"Let's say that as we feed in additional data our predictions become more accurate," Binch amended. "Right now, in fact, we're working on a new software package that we hope will sharpen up our accuracy by at least fifty percent. We've got a new computer specialist, an ex-Scripps guy, who's absolutely brilliant."
"What does ASP do with the information?"
"I don't know," Binch replied, giving him a level stare. "And if I did I wouldn't tell you." His expression softened. "How'd you like to come to dinner this evening if you've no other plans? My wife's a terrific cook --as you can see." He patted his lavish paunch.
Chase had met with this kind of hospitality throughout his trip, and he was delighted to accept. Americans on their home ground, he had found, were the warmest and most generous of people.
To his relief the occasion was quite informal. As Binch had promised the food was delicious, and Bill and Stella Inchcape the perfect hosts. Nothing was too much trouble, yet they didn't fuss over him, treating him rather as an old friend of the family. There were two other guests, the "ex-Scripps guy who's absolutely brilliant," who was called Frank Kollar, and his companion for the evening, Ruth Patton, a doctor specializing in diagnostic research at a hospital in Denver.
After the meal they went out onto the patio and sprawled in comfortable chaise lounges, drinking coffee and brandy under the stars. The night was warm and the air fragrant with the scent of pines. There was a sharper, almost bitter smell too that Chase couldn't identify.
"Cactus flower," Stella Inchcape informed him. "They don't usually grow this far north, but this is the third or fourth year we've had them. They're all over the place. I've asked Binch to cut them back but he's too lazy to get off his derriere."
"What I hate about gardening is that it's a waste of time," Binch said. "Once it's been cut why can't grass
"We'd be in trouble if it did," Chase said.
Ruth Patton asked him about his assignment and he explained about the series of articles he'd been commissioned to write for
"You don't sound like a journalist to me," she said, appraising him with frank dark eyes. She was a slender, rather elegant woman with dark curly hair that framed a sensitive, intelligent face.
He gave her a lazy smile. "That's probably because I'm a marine biologist by training and inclination. I've only been writing science stuff for the past four or five years."
"What made you switch?" asked Frank Kollar.
Chase had been asked this before and it was tempting to evangelize. Instead he gave them the standard routine that as an individual scientist he had felt his influence was minimal, whereas as a science writer (he didn't use the word
"You really believe we're heading for the final showdown?" said Frank Kollar with a faint smile. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which were out of keeping with his compact, powerful build, but otherwise suited his air of laid-back cynicism, which Chase thought rather patronizing.
Chase wouldn't be lured. "I'd have thought that you, Binch, and DELFI could answer that better than I," he said easily.
"DELFI predicts that conditions will change and the probable extent of those changes; it doesn't foretell the end of the world. I don't see any need to get steamed up about it."
"Let's hope you're right and I'm wrong," Chase said. "I'd hate to say good-bye to all this." With his glass he indicated the five of them, the lawn and flowering bushes fading away into darkness. Above them the sky was an ocean of stars.
"We had a guy who used to work at the center," Binch said, lighting a cigarette. "Had the same feeling as you, Gavin. An exastronaut called Brad Zittel. That was a very strange thing; he just took off--disappeared--leaving his wife, family, home, everything." He shook his head reflectively, wreathed in gray smoke. "Never heard a word to this day. Weird."
"His kind usually are," Frank Kollar said, not looking at Chase, though the faint smile was back.
Stella Inchcape frowned, remembering. "That was really awful. Joyce--Brad's wife--did everything she could to trace him. Called in the police, the FBI, the State Department, but they never found him."
"Perhaps he had some kind of nervous breakdown," Ruth said.
"I think he did," Binch agreed. "Brad used to get all wrought up over the weather anomalies. He'd sit reading the print-out like it was the
