“Quarles isn’t speaking,” Dr. Kramer cut her off.
Fong sighed. “Her outbound flight after the ICTP conference has been delayed.”
The International Centre for Theoretical Physics was in Trieste.
“She’s still in Italy?” Ethan’s voice jumped octaves. But at least he got the words out.
“Which means that there’s no keynote speaker on site for the Secretary’s visit. That’s a problem, Meyer.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Erin and Fong traded a silent“Houston.”Dr. Kramer, however, crossed his arms. He tapped his own elbow with an index finger. When Dr. John Kramer identified a problem, there was one acceptable result: it got fixed.Fast.
He tapped a second time.
Ethan couldn’t quantum-leap Dr. Helena Quarles across the Atlantic. The odds that another physicist of her caliber was in the Bay Area today and available on six hours’ notice to run a presentation for the Department of Energy were too small to measure, even for him. So the substitute speaker had to be someone from SVLAC’s staff who was on campus and had time to put together a talk.
Not Elias Schulz, busy with wining, dining, and glad-handing promises of funding.
Not Nadine Fong, shifting from foot to foot, eyeing the bathroom down the hall.
Tap.
Producing a presentation to Dr. Kramer’s standards would take days: speaker notes, click timings for animations, drafted answers to potential questions.
But:
Tap tap. Tap tap tap—
“I’ll do it,” he heard himself say. “I’ll give the talk.”
Silence.
Erin’s mouth fell open again. Then:
“You’re offering to present, Dr. Meyer?” Fong paused her fidgeting. “Are you prepared?”
“I will be,” he told Dr. Kramer—then waited for an agonizing second until his supervisor’s fingers settled, until he nodded.
“You have work to do, Meyer,” serious and unsmiling.
“Yes,” he exhaled.
But if Dr. Kramer didn’t smile, Erin did. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, and there was naked, unsettling calculation in her gaze. “Good luck.”
Losing her sudoku challenge to Bannister wasn’t what irritated her this morning.
It was her feet.
She’d accepted the necessity of ordering a ride service today, since the formality of her clothes and hairstyle weren’t conducive to cycling. But she wished that she’d foreseen the equal necessity of packing a pair of flats. The nude adhesive strips that she’d taped behind her ankles to create a buffer between her skin and the crisp, elegant leather of her heels was doing its job—Martina had mentioned that particular sartorial hack, and she’d be treating her friend to bottomless mimosas over a post-Pilates brunch on Saturday in gratitude, if she could still hobble to the restaurant—but her arches were already aching and the shoes’ wicked pointed toes were squashing her bones.
How did Adrian’s Manhattan dates and business associates do it?
Was there some trick with gel supports? Or maybe the women just got on with work or pleasure to take their minds off the discomfort. Which was what she needed to do.
Leaving Ethan Meyer and Kramer by the water dispenser, she waited for Nadine to complete her pilgrimage to the bathroom, then retreated into her supervisor’s office.
Good luck.
It was.
