Rollback (17 page)

Don took a seat, as well. Two small round tables had been shoved together.

Lenore indicated a lanky Asian man in his twenties. "Don, this is Makoto. And this is Halina" (petite, with brown hair) "and Phyllis" (a blond who looked like she'd be quite tall, if she were standing up).

"Hi, everybody," Don said. "Thanks for letting me join you." A moment later, Gabby, who was still on duty, came by. He listened as she recited what was on draft, and he ordered an Old Sully's Light, the only low-carb beer on the list.

Lenore immediately dove into the current topic of conversation, something about a guy they knew having gotten into a fight with his girlfriend. Don settled into his chair and tried to get a handle on the personalities. Halina didn't seem to ever speak, but she had an expressive face that reacted—indeed, overreacted—to whatever the others were saying: eyebrows shooting up, jaw dropping, big smile, bigger frown; she was a living series of emoticons. Phyllis had what seemed to Don to be a juvenile and bawdy sense of humor, and she made liberal use of the F-word. Makoto looked unhappy that Don was there; perhaps he'd been counting on being the only guy with three beautiful women.

Don mostly just listened to the conversation for the next little while, laughing a bit at those jokes he got, and drinking beer. He knew he could have joined in the discussion, but what they were talking about was so trivial, and they seemed to blow their little life crises out of any reasonable proportion: being away from home for the first time, petty social dynamics, and so on. Makoto, Halina, and Phyllis didn't have a ghost of an idea what it was like to have lived a life, to have raised kids and had a career. Lenore
did
have interesting things to say, and he paid attention when she was speaking, but when the others were talking he found himself mostly eavesdropping on the middle-age couple at the next table, who were having a spirited discussion about how they thought the Conservative party was going to rout the Liberals in the upcoming election, and—

"Did you see Sarah Halifax on TV last week?" Makoto said to the others. "A fucking corpse walking. She must be like a hundred and ten."

"She's only eighty-seven," Don said evenly.

" 'Only,' " said Makoto, as if repeating a punch line for the benefit of those who might not have heard it.

Lenore spoke up. "Makoto, Don is—"

Don cut her off. "I'm just saying, Sarah Halifax is not that old."

"Yeah, well, she looks like Gollum," said Makoto. "And she must be completely senile."

Halina nodded vigorously but said nothing.

"Why do you say that?" Don said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Don't get me wrong," said Makoto. "I know she figured out what the first message meant. But the TV thing said Cody McGavin thinks the old bat is going to figure out the new message, too." He shook his head in a "can-you-imagine" sort of way.

"Speaking of messages," said Lenore, gamely trying to change the topic, "I got a call the other day from Ranjit at CFH. He says—"

But Don couldn't help himself. "Professor Halifax understands the Dracons better than anyone."

Makoto waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, she might have back in her day, but—"

"This is
still
her day," said Don. "She's Professor Emerita, remember—and without her, we wouldn't be communicating with the Dracons at all."

"Yeah, yeah," said Makoto. "But if McGavin would put some of his money behind someone who's got a chance—"

"You mean you," Don snapped.

"Why not? Better someone born this century, this millennium, than a dried-up old fossil."

Don looked down at his half-empty beer bottle, trying to remember if he was on his second or third. "You're being unfair," he said, without looking up.

"Look, Dan," Makoto said, "this isn't your field. You don't know what you're talking about."

"It's Don," Lenore said, "and maybe he should tell you who—"

"I
do
know what I'm talking about," said Don. "I've been to Arecibo. I've been to the Allen."

Makoto blinked. "You're full of shit. You're not an astronomer."

Damn.
"Forget it." He got up, his chair making a loud wooden
whack
as it collided with the table behind them. Lenore looked at him in horror. She clearly thought he was going to take a swing at Makoto, and Makoto had a "just-try-it" scowl on his face. But he simply said, "I'm going to the John," and he squeezed his way past Halina and Phyllis, and headed for the stairs leading down to the basement.

It took a while to empty his bladder, which was probably just as well; it gave him some time to calm down. Christ's sake, why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut? And he knew what conversation was going on back in the god-damn snug. "Shit, Lenore, that friend of yours is—" and Makoto would plug in whatever term kids today used for "touchy" or "crazy."

