“Jerry, calm down. What are you talking about? Who are throwing what out?”
Allender paused to collect his breath. “I just got word from an astronomer called Tyndam, who’s on the scientific committee that’ll be meeting with the Kronians next week—chaired by somebody called Voler.”
Keene nodded tersely. “And?”
“The orbital calculations that we ran. They aren’t accepting them.”
“What?”
“Voler has ruled that until corroboration can be provided by properly organized studies and review, they’re not material to the case. And you know how long that could take for anyone with a mind to stretch things out. But in any case it means that as far as next week is concerned, forget it.”
Keene felt himself trembling in outrage. “The Kronians ran them. We already corroborated them! There’s no reason not to accept them tentatively. Every precedent demands it. Is he trying to say that we and the Kronians are both incompetent? . . . Or worse: that we faked it?”
Allender mouthed awkwardly for a second or two, as if choking on something, and then nodded. “I think so, Lan. That was how it came across to me—and what they’re maybe putting around. I think they are insinuating just that.”
Minutes later, Keene exploded into the reception area, startling Karen, who was sifting through the morning’s mail at her terminal. “Yale University, Connecticut,” he barked. “I want to talk to Professor Herbert Voler, who runs their astronomy faculty. Either get me through to him or a number that’s close to wherever he is. I don’t care if he’s at his grandmother’s funeral. Find him.”
Vicki appeared, framed in the doorway of her own office behind him. “Lan, don’t you think it might be an idea to let it cool for half an hour before—”
“It’s gone far enough. First we get shoddy science. Then the kind of dirty tricks you’d expect in some tin-pot dictatorship somewhere. Now this. We are being accused of incompetence or dishonesty . . .” He shook his head, left the sentence unfinished, and stalked back into his own office, slamming the door. A moment later, he opened it again long enough to throw out, “By them!”
He still hadn’t begun cooling when Karen announced, “His department says he won’t be there for probably two weeks. The woman I talked to isn’t at liberty to give out his personal code. She did give me a Washington number, but he won’t be accessible through it until tomorrow or the day after. I have got a home number for him in New Haven, though.”
Of course, Keene thought to himself. Voler would be getting ready for the circus in Washington. “That’ll do,” he growled. “Maybe someone there might know where he is. . . . And thanks, Karen.” Moments later, he found himself staring at the features of his one-time wife, Fey.
She looked cool, sophisticated, her hair shorter than he had known it, more composed and organized—altered in the same direction as her life, no doubt. She was wearing a powder blue blouse with a sparkling brooch that looked both stylish and expensive, and what looked like a loose, black cardigan. Glimpses of subdued wallpaper and wooden paneling in the background completed the image of polish and refinement—a fitting setting for a senior academician who was going places.
Surprise flickered barely long enough to be visible before being brought under control. The eyes scanned and recorded, extracting in a matter of moments all the information to be had from the screen confronting her. In the way that happens with people who have spent years together, his mood had communicated itself already.
“Well,” she said. “The face from a former life. I had a premonition it might only be a matter of time. You’ve been in the news a lot lately. But I see it hasn’t done anything to sweeten your temper. What do you want, Lan?”
Keene drew a long breath in an effort to steady himself. “Hello, Fey. You’re right. . . .” As she always was; it infuriated him. “I wish I had some pleasantries to swap, but I’m not in the mood. I need to talk to him. Is he there?”
“By `him,’ I presume you mean my husband. His name’s Herbert.”