Eric seemed fascinated. “And what’s the important business of life?” he asked.
Michelle shrugged. “Feeding kids; making shoes; painting fences. Things like that.”
They paused as the wines arrived.
“But isn’t someone going to notice sooner or later that the coin can come down heads one time and tails another?” Eric said.
Michelle nodded. “Yes, precisely—so you have to make sure that doesn’t happen. When the Oracle is asked the same question, it needs to deliver the same answer. Hence the legal obsession with precedents.”
Eric sipped his drink and thought about that. “Yes, you’re right. Most of what’s called science works the same way. Bad data is defined as any result that doesn’t fit the theory.”
Michelle looked surprised in her turn. “So what happened to all this business we hear about rigorous proof by experiment?” she queried. “Doesn’t it work that way? I mean, if your theory’s not right, your plane won’t fly. Isn’t it so? How can a bad theory in science survive?”
Eric beamed, evidently having expected just that. “Easily. Because science that works stops being science and becomes engineering. So you could almost say that science doesn’t really exist. It’s a bit like the present instant that separates future from past—an infinitesimally thin dividing line between unproven speculations and planned obsolescence.”
“You make it sound almost insignificant,” Michelle chided.
“Not really,” Eric said. “It’s simply a boundary. What we know is inside; what we don’t is outside. Just because it’s thin doesn’t make it unimportant. Some of the most interesting things happen at boundaries. Take surfaces of planets. Wars, politics. . . .” He made a nonchalant, throwing-away motion. “What else is sex but a meeting of epidermises?”
Michelle smiled and shook her head. They sat back as the waiter arrived and set their plates. “Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked.
Eric shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, thank you.”
“Enjoy your meal.” The waiter left.
“Anyway,” Eric went on, “charming and delightful as all this is, I don’t think you came here to exchange philosophies. So is it my body that you’re really after? Or was there something else?”
Michelle admitted to herself that she had been putting the subject off. The fact was, she did enjoy talking with him. The bizarre tangents that his mind was apt to fly off on, always provocative, never in an expected direction, were fascinating—a refreshing relief from the dreary, predictable ego-centered or defensive monologues she was so used to hearing. For a moment she found herself questioning if it was really that vital to have the conversation today that she had told herself she had come here for, or had that been an excuse? . . .
Definitely not, she ruled. She was too much the professional for that. Her sole motive was business.
“You pretty much brought it up yourself on the way here in the car,” she said. “The business that’s going on concerning DNC. It isn’t an accident. You’ve said as much in effect yourself now.”
Eric didn’t pretend to be totally surprised. “So are you saying there’s something we can do about it—apart from simply sticking to the facts? Lies always come unraveled in the end, you know.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re ineffective. They can still do a lot of damage while you’re waiting for the loose ends to show. . . .” She was stalling, she knew. Eric chewed, watching her and waiting. She set down her fork to appeal with both hands. “My job is to be suspicious about everybody. In this instance, that means anybody in a position to be able to threaten Ohira’s interests. With the situation we’ve got, the first questions in any cop’s mind would be about people with previous connections with Microbotics.” She paused, then, to emphasize her point, added, “Connections to things that matter. I’m not talking about any former janitor who worked there.”
Eric’s eyes widened in astonishment, his fork poised in midair. “My God! Surely you don’t mean me?”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I can’t exclude anybody. But I’d certainly hope not you—it wouldn’t make any sense.”
Eric frowned, then looked puzzled. “Well, Patti Jukes was there—but only for a short while, as a low-level technician. That only leaves Doug . . .” He snorted and smiled at the absurdity of the thought. “And Vanessa.”