Kids today.
The urinal flushed as he turned around and walked to the sink. He washed his hands, avoiding looking at his reflection, then he climbed back upstairs. When he sat down, Lenore glared expectantly at Makoto.

"Look, man," Makoto said, "I'm sorry. I didn't know she was your grandmother."

"Yeah," said Phyllis. "We're sorry."

He couldn't bring himself to respond in words, so he just nodded.

There was more conversation, although Don didn't say much, and lots of wings were eaten; the primal tearing of flesh from bone with his teeth actually helped calm him down. Finally, the bill came. After paying his share, Makoto said, "Gotta motor." He looked at Don. "Nice to meet you."

Don managed a calm tone. "And you."

"I should go, too," said Phyllis. "Got a meeting with my supervisor first thing in the morning. You coming, Halina?"

"Yeah," said Halina, the only word Don had heard from her all evening.

When they were alone, he looked at Lenore. "I'm sorry," he said.

But she lifted her rusty eyebrows. "For what? For defending your grandmother who wasn't here to defend herself? You're a good man, Donald Halifax."

"I'm sure I spoiled your fun. I'm sorry your friends don't like me, and—"

"Oh, they do. Well, maybe except for Makoto. But while you were in the washroom, Phyllis said you were gallant."

He felt his jaw go slack. "Gallant" wasn't the sort of word one normally applied to a twenty-five-year-old.

"I guess I should be going, too," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "Me, too."

They headed out the pub's doors, Don carrying his two plastic bags full of file folders. To his surprise, it was now dark; he hadn't realized how long he'd been in the pub. "Well," he said, "that was fun, thanks, but—"

Lenore seemed surprised that it had grown dark, too. "Walk me home?" she asked. "It's only a few blocks, but my neighborhood's a bit rough."

Don looked at his watch again. "Um, sure. Okay."

She took one of the bags, and they made their way along, Lenore chatting in her animated way. It was still hot and sticky as they came to Euclid Avenue, a tree-lined downtown street filled with crumbling, ancient houses. Two beefy guys passed them. One, with a shaved head that glistened in the light of the streetlamps, had an animated tattoo of the grim reaper on his bulging right biceps. The other had laser scars on his face and arms that could easily have been erased; he was presumably wearing them as badges of honor. Lenore cast her gaze down at the cracked and broken sidewalk, and Don followed her example.

"Well," she said, a hundred meters or so farther along, "here we are." They were standing in front of a dilapidated house with dormer windows.

"Nice place," he said.

She laughed. "It's scuzbum. But it's cheap." She paused, and her face grew concerned. "Look at you! You must be parched in this heat, and it's a long walk back to the subway. Come on in. I'll give you a Diet Coke to take with you."

They walked around to the side of the house, and some animal—a raccoon, maybe—quickly moved out of their way. Lenore opened the side door and led them down the stairs.

He braced himself for the place to be a mess—he remembered his own student days—but her apartment was tidy, although the furniture was a mismatched array, presumably of garage-sale acquisitions.

"Very pleasant," said Don. "It—"

Her mouth was on his. He felt her tongue pressing against his lips. His mouth opened, and his penis grew instantly hard. Suddenly her hand was on his zipper, and—
Oh, my!
—she was on her knees, taking him into her mouth ... but only for a few spectacular seconds. She rose to her feet, took his hands, and, walking backward, facing him, a lascivious smile on her face, she started pulling him toward the bedroom.

He followed her in.

Don was terrified that he'd come too soon. This was, after all, more excitement and stimulation than he'd had in years. But the old boy kept himself in check as he and Lenore rolled around—now him on top, now her on top—until finally he did come. He immediately went back to work until, at last, she had a shuddering orgasm, too.

"Thank you," she said, smiling at him, as they now lay side by side, each facing the other.

He lightly traced the line of her check with his index finger. "For what?"

"For, um, making sure that I..."

His eyebrows went up. "Of course."

"Not every guy, you know, cares..."

