Eric smiled. “Mass-energy equivalence,” he supplied.
“That’s it. And there was something else about—”
“Don’t tell me. Velocity-dependence of mass, and time dilation,” Eric said.
“Is that what it was? Okay, if you say so.”
“I have heard that before. Well, you can tell him that all those can be derived from Maxwell’s equations and the conservation of momentum by classical methods, and don’t say anything that’s unique to Relativity at all. Einstein himself admitted it in his later years.” Eric waited a second. “Was that all?”
“From me or from the physicist?”
“From the physicist.”
“Yes, I think so.”
Eric made a face. “Then tell him I’m disappointed. If he comes up to Barrows Pass this coming weekend he’ll hear more objections than those—and some interesting answers, too. Ask him to explain the aberration of VLB interferometers. And what about laser ring gyros?”
“Slow down, Eric. I’m still at the beginning. Who was it again with the equations? Maxwell, was it? . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Eric said, laughing. “I’ll write it down and give it to you at lunch. We’ll see you here at about twelve-thirty, then.”
On her drive south from the city, Michelle tried to analyze her own thoughts and ask what, exactly, she was hoping to accomplish. Her honest answer was that she wasn’t sure. She felt frustrated at the little headway she had made the day before, the only tangible result being faxed copies of Jack Anastole’s autopsy report and death certificate, which were public-domain information anyway and could have been obtained by anyone. Her real intention, she supposed, was to sound out Eric’s state of receptiveness, and, depending on his reactions, maybe plant some thoughts that might germinate over the holiday weekend. In that way she would have done as much as was possible for the present to create the circumstances for things to progress further in their own time. If nothing more happened for the remainder of the week, it would not have been entirely wasted.
She arrived at Neurodyne shortly before twelve-thirty. As she parked in the visitor area, she noticed that both the Jeep and the Jaguar were in the reserved slots, which meant that Vanessa was also on the premises today. Michelle tried to anticipate what complications that might be likely to precipitate. Would it not seem odd for Michelle to be visiting Eric, not Vanessa, when she and not he was involved most in the firm’s legal matters? Worse still, he might invite Vanessa to join them, which would negate the whole point of Michelle’s coming here.
Michelle was still hurriedly composing some alternative reason in her mind for being here, when Eric appeared in the lobby—alone. Outwardly he was his usual affable self, and said he’d had Beverley call ahead to make reservations at a seafood restaurant in University Place, a marina waterfront center on the shore of the Narrows; but in his eyes and his voice, Michelle detected hints of strain.
When they left the building, Eric showed her to the Jaguar. “What’s this? Don’t you think the Jeep is appropriate to taking a lady to lunch?” she teased as he held the door for her to get in. “It really doesn’t matter. I’m not that much of a snob really.”
“Vanessa’s taking the Jeep into the shop to be looked at this afternoon,” he told her. “She says the transmission’s playing up, or something.”
“How is she today?” Michelle asked as Eric climbed in the other side and closed the door.
“Tied up with Joe Skerrill—I think. Something to do with the DNC patents. It all means about as much to me as Swahili. I haven’t seen her all morning.”
Which put paid to that particular worry. Michelle settled back in her seat, feeling more relaxed. The road outside the gates was still as Michelle had last seen it: machines digging trenches for sewer pipes; earthmovers leveling the adjacent lots. “That’s another advantage of being in microengineering,” Eric commented as they threaded their way between cones and warning signs. “Expanding to larger premises isn’t a problem. You just open up another room.”
On the way to the restaurant, he talked about the bad press that DNC was getting and its effects on the company’s fortunes. Neurodyne stock was down alarmingly, and investors were getting nervous. A couple of big ones had actually pulled out. It was the first time Michelle had heard him admit that it was probably being engineered deliberately. He didn’t seem to understand how people could try to suppress through fraud and disinformation what they were unable to compete with legitimately. Michelle couldn’t help but get the feeling that he had never before seriously entertained the possibility that the world could be that way. He was ready to grant, too, that certain among the top management at Microbotics—and perhaps some of their financial associates—were probably behind it. The journalists and hack scientists who figured more visibly were dupes or hired hands. At least, this changed outlook could make her task easier, Michelle reflected.