“I believe I do.” Alex could feel the knot inside him starting to dissolve. Was it something in the drink, or something in Kate Lonaker? “At least, no one seems to have run across it before.”

“That’s what I’ve heard. Look, you must know by now that I’m not much of a techie. I’ve looked at your papers, and didn’t get diddly-squat out of them. Can you describe what your models do in words of one syllable, so I’ll understand?”

“I don’t think so. Not unless you have a few hours to spare.”

“I don’t. But your models did predict the Great War?”

“Sort of. When I ran from 2030 on, they reached a singularity in 2067. That was the correct year, but of course you can’t compute past a singularity of the time line. So there was no way of knowing the war’s outcome.”

“You predicted a cataclysm. That’s good enough for me. Let’s go on. I asked you to tell me true, now it’s my turn to do the same. My worry list has three items at the top of it. First, I’m worried that you’ll take your mother’s offer, leave, and set up your own research shop.”

“Not a chance.”

“Why not — and don’t tell me it’s because your mother makes you nervous.”

“She does, but that’s got nothing to do with it.” Alex paused. “You said you love modest men. This is going to sound anything but.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like immodest men. I’ve certainly met enough of them. Go on.”

“All right. My models may be producing garbage, but every other long-range predictive model that I’ve ever seen, here or elsewhere, is garbage. My models have the potential to get it right. You say you don’t understand what I do, but in a way you don’t have to. Because if you approve my results, they go up the line, and with any luck they’ll keep on going up to the point where the results lead to action.”