Gantt had seen Runyan use this tack before, relating a story with sexy overtones to check the reaction of a new female acquaintance. Seems to be working, he thought. He glanced in the rear view mirror and could see Danielson’s broad grin as she followed Runyan’s animated delivery.
“And do you remember that look she gave you as she was leaving and patted you on the head? I think she would have preferred you to her paying client.”
“Now, Alex,” Phillips chuckled with embarrassment.
“Whoops—here’s Washington Avenue; turn off here,” Runyan directed at Gantt, reverting to navigator. “Okay, now left under the interstate. There it is, on the left, just beyond. See it? I’m not sure where to park. You always have to scrounge a place here.”
“Well, why don’t I let you out here while I go find a place,” volunteered Gantt.
They piled out of the car and then crossed the street. There was a small queue on the sidewalk, but they were admitted shortly after Gantt rejoined them, having left the car in the lot of a gas station that was closed for the night.
Despite the somewhat crowded space, Runyan managed adroitly to get them seated around a table intended for four, drawing up a fifth chair for himself at the end of the table by Danielson and Phillips.
The meal was all Runyan had advertised. Dish followed excellent dish and when they all felt full, a new and interesting plate would arrive, served by a quiet, cheerful woman in traditional geisha garb. Runyan ordered a steady flow of saki and Japanese beer and always ensured that Danielson was liberally supplied. He helped her with playful solicitation to mix the cube of wasabi into the tiny dish of soy sauce to make the dip for the bits of raw fish. He was very adroit with chopsticks and insisted on feeding her a bite from every new dish as it arrived.
Danielson found herself basking in the attention Runyan lavished on her and greatly enjoying his company. She mused to herself that, although he was about forty-five, as close in age to her father as to herself, in terms of physique he reminded her of the beach bum whom she had thought of marrying so long ago. She realized she was greatly attracted to Runyan’s radiant sense of well-being and self-confidence, the spirit that had drawn her to Allan. But Allan had no purpose in life, no goal beyond mastering the next wave. Runyan was completely different in that regard. He operated on an intellectual plane Allan would never even glimpse. She was also fascinated by the inner security she thought Runyan must possess that enabled him to range from the terrifying creative tour de force he had displayed that afternoon to the wellspring of joie de vivre presently at her side.
As they left the restaurant, Runyan tried to drum up enthusiasm to go dancing. Danielson was in a mood to go along, but quickly followed Isaacs’ lead when he demurred.
The ride back to La Jolla was, nevertheless, made in good spirits. Danielson mostly listened as the men traded anecdotes about Washington politics. The perspective of the three scientists was similar, deriving from the National Academy of Sciences and experience with certain congressional liaison committees. They were highly entertained, therefore, by the different view Isaacs provided from his wife’s exploits as a lawyer.
When they arrived back at the Bishop’s School, their spirit of camaraderie spilled out of the car into the absorbing stillness of the campus. Runyan locked arms with Danielson and escorted her up the stairs of the dormitory to her door. Isaacs followed along behind. He had enjoyed the evening, but had continued to view with some jaundice Runyan’s attention to Danielson and her ready response. He forced a grin as Runyan stopped with Danielson at her door and proceeded with comic formality to kiss her hand in farewell. Isaacs made sure Danielson was safely in her room, then walked on down to his.
Runyan climbed the stairs to his own room. He switched on the light and stood for a moment viewing the casual disarray. The desk was strewn with books. Many were opened face down, others were face up with any convenient object—calculator, coffee cup, pencil—used as a place holder. Soiled and clean clothes were intermingled in a pattern discernable only to the occupant.
The evening’s look of merriment was gone from Runyan’s face. He relieved himself in the bathroom and then sat at the desk. His first thoughts were of Pat Danielson. Bright woman. He unquestionably wanted to get in the sack with her. He pondered the dilemma of the modern age. How do you treat a competent woman professionally when your cave-man hormones are singing their atavistic song? In Danielson’s case, he could sense she was ripe. If the circumstances had been a little different, a chance for some intimacy, one of them might at this very moment be sneaking down the hall toward the other’s room. He pictured her face as he gently unbuttoned the blouse she had worn today. Whoa! He shook his head. Enough torture of that sort. Let’s try another. He rummaged for a pencil and a pad of lined paper on which he began to scratch a long series of calculations. After an hour he rose and stretched and then moved to a softer chair next to a reading lamp. A journal devoted to astrophysics lay open on the arm, draped face down. He retrieved it and began to read. As he read, he half consciously waited for someone to come and explain where he had gone wrong in his thinking. No one did.
By three in the morning, his fatigue ran deep. He tried to replace the journal on the chair arm, but he was well over half through, and the unbalanced volume slipped to the floor. He swore, straightened the pages and marked his place with a dirty sock. Then he undressed, fell into bed, thought briefly again of Pat Danielson, and drifted into a fitful sleep.
Nine o’clock the next morning found the group reassembled in Gantt’s room. Danielson and Runyan were talking in quiet tones on the sofa. Gantt had conferred his swivel desk chair to Phillips and taken the seat near the door. The others took their accustomed places.
Phillips broke off his conversation with Isaacs, who was seated next to him, as Noldt, the last to arrive, came in swinging the door against Gantt’s chair and causing him to slosh some of his post-breakfast coffee into his lap. Noldt dithered in helpless apology while Gantt waved him off and dabbed the spot with a handkerchief. After Noldt took his chair, Phillips cleared his throat and began.
“We have no formal agenda this morning. Would anyone care to add to yesterday afternoon’s discussions?”
“That is to say,” broke in Runyan, “can anyone put a quick and merciful end to Runyan’s folly?”
There were several chuckles that died away into silence as it became clear that no one was about to volunteer a viable counterhypothesis or cite an obvious failure in Runyan’s logic.
“With all due respect to you as our resident astrophysical pundit, Alex,” said Fletcher, breaking the silence, “if you’re on the right track, don’t we need to call in some expert help on this problem, someone who knows about this particular subject of small black holes?”
“Absolutely,” answered Runyan. “There are several individuals whose advice would be invaluable, for instance, Korolev in Russia or Pearlby in England. I’d love to discuss this problem with Korolev over a glass of vodka.”
Isaacs straightened perceptibly, startled by this sudden injection of Korolev’s name. But of course, he thought, these people are probably old friends, cronies.
Phillips saw Isaacs start and took the lead.
“There is, ah, a question of security here, of course,” Phillips said.
“Surely not in the classical sense,” said Noldt with some bewilderment. “This isn’t just a national issue. The whole bloody world is being sucked up.”
“There’s no proof of that yet, Ted,” reproached Phillips. “In any case, there seems good reason to proceed cautiously at this point.”