Since geogravitic power, air transport has gotten cheaper and a lot more convenient, with virtually no risk of crash, short of collision. Floaters are AG, stable in flight, easy to operate, quiet, and don't pollute. From the office, if I want to fly somewhere, I drive a mile and a half to the Larchmont Station, where shuttles fly to LAX, Long Beach, Hollywood-Burbank, Ventura, or Santa Barbara at half-hour intervals.
I caught the 5:15 airbus to Santa Barbara and got there at 5:40. The air was clear as polished crystal. With the mountains behind her, L.A. looked beautiful, the Pacific magnificent, and the Sierra Madre rugged and wild. At the Santa Barbara Station I caught a turkey salad sandwich and at 6:23 was in a rental car headed for Montecito. The Montecito grid did cover the Rhubarb Canyon development, so all I had to do to find Ashkenazi's place was follow the route on the computer. It took me 16 minutes: I was 20 minutes early. Instead of using the call box, I voiced his number on the phone in the rental car and told him I was there already—that if he wanted I could drive around awhile. He said to come on up to the house, and a few seconds later the security gate opened.
His place was on two or three acres of land. You couldn't see the house from the gate because of the tall hedge along the road. Behind it was a concrete wall a yard high, eight feet of chain link with the waxy luster of new HardSteel above that, and razor wire on top.
Pretty mild, actually, for a development like Rhubarb Canyon in these days of trashers. Nothing at all like Ojibwa County, Michigan, where I grew up. His driveway started in through a stand of scrub live oak, but the house itself was surrounded by lawn, shaded thin by big encina oaks. The house was fairly large, partly one story and partly two, with big windows and glass doors. There were five paved parking places, one occupied by what had to be his car, another by a middle-aged pickup that probably belonged to household staff. Apparently Ashkenazi wasn't big on entertaining. I pulled into one of the other spaces, stepped up onto the porch and knocked. A man answered, wearing a sort of semi-uniform. He let me into an entryway and pressed a button.
Half a minute later, Ashkenazi was there, shaking my hand, cordial as you could hope for. Making the best of a regrettable situation, probably. He looked heavier than on the video, but healthy. I suppose he exercised. We went into a room lit by the yellow rays of a setting sun, and sat down. He looked at a wall clock. "Six-forty," he said. "We might as well start. Let me ask the first question: How did you know about Eldon?"
Eldon was his twin brother. Their parents' names were in the data on Ashkenazi, and I'd called up information on them that afternoon. There wasn't much of it, of course. But their children's names and birth dates were there. "Mr. Ashkenazi," I answered, "a writer learns research techniques, just as an astronomer does. I haven't taken the trouble to learn much about your family though. I haven't decided just what form the article will take, so I don't know what's relevant to it. I am, of course, interested in your research and yourself."
"You've read my paper."
"And watched you read it to the Astronomy Society."
"Then you saw how it was received by my professional brethren."
"Right. I also saw interviews with a few of them. They said what you talked about was astrology, not astronomy."
Ashkenazi smiled. "Astrology without astrological terminology. I followed basic astrological principles but abandoned the traditional framework and analyzed large volumes of data." The smile became a grin. "I call it `predictive astronomy,' to irritate the astronomical fraternity."
"But apparently you don't know why it works. If you could have described the mechanism, you would have. Wouldn't you? You must have some kind of theory."
He shook his head. "If Ali Hasad's Limited Theory of Generated Reality is valid, it provides a partial explanation."
One of the advantages of reading 800 to 1200 words per minute is, you can read a lot of books and magazines. So I knew a little of what he was talking about. "Isn't Ali Hasad's theory rejected by scientists?"
"By most of them. Not all. If you polled the physics community, maybe six of ten would reject it out of hand, two would withhold judgement but express strong skepticism, and two would say something like, it's heuristically interesting and might lead to new understanding.
"But science isn't supposed to be democratic, in the sense of a vote making a theory viable or valid. Most of those who reject Ali Hasad's theory haven't read it, except perhaps the summary of his first paper on it. And aren't likely to.
"Its chief problem is, it supports and thus revives an old contention of Fred Hoyle's, based on the values of basic physical parameters of the universe."
I knew what he was talking about, and kept my mouth shut, letting him continue.
"The basic parameters are those fundamental forces on which the universe depends for its characteristics. And if those parameters were even moderately different than they are, we wouldn't simply have elements and planets and life somewhat different than they are. We wouldn't have them at all. And considering probabilities, Hoyle couldn't accept that those parameters are what they are simply by accident. He contended that it must have been designed. That this universe is an artifact programmed by some superintelligence operating outside our universe.
"An intelligence that some people identified with God, which is a word with a lot of unfortunate Bronze Age superstitions attached to it."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Have I thoroughly confused you?"
