Patricia sat in a director’s chair on the roof of the women’s barracks. She glanced at the date on her watch as those attending the dance gathered in the science team compound.
The war was scheduled to begin in seven days.
Everything was coming down on her too quickly. She could render opinions but she could not convince herself of their accuracy. She could, for example, tell Lanier that the Stone could not have been shunted very far from its original continuum. Stone history and their current reality would not differ substantially. Perhaps not enough to prevent war.
Perhaps the Soviet knowledge that a war was imminent would turn them around, make them back off, prevent the war ...
Perhaps the presence of the Stone, and the clear technological advantage that it gave to the Western bloc countries, would push the Soviets over the edge anyway ...
Perhaps the Stone simply made an effect and canceled that effect, and would leave hardly a ripple on the immediate future of the Earth ...
Carrolson and Lanier entered the compound. Patricia could see them greeting team members as they arrived from the other chambers.
The ragged, bloody feeling inside had passed. She didn’t feel angry or sad. She didn’t really even feel alive. The only thing that gave her any joy now was sinking into the state, continuing her work, bathing in the brilliance and majesty of the corridor.
She would have to make an appearance, however. She expected it of herself. Patricia had always resisted playing the reclusive genius and avoiding contact with others. Resisting was not the same as denial of the urge’s existence; she did want to stay away, to go to her quarters and work. The thought of dancing under the eternal tubelight (the dance was being held in the open) and making small talk—essentially, of going on the social roster, if only for a few hours—frightened her.
She wasn’t sure she could maintain her temper, the balance that kept her from dissolving into tears of rage and frustration.
She descended the stairs and left the barracks, hands in pockets, forcing her chin higher as she approached the milling crowd.
Two soldiers, two biologists and two engineers had built their own synthesizer and electric guitars out of discarded electronics. The story had been circulating for some weeks that the band was tolerable—perhaps even good. This was their first time in front of an audience, and they seemed coolly professional as they tuned and adjusted the amplifiers.
Loudspeakers of a peculiar design had been cadged by archaeologists working in Alexandria and offered up for the dance as a kind of goodwill sacrifice, an atonement for their fussy protectiveness. The speakers had been set up at corners of the rectangular dance area, an unused acre reserved for future buildings.
No wires went to the speakers; the music was broadcast to them on a special frequency through a low-power transmitter. The sound coming out of them was somewhat metallic, but they were serviceable. Heineman inspected one casually and said, “I’m not sure what this is. It isn’t a loudspeaker.”
“It’s working, isn’t it?” Carrolson said, sticking close to her intended dance partner.
Heineman agreed that it was producing sound from the beamed signal, but went no further than that. The question was never satisfactorily settled.
Beneath the steady tubelight, security team members took turns dancing with the scientists and technicians. The Soviet group stood together to one side, playing wallflowers. Hua Ling, Wu, Chang and Farley joined in energetically, though they had already been informed of the shutdown.
The band switched to older acid rock for a few selections, but that didn’t suit the mood and they reluctantly returned to more modern music.
Patricia danced once with Lanier, one of the Japanese waltzes that had become popular in the last few years. At the conclusion, as they held hands at arm’s length and bobbed around one another; Lanier nodded mysteriously and smiled at Patricia. She felt a flush work up her neck to her face. At the dance’s conclusion, he held her close and said, “Not your fault, Patricia. You’ve done great. A real team member.”
They separated and Patricia retreated to the sidelines, confused, her sensation of nullity broken. Had she really expected or wanted approval from Lanier? Apparently; his words pleased her.
Wu asked her to dance and proved to be a capable partner.
She then sat out the rest of the festivities. Lanier rejoined her during a break; he had been dancing rather feverishly with a number of partners, Farley and Chang among them.
“Enjoying yourself?.” he asked.
She nodded. Then she said, “No, not really.”
“Neither am I, if the truth be known.”
“You’re a good dancer, though,” Patricia said.
Lanier shrugged. ”Have to stop thinking sometime, right?”
She couldn’t agree with that. There was so little time. ”I have to talk to you,” she said.
“On recreation time?”
“Is here okay?” she asked, simultaneously.
The noise was loud enough that they could hardly be overheard.
“As good a place as any, I suppose,” Lanier said. He looked around for Takahashi; he was on the opposite side of the dance quad, nowhere near the Russians.
She nodded and again her eyes filled with tears. Because he had said something nice to her, now she would open up and express her worst fears, her darkest opinions. “We tried to calculate how big a snap the corridor’s creation would have given the Stone.”
“How big?” Lanier asked, keeping an eye on people passing close enough to hear.
“Not very big,” she said. ”It’s a complicated question. But not big at all.”
“We’re on, then?”
Her throat tightened. ”It’s possible. Is that why you really wanted me on the Stone? Just to say that?”
He shook his head. ”Hoffman wanted you here. She told me I was responsible for you. I just put you to work.” He reached into his pocket and brought out an envelope, opening it and withdrawing two letters. ”I haven’t been able to give you these before. No, amend that. It slipped my mind until now. I brought them back with me on the shuttle.”
She took the letters from his hand and looked at them. One was from her parents, the other from Paul. ”May I write back?” she asked.
“Say anything you like,” he said. ”Within reason.”
The postmarks were a week old.
A week passed. The day scheduled for Armaggedon passed.
Patricia stayed in her quarters, working harder than ever with the resources left to her.
She could not change her initial opinion.
Each day, then, was a victory, with reality showing her how wrong she could be.