She was totally naked, and the room's lights were on. He was delighted to see that the freckles were everywhere, and that her pubic hair was the same coppery shade as the hair on her head. She seemed totally at ease with her nudity. Now that they were done, he wanted to scoot under the sheet. But her body was pinning the sheet in such a way that he couldn't get under without making a big deal out of it. But as her finger played with the hair in the middle of his chest, he was uncomfortably conscious of her scrutiny.

"No scars," she said, absently.

The dermal regeneration had gotten rid of all Don's old ones. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Well," said Lenore, whapping him playfully on the arm, "you certainly got lucky tonight." And she made a big O with her mouth.

He smiled at her. It had been
amazing
. Tender yet spirited, gentle and vigorous all at once. It wasn't quite sleeping with a supermodel—but it would do! Oh, yes, it would do!

His hand found her nipple, and he tweaked it lightly between thumb and forefinger. "The pallid bust of Pallas," he said softly, smiling at her.

Her eyes went wide. "You're the first guy I've met who knows more of that poem than just the 'nevermore' part. You don't know how sick I got of people intoning 'nevermore, nevermore' at me."

He stroked her breast gently, and said:

And the raven, never flitting
still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas
just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

"Wow," said Lenore, softly. "I've never had a guy recite poetry to me."

"I've never had a girl challenge me to Scrabble before."

"And I want a rematch!" she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "Now?"

"No, not now, silly." She pulled herself closer to him. "In the morning."

"I—I can't," he said. He felt her stiffen against him. "I, um, I've got a dog."

She relaxed. "Oh. Oh, okay."

"Sorry," he said. He meant "for lying," but let her take it to mean "for not being able to stay." He scanned around the room for a clock, saw one, and his heart jumped. "Look," he said, "I, um, I really do have to get going."

"Oh, all right," said Lenore, sounding not at all happy about it. "But call me! I'll give you my number..."
 

Don fondly remembered the trip he and Sarah had taken to New Zealand in 1992. But Carl had been conceived on that trip, and his birth had put an end to them doing much traveling together for the next couple of decades; Sarah still went all sorts of places to attend conferences, but Don stayed home. He'd been quite sad to miss out on going to Paris with her in 2003 for a symposium with the nifty name "Encoding Altruism: The Art and Science of Interstellar Message Composition." But he
had
gotten to go to Puerto Rico with her in 2010 for the transmission of the official reply to Sigma Draconis. His brother Bill looked after Carl and Emily while they were away.

The city of Arecibo is about seventy-five minutes west of San Juan, and the Arecibo Observatory is ten miles south of the city, although it seemed much farther, Don had thought, as they were driven there on the twisting mountain roads. The landscape was all karst, said the driver: limestone that had been eroded to produce fissures, underground streams, caverns, and sinkholes. The Caverns Rio Camuy, one of the most spectacular cave systems in the world, were southwest of the observatory. And the great radio-telescope dish itself had been built here because nature had kindly provided a thousand-foot-wide sinkhole, perfectly shaped to hold it.

Don had been surprised to see that the dish wasn't solid. Instead, it was made of perforated aluminum slats with gaps between them, all held in place by steel guys. And beneath the dish, in the partial shade, was plenty of lush vegetation, including ferns, wild orchids, and begonias. Around the observatory grounds, Don was delighted to see mongooses, lizards, fist-sized toads, giant snails, and dragonflies.

He and Sarah were put up in one of the VSQs—"Visiting Scientist Quarters"—a wooden cabin on a hill, raised up above the uneven ground on ten cement-block pillars. The cabin had a small porch (excellent, they discovered, for watching the afternoon thunderstorms), a tiny kitchen, one little bedroom, a small bathroom, and a rotary phone. A boxy air conditioner was installed just below one of the windows, all of which were covered on the outside by wooden shutters.

Besides being technically a good choice for sending the message, Arecibo was also good symbolically. Seventy-nine-year-old Frank Drake was on hand in the control room overlooking the great dish when Sarah used a USB cable to connect her Dell notebook computer, containing the master version of the response, to the transmitter. Drake's message to M13—until this moment, the most famous SETI broadcast—had been sent from here thirty-six years previously.