidently. “Don’t worry on that account.”
A passing stewardess eyed their trays. They concentrated once more on the food before them. After lunch, Danielson extracted her case from beneath the seat in front of her and reviewed her notes one more time.
At the San Diego airport Isaacs called ahead to announce their arrival, then they picked up a rental car and got on the freeway headed north, passing between steep hillocks on either side. Only the tang in the air stream through a partially opened window gave evidence of the nearby Pacific. They turned off the freeway and headed uphill to the west. The crest brought a panoramic view of a sweep of coastline to the right, broken in mid-arc by the jut of Scripps pier. To the left, the town of La Jolla snuggled around the hillside and down to the sea. In another few minutes they turned into the gateway of the Bishop’s School for Girls, nestled a short distance from the commercial center of La Jolla.
As they got out of the car, Wayne Phillips called to them. Isaacs and Phillips greeted one another with refined congeniality. Phillips, a Harvard physicist, was, at 68, the senior member and current head of Jason. Like many of his generation he had nurtured his career both in physics and in defense-related matters on the Manhattan Project during World War II. A contributor to a wide variety of fields, he was best known for his work on nuclear physics that had earned him a share of a Nobel Prize.
His physique conceded something to age, but Phillips’ rangy build still extended to nearly six feet. His thick grey hair was balding, but not exceedingly so. The lock of hair in the middle of his forehead gave the effect of a high rise widow’s peak. His longish face displayed kindly blue eyes underscored by pronounced bags. Phillips had come from a monied eastern family and had been raised in style. Although he was among the most highly respected of his colleagues, he had long been regarded as a pariah by some members of his family for not devoting his life to the disbursement of the extensive family trust funds.
Isaacs introduced Danielson to Phillips and they chatted as they moved off down the walk and into a nearby building. Danielson warmed immediately to the physicist’s courtly manner, which belied his aggressive intellect.
They entered one of the dormitories. The bulletin board in the foyer bore outdated reminders of the school-term occupants. Freshly scattered around were announcements of classes and various activities. In a lower corner, neatly aligned but yellowed with age, was a detailed list of covenants applicable to proper young school girls.
Phillips gestured for Isaacs and Danielson to ascend the stairway that led from the foyer. At the top they paused while Phillips caught up with them and led the way down a hall. At midpoint he stopped, rapped once on the door, then turned the knob and stepped back to usher them in.
The furnishings of the room they entered looked all out of place. After a moment’s reflection, Danielson realized that it was a regular dormitory room converted for the summer into an office. The beds had been removed and replaced by a large serviceable desk that stood against the left wall, littered with papers and books. A comfortable old sofa had been shoehorned in beneath the windows opposite, and along the right wall stood a roller-footed portable blackboard. Next to the blackboard a partially opened door revealed a compact lavatory. Extra chairs were placed randomly, adding to the sense of clutter.
Two men sat on the sofa. Isaacs recognized one as Ellison Gantt, the distinguished seismologist from Caltech who had been instrumental in planning the large seismic array. Gantt had receding grey hair and wore dark framed glasses. His jowls and chin were beginning to sag. The two men rose and Phillips introduced them. The other was Vladimir Zicek from Columbia, one of the world’s experts on lasers. Danielson was unsure she would recognize Gantt if she were to bump into him on the street later; he looked like so many other grey, middle-aged men. In a coat and tie he could have passed anywhere as a business executive. Zicek was more distinctive. He was rather small in stature with sharp features and hair combed straight back from his forehead. There was a friendly twinkle in his eyes and his polite continental manner appealed to her.
Phillips addressed Gantt.
“Ellison, you’re our host here today. Would you mind assembling the others?”
“Of course. Let’s see—it’s Leems, Runyan, Noldt, and Fletcher, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” acknowledged Phillips.
Gantt moved into the hallway. Phillips offered Danielson a seat on the sofa, which she took. She realized it put her in full direct view of each new arrival, and she watched with amusement as they filed in over the next several minutes. Each reacted with various degrees of surprise to find an attractive female in the retinue.
Isaacs remained standing, fidgeting at the delay, which would be barely excusable by regimented CIA standards. They were all assembled in a few minutes, however. Isaacs conceded even that was admirable for a bunch of prima donna college professors.
Phillips courteously introduced each new arrival and Isaacs checked them off against the files he had studied. Carl Fletcher and Ted Noldt arrived together. They were experts in high energy particle physics, Fletcher, a theorist from Princeton, Noldt, an experimentalist from Stanford. They both were in their middle thirties, friends from graduate school. Fletcher was of medium height with shaggy brown hair. He had quick dark eyes set in a square face with the gaunt, tanned cheeks of a long-distance runner. Noldt was a bit taller, but blond and pudgy. A crooked grin and glasses gave him the look of a good-humored owl.
Harvey Leems, a solid-state physicist from Berkeley, followed in a minute. Leems was tall and bald. His thick, rimless glasses diminished his eyes and contributed to a sour look. He greeted Isaacs and Danielson with a quick nod.
Gantt returned lugging a slide projector and screen, which he proceeded to arrange. Last to arrive was Alexander Runyan, an astrophysicist from Minnesota. Runyan’s rawboned frame ran three inches over six feet. Danielson watched him come through the door and stop to be introduced to Isaacs. He was wearing a T-shirt that showed a slight paunch, cutoffs, and flip-flop thongs. He moved slowly, almost shambled, but Danielson sensed in him an energy that could be quickly galvanized. A dark beard going salt-and-pepper, particularly at the sideburns, covered a face she thought might be handsome if she could see it all. He turned toward her then, gave a look of surprise and delight and whipped off the glasses he’d been wearing. He stepped across the room and introduced himself, shaking Danielson’s hand and giving her a warm smile. His eyes were light grey or green, hidden in a perpetual sun squint that melded easily into his smile. He squeezed between Danielson and Zicek on the sofa. There was an exchange of knowing looks among the scientists. If there were an attractive woman in the crowd, Runyan would be at her side pouring on the charm.