I didn’t want to and so did not go into the details of my child’s forthcoming diminution, but he was asking a very good question. “I haven’t thought that far,” I said. “We’re told she has a few years. She’s always wanted to go to Paris.”

Huckster raised his brows and nodded.

It was a good idea. Meg would like it. Sarah could have the trip while she was still with us, cogent enough to enjoy it. “Thank you, Finley.”

I don’t think Huckster knew why I was thanking him, but he said, “Of course, that’s what we humanities types are good for. Family advice and five-year plans, those are our specialties. I like to include reference to the next five-year plan in the current one. Art, my boy.”

Nc3 Bb7

I took a guiltily long shower. The steam was serving to clear not only my sinuses but my thinking as well. Huckster was already dressed by the time I came back to my locker.

“Zach, I’m really sorry about your daughter.”

I nodded.

“Who knows, perhaps someone will come up with a treatment in the next couple of years.”

“Thanks, Finley.”

In my office I did what I always did in my office, which was basically nothing. I kicked my feet onto my desk and looked out the window at the skyline of Los Angeles, tried not to think; in other words, I tried even more aggressively to do absolutely nothing. Then I noticed Hilary’s folder under my boots. I picked it up, opened it, started to read.

It was hardly raw data. I did not work in Hilary’s field, but I could understand it. I could not assess whether her work was cutting edge, new, or derivative, but I could say that it was clearly written and compelling. Her work focused not on the predictability of earthquakes but on the predictability of frequency and strength of aftershocks given location, depth, and strength of the initial quake. It seemed to me that the work was solid and ready to be sent out. I was confused.

I shouted out, “Hilary! Professor Gill!” I looked out my open door and saw a passing graduate student. “Is Professor Gill’s door open?”

He looked. “Yes.”

I got up and marched down the hall, stood at her doorway. “Did you not hear me shouting your name?”

“I did not,” she said. She was sitting at her desk, reading exams.

“I was looking at your so-called raw data.”

I could see her tighten.

“This is not raw. Obviously, I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but why haven’t you sent this out?”

“What?”

I stepped inside and closed her door. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but this appears to be good and fairly polished work. I’m confused. I thought this was going to be a bunch of meaningless numbers. It is not meaningless numbers.”