One of the seminar organizers standing at the rear of the auditorium made a T with his hands to signal time almost up. Vanessa acknowledged with a nod and turned her attention back to the bearded man near the front, who had another question. With his plastic bag packed with papers and brochures, and a wirebound pad on his knee that he had been scribbling in continually through her talk, he looked like a dedicated stalker of conventions.
"Dr. Heber. About side-effects again. Are you aware of the item in Science News this week about four more cases of neural disorder reported among DNC researchers?"
"Yes, I have read it."
A pause. "Do you have any comment?"
Vanessa did her best to convey skepticism without appearing complacent. "What qualifies as a neural disorder?" she replied. "Just overt dementia? Can it be suggestions of stress and not enough sleep? Or anything that strikes the person doing the survey as abnormal? . . . And four out of how many? Was a group size established, or did it just cover anyone they could rope in? And if we do know the size, and what a 'neural disorder' is, how many would we expect in a similar-size group from some other section of the populationthe people in this room, for instance? . . . You see my point. Without controls and a measurable criterion to compare them by, nothing is really being said. Superficially it sounds scary, but it doesn't mean anything."
"But if it was shown to be significant . . ." the bearded man persisted.
Vanessa looked at him and sighed inwardly. Why did people ask questions that could have only one answer? "If it were proved to be a problem, I'd agree it was a problem," she said. Appreciative laughs here and there greeted her answer. Although a couple of hands were still raised, she seized the moment to wrap things up. "I'm sorry, but we have had a time signal from the back. There is something else about to start in the room. If there are any more points, I'll take them out in the lobby area outside. Thank you all for your interest."
There was a polite round of applause. Seats creaked, and a mumble of voices built up as the audience began standing and dispersing toward the doors. Vanessa recovered her carousel of slides from the projector and collected her notes. As she stepped down from the dais, a gaggle of people who had come forward escorted her to the exit amid questions and proffered calling cards.
The lobby was abuzz with intense-looking people clutching program books and papers, talking from seats or standing in the spaces between. There were a lot of beards, heavy spectacles, tweedy skirts, and sweaters. Vanessa spent maybe five minutes disposing of the questions. Then, when she was free at last, she made her way over to a table set up with urns and an offering of snacks, put down the things that she was carrying, and fixed herself a hot lemon tea. A young woman announced herself as a reporter from the Tribune and asked if Vanessa would be willing to do an interview for the Science section. At that moment, Vanessa saw the stocky, mustached figure of Phil Garsten standing by the wall, waiting to get her attention. It was Saturday, and he looked casually off-duty in light blue slacks and a tan windbreaker. Vanessa gave the reporter the numbers of the house and her office, and invited her to call sometime next week. Garsten waited until Vanessa was alone, and then ambled over. He helped himself to a cup and held it to one of the urns.
"So, this is life on the wild side, eh?" he drawled while he ran the coffee. "The real Vanessa that we've never glimpsed before. What have I been missing? I haven't seen so much fun since my draft physical."
"Give me a break, Phil. Having to put up with these dreary people for a whole weekend is bad enough. I don't need a eulogy on life's ecstasies from you as well."
"We all gotta do what we gotta dofor as long as it takes, anyhow. How'd the talk go?"
"Oh, pretty well. Practically a full house."
"Good. Who was that cute chick?"
"A reporter. She wants to set up an interview. You know, I've been doing this for long enough, you'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now, but there's still that relieved feeling when it's over. You knowlike when you've made it to the airport, got your boarding pass, checked your bags, and now you can unwind."
"Did you get questions?"
"Of courseit's getting to be a hot subject. And if you came to set your mind at ease, naturally I played the party line." Vanessa picked up the file containing her notes, indicated the carousel box with her head, and moved away as a chattering group approached the table. Garsten took the box and followed her to an unoccupied lounge chair by a low table. Vanessa slipped the folder under an arm and turned to sit against the back of the chair, regarding him over the rim of her cup. Garsten put down the carousel box. "But I don't think you're here to check on that," Vanessa said. "What is it?"
Garsten looked around and lowered his voice. "I got a call from the Lang woman at home last night." Vanessa drew a sharp intake of breath. Garsten nodded. "From the way she talked, it sounded like you two have already met."
Vanessa's mouth compressed into a tight line. "She was over at the house. One of these meddling bitches who can't just stick to her job. She has to get involved in everything. I felt trouble in the wind as soon as she walked into the scene. What did she want?"
Garsten folded his arms loosely, his cup resting in a hand. "Sounds like a pretty accurate assessment. She's checking out the background on the DNC story." Vanessa nodded. That wasn't surprising. She would have expected that much. It was Theme Worlds' lawyer's job. However, to bring Phil here, there had to be more. He went on, "And she was asking about Jack. She thought I might have a handle on what he knew. She's got her suspicions about what happened, too. She didn't press it, but I could tell. And she'll keep digging. I know her type."
Vanessa took a long breath and exhaled it into a sigh. She sipped her tea while her eyes took in the floor and shifted agitatedly over the surroundings. "Have you got a cigarette, Phil? . . . No, forget itthey won't let you, here. It means we don't have the luxury of as much time as we thought. We're going to have to move things faster."
Garsten nodded. "That's the way I figured it too. I didn't bother you with it last night since you were . . ." he bunched his mouth and made a play of being delicate, "relaxing. But I talked to Martin this morning. I called him on the yacht about a half hour after you'd left."
"And what does he think?"
"Oh, he agrees. The longer things drag out now, the more likely the ball of wax will come unglued. He wants us to get together at the Mansion to talk about it."
"Who?"
"You and me. Andy. The guys. . . . Could you get away from here to make it there for lunch say?"
"You mean right now?"
"No, tomorrow."
"I guess soI'll be clear by then. I'm not due back in Olympia until late, anyhow." Vanessa looked at Garsten curiously. "What is Martin thinking? To bring the whole thing forward?"
Garsten nodded. "ASAP. Didn't you say something about Eric going up to the mountains sometime soon?"
"The Barrow's Pass resortnext weekend. . . . Could you have things ready by then?"
"There isn't a lot left to do. One piece of paper to draw up and some details to file for the record. I assume there's no problem with the equipment?"
Vanessa shook her head and remained expressionless. "None at all."
"Well, that's what Martin wants to go over tomorrow. We're gonna get the show on the road." Garsten drained the last of his coffee. "Have you had lunch?"
"Not yet." Vanessa had planned on making do with just a light snack. Martin had promised somewhere exclusive for dinner that night. She would be staying on the yacht again, of course.
"Me neither," Garsten said. "Come on, I'll treat youand it won't even show up on your bill." He set down his empty cup and looked around. "Do we need to go out someplace, or can you get something here? Do academics eat real food? Or is it all bean curd and processed fish brains? . . ."