unspoken understanding not to inquire too closely into each other's
occasional little diversions. They were both adults, right? This time,
however, Dave had pushed it too far. He'd finally broken the rules,
bringing one of his admiring grad students up to the apartment--her
apartment. She bumped into them coming down in the elevator, and this
one was a prize--stage makeup, bleached hair, the works.
Out of bounds. She'd nailed him right there in her marble lobby: you
want to bang some Queens debutante, you'd better not be doing it here.
This place is my home. She then told him to pack. The apartment was
hers, and she wanted all signs of him out by Monday.
Then she'd invited him back for the dinner. Why? Could Humpty-Dumpty be
put back together again? Crack eggs, make an omelet . . . she half
smiled at the odd way your mind connects absurdities when you're a
little overworked. . . .
That was when the phone rang.
Was it Dave, dropping out at the last minute to prove he could still
piss her off, one more time? She headed for the kitchen, so she could
at least chop some veggies while they argued for half an hour on the
phone.
It wasn't Dave. Instead it was a scratchy old voice, one she loved.
Shouting into a cell phone at Kennedy was Allan Stern, who announced in
his staccato tones that he'd just stepped off a JAL flight fresh from
some conference in Tokyo. He had to see her tonight.
"Tonight?" When it rains, it pours, she thought. "Allan, I'd love to,
but I'm having some people in from school . . . What? . . . Well, sure,
nothing that special . . . Allan, I adore you dearly, but you wouldn't
know any of the . . . Okay, okay . . . Can you get down by eight?"
"See you then, Tamara. You're a dear."
Stern was an old, old friend, and a guy everybody in the country had
probably heard of vaguely. Any freshman in computer science could tell
you he was one of the unofficial founders of the field known as
artificial intelligence, now usually shortened to "AI." As it happened,
she had convinced him the previous spring that they ought to
collaborate on a book about the growing use of smart robots in the
workplace, but for some reason his input had never made it past the
talking stage. She'd decided just to go ahead on her own with the
writing.
Well, she thought, maybe he's decided to pitch in after all. Great.
That would mean it might be adopted for a lot of college courses. Allan
had plenty of respectability with the establishment.
He was probably the closest friend she had, her mentor almost. They
went back to a Denver conference fifteen years agp, when he'd stood up
in a session and challenged the conclusion of the very first paper she
ever gave, though he'd come in midway through. Even then he had been a
powerhouse in Washington, chairing one of the technical committees that
reviewed federal grant applications submitted by university
researchers. The inside talk on campuses was: love him or hate him, but
think twice before you cross the opinionated bastard.
She was so mad she didn't care. She had sidled up to him at the coffee
break and introduced herself, saying what an honor it was to meet a
scholar so highly regarded, a man whose reputation was so well
established. He nodded in absent acknowledgment, sipped at his
Styrofoam cup, and stared over her shoulder. She then proceeded to
advise the celebrated Allan Stern that he'd missed the whole thrust of
her talk, which she'd explained in the introduction, and furthermore--
judging from the data at hand--he struck her as a pompous asshole.
Such forthrightness, which was entirely new to Dr. Allan Stern's
sheltered existence, so astonished him he apologized on the spot. By
week's end he was trying to recruit her out to Stanford. He still was.
Allan was always punctual, to the minute, and that Saturday night was
no exception. The doorman downstairs announced him at eight sharp. When
she met him at the elevator, her first impression was he looked a
trifle worn down. America's foremost futurist was gaunt, as always, but
his trademark shock of white hair streamed over a lined face that was
more than usually haggard. His hard eyes, which could bore through
screw-off Congressional staffers like a pair of Black & Decker drills,
were actually bloodshot. In short, the man looked awful. Then she
remembered he'd just come in on the 747 directly from Narita. Into the
teeth of the latest baggage-handlers' slowdown at Kennedy. Give the
poor old guy a break.