“Using these particles?” Marjorie said doubtfully.
“Yes. They rarely occur in nature, we think, so we haven’t seen the effects of them before. But now—”
“Wouldn’t it be more exciting to build a tachyon spaceship? Go to the stars?”
He shook his head fiercely. “Not at all. All John can make is streams of particles, not solid objects. Anyway, how do you get onto a spaceship moving by you faster than light? The idea’s nonsense. No, the real impact here is the signaling, a whole new kind of physics. And I … I’m lucky to be in on it.”
Marjorie instinctively put her hand out and patted his arm, feeling a burst of quiet joy at this last sentence. It was good to see someone wholly involved with something beyond himself, especially these days. John was the same way, of course, but with John it was somehow different. His emotions were bottled up in an obsession with machinery and with some inner turbulence, almost a defiant anger at the universe for withholding its secrets. Perhaps that was the difference between merely thinking about experiments, as Greg did, and actually having to do them. It must be harder to believe in serene mathematical beauties when you have dirty hands.
James approached. “Greg, have you any information on the political mood in Washington? I was wondering …”
Marjorie saw the moment between herself and Greg was broken and she moved off, surveying the geometry of her guests. James and Greg fell to discussing politics. Greg shifted conversational gears immediately. They quickly disposed of the incessant strikes, the Trades Union Council taking most of the blame. James asked when the American government might reopen the stock market. John was hovering rather awkwardly. How odd, Marjorie thought, for a man to be so ill at ease in his own home. She sensed, from the wrinkling of his brow, that he was uncertain whether to join the two men. He knew nothing of the stock market and rather despised it as a form of gambling. She sighed and took pity on him.
“John, come and give me a hand, will you? I’m going to put the first course on the table now.”
He turned with relief and followed her into the house. She checked the mottled gray pâté and touched up the plates with carrot curls and lettuce from her vegetable garden. John helped her set out butter pats and Melba toast made from home-baked bread. He gingerly popped open some of her homemade wine.
Marjorie went among the knots of conversing people, shepherding them with little bursts of bright invitation toward the dining table. She felt rather like a sheep dog, doubling back to urge on those who had snagged at a point of interest and had stopped drifting in from the garden. There were murmured comments of appreciation at the table, set with flowers from the garden and individual candles cleverly folded into the napkins. She organized them around the table, Jan next to James as they seemed to be getting on well together. Greg sat by Heather; she seemed a bit nervous about this.
“Marjorie, you’re a marvel,” Heather declared. “This pâté is delicious—and this is home-made bread, isn’t it? However do you manage, with the power rationing and everything?”
“God, yes. Terrible, isn’t it?” Greg exclaimed. “I mean the power rationing,” he added quickly. “The pâté is excellent. Good bread, too. But to have electricity only four hours a day—incredible. I don’t know how you people can live with it,” and the table dissolved into “It’s an experimental measure, you understand” … “think it will last?” … “too many inequities” … “factories get power, of course” … “staggered working hours” … “ones who suffer—old codgers like us” … “the poor don’t care, do they?” … “as long as they can open a tin of beans and a pint of beer” … “the wealthy who have all the electrical gadgets who” … “that’s why it’ll be thrown straight out” … “I just do everything at the same time, laundry and vacuuming and” … “between ten and noon and the evening hours” … “Next month will be worse, when the hours change round again” … “East Anglia gets what the Midlands are getting now, twelve to two and eight to ten”—
John put in, “How long will it be before East Anglia gets this six to eight time slot again? It’s good for dinner parties, at least.”
“Not until November,” Marjorie answered. “Coronation month.”