The Rebbe sinks back into his chair. His lids closed tiredly over his bulging eyes. “As your friend Rain says, go figure.”
Just before the lunch break, Charlie Atwater shows up in Lemuel’s office carrying several pages filled with measurements of the surface tension of teardrops. He doesn’t specify how he got the raw data, but it is common gossip at the Institute that he is having an affair with his secretary and giving her a hard time. As it is before noon, he has not yet taken his first drink, so he talks without slurring his consonants. He is very excited.
“I’ve never put teardrops through the hoop before,” he says. He points a slightly trembling finger at neat columns filled with figures that, to the n***d eye, appear to have no order, no re
