I glanced out the window while I waited for the elevator. It must have been at least ninety outside already, and even the insects looked exhausted, but the clouds were there, as always; big, fat, lumpy cumuli, randomly scattered through the bone-dry air. We'd spent much of the night before watching the lightning, betting on how it would fork and expecting it to rain. It hadn't. Chalk up another victory for Chaos Theory.
I passed up the hotel breakfast in favour of coffee in the Green Room. DefDep was picking up my tab, but good, freshly brewed coffee always tastes vaguely wrong to me. Szymczyk, Schwartz and Fukushima were still sitting around the table in the corner, arguing about turbulence and weather control and butterfly effects, as they had been at the last two conferences; Fuku paused long enough to grunt a greeting. The coffee was bitter and corrosive and exactly what I needed. I poured a little cream into it, watching it swirl and break up into fractal patterns. When I looked up, Cassidy was sitting at the table nearby, wearing a garish NASA T-shirt. With her dress sense and those breasts, it's no wonder she can't get tenure.
"Isn't it a little early for you?" I murmured, politely.
"I'm looking forward to your paper," she replied, opening a can of something that looked horribly healthy. I shrugged. I wasn't due to deliver my paper until tomorrow, but it may have been a non sequitur. I finished my coffee, glanced at my watch--9.37--and reached into my briefcase for my copy of the program. It wasn't there. I yawned, and walked over to the conference centre. The traffic was heavier than I'd expected, this late on a Friday, even for a town where the malls don't open until ten.
I wandered around the halls, reading the program outside each room. It was all obvious stuff, and most of the names were unfamiliar. All of the really good work being done in the field is still classified. I stepped back and leaned against a pillar, reaching into my jacket pocket for my noteBook and the list of possibles. I was still fumbling with the index (computers are for kids and passwords doubly so) when a fortyish woman in a maroon uniform passed in front of me, removing the program cards and replacing them with new ones. Curious, I wandered back and looked again. Fool woman had put Saturday's program up a day early. I caught up with her, and told her so, and she glanced at me, early morning irritation on her broad brown face. "This is Saturday..." she said, patiently, as though talking to a child, and then added, "Doctor."
I stood there, refusing to believe I could have misplaced a day. Physicists have a reputation for absent-mindedness and eccentricity, true; Feigenbaum spent a long time experimenting with twenty-six hour days, and Einstein often forgot his own address, but I can't claim the excuse of genius; I'm a lecturer and administrator, I have classes and meetings and deadlines every other day.
I glanced at the noteBook again, and punched up the chronograph function, a little hesitantly. Saturday, August 5th. My watch confirmed it. I sagged against the pillar, and tried to think.
"Morning, Peter," came an annoyingly cheerful voice from a few feet away. "Head-hunting again?"
I looked up. My confusion must have shown on my face, and stimulated Cortese's minuscule compassion circuit. "Something wrong?" he asked, softly.
I straightened my shoulders as best I could. How much could be wrong, after all? I hadn't had any commitments on Friday--a few papers I would have liked to have heard, but I had the abstracts. I could remember Thursday pretty well, and I'd known it was Thursday. I'd attended the opening address, all the telltales of Thursdayness had been apparent. "I'm okay," I replied. "A little jet-lag, maybe. I should be used to it, by now."
The Jesuit bastard snorted. "Not a hangover?"
"Did I get drunk last night?" I asked, before I could stop myself. Cortese shrugged.
"How would I know? The Bomb and Novelty Shop doesn't try to ply me with flaming Lamborghinis, or B-52s, or Wargasms, or whatever they call 'em. You sure you're okay?"
I nodded, and stood. I was shaky, sure, but my mouth is usually the first to tell me when I've downed too many cocktails, and it said I hadn't. "I'm fine," I said, almost believing it.
)
