Peterson, driving in from Cambridge, had had to roll his window down and lean out to see the gate. Markham walked to the window and caught the heavy scent of damp earth and sodden leaves. Winged sycamore seeds spiraled down into the wet hedgerows. A soaked world.
Marjorie Renfrew hovered at the edge of the Peterson-Wickham-Markham triangle, unable to join in the casual science chat. John Renfrew prowled the room, pushing little plates of finger food a centimeter nearer the true center of the little tables. His face was flushed and he seemed to have drunk quite a lot already.
The doorbell rang. None of them had heard an approaching car in the hammering rain. Marjorie dashed to answer, looking relieved. Markham heard her voice in the hall, running on with no pause for an answer. “What a terrible evening! Isn’t it absolutely awful? Come in, haven’t you got a raincoat? Oh, you must to live here, no matter what, I’m glad Greg reached you. It was at the last minute, yes, but I am quite surrounded by scientists here and need someone to talk to.”
He saw rain dripping steadily from the edges of the porch roof behind Jan, before Marjorie closed the door, bucking it with her shoulder to get it into the jamb. “Hi, hon.” He kissed her with a casual warmth. “Let’s get you dry.” He ignored Marjorie’s fluttering and tugged Jan into the living room.
“A real wood fire! How lovely,” Jan said.
“I thought it would cheer things up,” Marjorie confided, “but actually in a way it’s depressing. It makes it seem like autumn and it’s still only August, for goodness sake. The weather seems to have gone haywire.”
“Do you know everyone?” Greg asked. “Let’s see, this is Cathy Wickham.”
Cathy, now sitting on the sofa with John Renfrew, nodded to her.
“Oh, to be in California, now that August’s here, eh?”
“And this is Ian Peterson. Ian, my wife, Jan.”
Peterson shook hands with her.
“Well, how did the experiment go?” Jan asked the company at large.
“Oh heavens, don’t start them on that,” Marjorie said quickly. “I was hoping we could talk about something else now you’re here.”
“Both good and bad,” Greg said, ignoring Marjorie. “We got a lot of noise, but Cathy’s detailed explanation of the noise level and spectrum sounds good, so with better electronics John here can sidestep some of the problem.”
“I’m surprised Peterson can’t get it for you with a telephone lift of his finger,” Cathy said sharply. Heads turned towards her. She wagged her jaw back and forth, the sidewise swaying intense and unconscious.
“My omnipotence is overrated,” Peterson said mildly.
“It’s impressive to see the scientific tail wagging the CIA dog.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“People ought to put files back the way they found them.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you are—”
“Are you going to hide behind that memorized sentence forever?”
Marjorie stared at the two in horror, caught by the spark of tension. “Won’t you have something to drink, Jan?” she broke in desperately, her voice a little too loud. Peterson’s brittle retort drowned Jan’s quiet reply.
“Here in England we still rather think discretion and civility oil the wheels of social intercourse, Miss Wickham.”
“Doctor Wickham, if we’re going to be formal, Mister Peterson.”
“Doctor Wickham, of course.” He made the word an insult. Cathy straightened, her shoulders rigid with fury.
“Your sort can’t bear to see a woman as anything but a mindless lay, can you?”
“I assure you that is not the case in relation to yourself,” Peterson said silkily. He turned to Renfrew, who looked as though he wished himself a thousand miles away. Markham sipped his drink, looking from one to the other with alert interest. Better than the usual party small talk …
“Funny, that wasn’t the impression I got this afternoon,” Cathy continued doggedly. “But then you haven’t learned to take rejection very well, have you?”
Peterson’s hand clenched on the stem of his glass, knuckles bleached white. He turned slowly. Marjorie said feebly, “Oh my goodness.”
“You must have misunderstood something I said, Dr. Wickham,” he said at last. “I would hardly raise the subject with a woman of your—ah—persuasion.”
For a moment no one else moved or spoke. Then John Renfrew walked to the fireplace and stood in front of it, legs planted firmly apart, holding his mug of beer. He frowned, looking every inch the solid English squire.
“Look,” he said, “this is my house and I expect my guests to behave civilly to each other in it.”
“You’re quite right, Renfrew,” Peterson replied promptly. “I