ideas, playing with crazy notions. It doesn’t necessarily mean that I think UFOs are time machines. It’s just . . . well, it’s just something to think about.”
“It certainly got my attention, that’s for sure.” Benford reached for the pepper shaker again. “That’s why I decided to call you. I read your piece on the plane flight over here, and thought it might be a good premise for a novel.”
“Really? I’m flattered.”
“Uh-huh.” Benford shook some more pepper over his salad. “I’ve never written a time-machine story, y’know. I figured this might be a good place to start.”
Murphy said nothing for a moment. Behind them, the schoolchildren were making a ruckus as they moved through the cafeteria line, fighting over slices of pizza while their harried teachers tried to keep them from turning the restaurant upside-down. Gregory Benford continued to poke at his salad. For the first time during their conversation, it seemed to Murphy as if he was consciously avoiding his gaze.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” he asked.
“Sure.” Benford barely looked up from his plate. “Not a problem.”
Murphy forced a smile as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table. He looked around for a moment until he found the signs indicating the way to the rest rooms. Trying not to walk too fast, he left the cafeteria.
As he hoped, there was a pay phone on the wall between the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Picking up the receiver, he shoved a quarter into the slot, then dialed the number for NASA’s main switchboard from memory. “Jan Zimmermann, please,” he said once the operator answered, and glanced at a nearby ceiling clock. It was almost a quarter toone; he hoped that Jan was still brown-bagging her lunch at her desk.
A short pause, then the phone buzzed twice. It was picked up on the third ring. “Policy and Plans, Janice Zimmermann.”
“Jan, it’s David Murphy. How’ya doing?”
The voice brightened. “Dave! I read your article in Analog this month! Great stuff!”
Murphy smiled despite himself. Although she held a low-level position, Jan Zimmermann was one of NASA’s true believers, those who worked for the agency because they fervently supported the idea of space exploration. But more importantly, or at least at this particular moment, she was a science fiction fan.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Murphy glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m in a little bit of a rush here, but . . .”
“What can I do for you, hon? Did you get my email about the next Disclave?”
A longtime member of the Washington Science Fiction Society, Jan was deeply involved in running the annual SF convention held in Maryland. As head of programming, Jan had been bugging him to be a guest speaker for several years now. He had always turned her down, if only because the thought of sitting on a panel made him uneasy, but now that invitation might work in his favor. . . .
“Sure did,” he said. “In fact, that’s sort of why I’m calling. I’d like to show up this year, but I’m sort of thinking that I’d like to do a panel with Gregory Benford, if he’s going to be there.”
“Well, I dunno . . .” Jan sounded reluctant. “He was a Disclave guest several years ago, but he hasn’t been back since . . .”
“Do you have his number?” Murphy asked, seeing his opening. “I’ve been in touch with him recently . . . I mean, he sent me a letter just a little while ago . . . and maybe I could talk him into coming out here for the next convention.”
“Really? That would be fantastic! Hold on a sec . . .” There was a short pause, during which Murphy heard a vague rustling in the background; he imagined her searching through the perpetual mess on her desk for an address book. He reached into his shirt pocket, found a Bic pen. After a few moments, her voice came back: “Okay, here it is. It’s his office number . . .”
Cradling the receiver against his shoulder,
“It certainly got my attention, that’s for sure.” Benford reached for the pepper shaker again. “That’s why I decided to call you. I read your piece on the plane flight over here, and thought it might be a good premise for a novel.”
“Really? I’m flattered.”
“Uh-huh.” Benford shook some more pepper over his salad. “I’ve never written a time-machine story, y’know. I figured this might be a good place to start.”
Murphy said nothing for a moment. Behind them, the schoolchildren were making a ruckus as they moved through the cafeteria line, fighting over slices of pizza while their harried teachers tried to keep them from turning the restaurant upside-down. Gregory Benford continued to poke at his salad. For the first time during their conversation, it seemed to Murphy as if he was consciously avoiding his gaze.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” he asked.
“Sure.” Benford barely looked up from his plate. “Not a problem.”
Murphy forced a smile as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table. He looked around for a moment until he found the signs indicating the way to the rest rooms. Trying not to walk too fast, he left the cafeteria.
As he hoped, there was a pay phone on the wall between the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Picking up the receiver, he shoved a quarter into the slot, then dialed the number for NASA’s main switchboard from memory. “Jan Zimmermann, please,” he said once the operator answered, and glanced at a nearby ceiling clock. It was almost a quarter toone; he hoped that Jan was still brown-bagging her lunch at her desk.
A short pause, then the phone buzzed twice. It was picked up on the third ring. “Policy and Plans, Janice Zimmermann.”
“Jan, it’s David Murphy. How’ya doing?”
The voice brightened. “Dave! I read your article in Analog this month! Great stuff!”
Murphy smiled despite himself. Although she held a low-level position, Jan Zimmermann was one of NASA’s true believers, those who worked for the agency because they fervently supported the idea of space exploration. But more importantly, or at least at this particular moment, she was a science fiction fan.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Murphy glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m in a little bit of a rush here, but . . .”
“What can I do for you, hon? Did you get my email about the next Disclave?”
A longtime member of the Washington Science Fiction Society, Jan was deeply involved in running the annual SF convention held in Maryland. As head of programming, Jan had been bugging him to be a guest speaker for several years now. He had always turned her down, if only because the thought of sitting on a panel made him uneasy, but now that invitation might work in his favor. . . .
“Sure did,” he said. “In fact, that’s sort of why I’m calling. I’d like to show up this year, but I’m sort of thinking that I’d like to do a panel with Gregory Benford, if he’s going to be there.”
“Well, I dunno . . .” Jan sounded reluctant. “He was a Disclave guest several years ago, but he hasn’t been back since . . .”
“Do you have his number?” Murphy asked, seeing his opening. “I’ve been in touch with him recently . . . I mean, he sent me a letter just a little while ago . . . and maybe I could talk him into coming out here for the next convention.”
“Really? That would be fantastic! Hold on a sec . . .” There was a short pause, during which Murphy heard a vague rustling in the background; he imagined her searching through the perpetual mess on her desk for an address book. He reached into his shirt pocket, found a Bic pen. After a few moments, her voice came back: “Okay, here it is. It’s his office number . . .”
Cradling the receiver against his shoulder,
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