“Thank me when you have something to thank me for,” Zimmermann said, and with that the screen went dead.
“You did it, Aub!” Clifford exclaimed. “How about that—you damn well did it.”
“Not me, man,” Aub said and pointed a finger at Sarah. “I just pressed the buttons. It was her idea, I seem to recall. She did it.”
“Thank you, Aub; you’re a gentleman,” she pouted. “See, Brad, you just don’t appreciate me.”
“Where’d you learn to do it?” Aub asked.
“Oh,” she said. “When you’re married to Brad you soon learn to do all the thinking around the house.”
* * *
Late afternoon the next day, while Clifford and Aub were engaged in a chess game and Sarah was reading, the Infonet chime sounded. In the scuffle to get to the terminal the two men knocked the board over between them and by the time they had sorted themselves out Sarah had already accepted the call. The screen showed a dark-haired man, probably in his mid forties and evidently of Mediterranean extraction, speaking from what appeared to be a room in a private house; there was a window behind him through which they could see part of an expanse of water with pine trees bordering its far shore.
“Mrs. Clifford?” he inquired. His voice was light and cheerful.
“Yes.”
“Ah . . . is your husband there, please?”
“He’s untangling himself from a coffee table right at this instant. . . .” The man on the screen looked puzzled for a second, then grinned. “Oh, he’s okay now,” Sarah said. “Here . . .” She moved away and allowed Clifford to take her place. Aub moved forward to stand beside her expectantly.
“Hello, sorry about the fuss. I’m Bradley Clifford.”
“That’s okay,” the caller said, grinning again. “No need to demolish the furniture on my account.” His tone became more businesslike. “My name is Al Morelli—Professor Al Morelli. I’m a very old friend of somebody who, I understand, you’ve only just gotten to know—Heinrich Zimmermann.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“I thought there were two of you.” Morelli frowned slightly. “Isn’t there a Dr. Philipsz there too . . . spells it funny?”
“I’m right here.” Aub moved round to join Clifford.
“Great. Hi.” Morelli thought for a second. “Heinrich has been telling me something about the work that you guys have been doing on k-physics. Sounds pretty staggering, to say the least. I was especially interested in the part about gravity impulses—you’ve actually checked that out?”
“Not exactly,” Clifford answered. “But Aub ran some experiments while he was at Berkeley that verified the predictions of sustained rotations. The gravity-impulse conclusion ties in closely with that part, so the signs are encouraging. That’s about all we can say for now.”
Morelli looked back and nodded slowly as if satisfied about something.
“Well, there’s no need for us to go into all the details right now,” he said. “Heinrich gave me a pretty good run-down, and if he’s convinced, that’s good enough for me.” He paused for a second, then went on. “You’ve probably guessed why I’m calling. I understand you two guys are looking for jobs and are having a pretty tough time getting fixed up. That right?”
“Yep. That’s about it,” Clifford told him.
“Okay, I know about the reasons,” Morelli said. “And I don’t blame either of you for acting the way you did. I think maybe I’d have done the same thing. Anyhow . . . I run a research project for ISF. It’s located in Sudbury, Massachusetts, at the Institute for Research into Gravitational Physics. You may have heard of it.”
“Heard of it . . . I sure have.” Clifford sounded impressed.
“Gravitational physics . . .” Aub sounded intrigued. “So that’s why you were particularly interested in the gravity pulses, right?”
“Right,” Morelli confirmed. “But in more than just a casual way. From what Heinrich said, it sounds as if the work we’re doing here could have a direct bearing on it.”
“What kind of direct bearing?” Clifford asked. “You mean you’re working on something that ties in with the gravity aspects of my theories? That’s fantastic.”
Morelli held up a hand to caution him.