"I'm familiar with Hoyle's view," I said. "I never read anything by him, but I read an article about it years ago. It sounded reasonable enough, and when I read a description of Ali Hasad's theory, it did remind me of Hoyle. But I'm in no position to evaluate either one scientifically."
Ashkenazi chuckled. "Neither are the physicists who refuse to look. It's interesting how much of advanced physics is nonexperimental. Which in the traditional sense means nonscientific. That's not to knock it. Given the problems, they do what they can. For decades, the frontiers of physics have lain largely in the realm of mathematics. The subject demands theories that commonly can't be tested physically. They test them by seeing how consistent the math is, particularly with other, already-accepted math that describes physical phenomona.
"That's a simplification, I'll admit, but basically it's accurate. And Ali Hasad's math is compatible with the Meissner-Ikeda Lattice. And accommodates the math, such as it is, of the omega matrix."
My half hour was melting, but I let him go on. I had a notion he might let it stretch to as long as it took.
"You don't look old enough," Ashkenazi went on, "to remember when legislative know-nothings had the Tarzan books banned from school libraries in Tennessee. They said Tarzan and Jane weren't married, were living in sin, and the books were a danger to the morals of young people.
"Actually they were married. In Book One. Jane's father was a minister, and they were married in the United States. In Wisconsin, if I remember correctly. The damned know-nothings had never read the sonofabitch. Typical.
"Well, Ali-Hasad's critics haven't examined his math. There are know-nothings in science, too.
"Considering the track records of all the earlier mathematical super-theories, Ali-Hasad's will probably turn out to have serious holes and loose ends, but . . ."
He stopped and grinned, shaking his head ruefully. "You punched my buttons," he said. "And I suppose you're recording this."
I was, and admitted it. My audio recorder was in my shoulder bag, beside my chair. "But you'll have a chance to critique the manuscript," I told him.
"Hmh! That's something, anyway. As for my work, it has no theory. It's totally empirical."
He turned serious again. "I'm not worried about explanations. Arne Haugen had only a rough notion of the basis for the geogravitic power converter, but that didn't keep him from inventing it. I've established a certain predictive and planning value in a revised and sharpened form of astrology I developed empirically. It's no big deal to me if the astronomical community doesn't accept it. I'd have given odds of a hundred to one against it, and taken all the bets I could cover.
"My career doesn't depend on anyone's approval. My degrees are in astronomy, but I've never been employed in it. I made my initial money in computer software and consulting, back in the days before the personal computer. My real wealth I made through investments. Guided, I might add, by every predictive tool, including astrology, that I could program. Also I have clients, as many as I care to deal with, who don't give a damn about explanations, and even less about compatibility with current theory. They're interested in results, and that's what I give them."
With that, he seemed to have run down. I nodded. "And what does Eldon think of all this?"
His eyebrows raised. "You don't know much about Eldon, do you. He probably doesn't think about it at all. He's an invalid. Been brain-damaged since 1973. From an auto accident."
"Ah. Then I probably shouldn't bother him."
"I'm quite sure Veronica would prefer that."
What I said next was a shot in the dark, totally unpremeditated. "Do you, uh, contribute to his support, Mr. Ashkenazi?"
He frowned. "Really, Mr. Seppanen, I don't care to . . ." He paused, lips pursing. "I will answer that question. A number of years ago I set up a trust fund. Not that it's necessary. Veronica is a capable provider. She's the trust fund's payee of course, not Eldon.
"And she's a COGS," he added drily. "COGS put a lot of emphasis on being financially honorable and intellectually shabby."
A COGS! She wouldn't like at all what Ashkenazi was into. The Church of God in Science—COGS—is an attempt to meld fundamentalist Christian views with classical science. It's become a fairly major church since the plagues of 1999 and 2000. It's how some people are trying to come to terms with the accelerating changes in the world. The way that COGS feel about anything like astrology or psychic phenomena pretty much ranges between contempt and hatred.
And suddenly I got the idea that if I checked on Donald C. Pasco, I'd find he was a COGS, too. It would fit him like pantyhose.
"Thank you, Mr. Ashley—excuse me; Mr. Ashkenazi," I said getting up. "You've been very helpful. I'll phone you again when the article begins to take form. To fill holes."
Calling him Ashley hadn't been a slip. I wanted to see if he'd react. He had, with a look of annoyance. It rekindled my curiosity about the name change. "Maybe I'll start checking my horoscope in the morning paper," I added. "It might prove helpful."
Driving back to Santa Barbara, I examined what I'd learned. I couldn't see it leading anywhere, but I realized I liked Arthur Ashkenazi. He seemed like what the Jews call a "mensch," which I've had explained as someone who is able, responsible, decent, and feeling. I hoped I didn't learn something discreditable about him.