Borel waited a few seconds to allow the professor’s words time to take effect.
“I find this absolutely fascinating, and I’m sure the viewers do too,” he finally said. “There are one or two questions about what you’ve said that I’d like to come back to in a moment. But before we do that, for the benefit of the more technically minded among those watching, I wonder if you would describe in a little more detail the exact function of each of the pieces of equipment that you have assembled behind us here.”
“Okay. Cut.” The director’s voice called again. “That was good. We’ll splice the rest of take 2 on from there to complete that sequence. That’s all for today, everybody. I’d like all the people who are involved in tomorrow’s outside shooting to stay on for a schedule update. Everyone else is free to enjoy the J-C nightlife. Thanks. See you all at dinner.”
The arc lights went out and Zimmermann spent a few minutes discussing technical details with the direction team. Then he left the room, traced his way through to the door that gave access to one of the interdome connecting tubes, and followed the tube through to Maindome, which stood adjacent. From there he descended by elevator to emerge four levels below ground in the corridor that led to his office suite. His secretary was watering the plants in the outer office when he entered.
“Hi,” she greeted with a freckled grin over her shoulder. “All through?”
“Hello, Marianne. Yes. I must confess I’m not terribly sorry either.” He looked at what she was doing. “My goodness, look at the size of those plants already. I’m sure that even your fingers can’t be that green. It must be the gravity.” Casting a casual eye over the notes and papers on her desk, he inquired, “Anything interesting?” She turned and creased her face into a frown of concentration.
“Mellows called and said that the replacement photomultiplier has been fitted in C dome—he said you’d know what it was all about. Pierre’s come down with a bug and is in sickbay; he won’t be able to make the meeting tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear. Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I don’t think so. I think it was something he ate. Doc said he looked distinctly hydroponic.”
“Uh huh.”
“And there was this long message that came in, addressed to you by name . . . from a Dr. Clifford at some place in New Mexico.”
“Clifford . . . ? Clifford . . . ?” Zimmermann shook his head slowly. “Who is he?”
“Oh.” Marianne looked surprised. “I assumed you knew him. I took a hard copy of it . . . here.” She lifted a thick wad of pages out of a tray and passed them across. “Came in about an hour or more ago.”
Zimmermann ruffled curiously through the sheets of mathematical equations and formulae, then turned back to the top sheet to study the heading.
“Dr. Bradley Clifford,” he read aloud. “No. I’m sure I have never heard of him. I’ll take it though and have a look at it later. In the meantime, would you get Sam Carson at Tycho on the screen for me, please. I’d like to check the schedule for incoming flights from Earth.”
“Will do,” she replied as the professor disappeared through the door into the inner office.
Chapter 4
Nothing happened for about a month.
Then they threw the book at Clifford. They hauled him up in front of panels who lectured him about his obligations to the nation, reminded him of his moral responsibilities toward his colleagues and fellow citizens, and described to him all the things that they assumed he felt about his own career prospects. They brought in a couple of FBI officials who questioned him for hours about his political convictions, his social activities, his friends, acquaintances, and student-day affiliations. They said he was irresponsible, he was immature, and that he had problems in conforming, which they could help him with. But, to his unconcealed surprise and mild regret, they didn’t fire him.
Just when it seemed to be approaching its traumatic peak, the whole affair was suddenly dropped and apparently forgotten. It was as if somebody somewhere had quietly passed down the message to ease off. Why this should be so, Clifford could only guess, but he didn’t imagine for a moment that such old-fashioned sentiments as charity or philanthropy had very much to do with it. Something unusual had happened somewhere, he was sure, and for reasons best known to others, he wasn’t being told what. But he didn’t waste too much time worrying about such matters; he had found other, more absorbing, things to occupy him.