"Might as well eat it, then," Sally said.
They ate and drank and wandered around the meadow. A washtub bass joined the music. Willow didn't exactly follow Patrick, but she managed to be in his general vicinity. She returned to her blanket and read until the light started to go. There was a book discussion. Patrick talked about a math book that he was reading, and Joe got started on significant digits, of all things. "You understand the principle," he said.
"Natch," Art said, "but here is Morgan, in case anyone needs a refresher." Willow tried to remember high school physics while she watched Morgan sit down deliberately. He had powerful shoulders and a sensitive expression. "Morgan, what are significant digits?"
"Ah," Morgan said, "the concept is that in scientific computation, the result cannot be more accurate than the least accurate quantity or measurement involved." There was light applause. Morgan drank deeply.
"Just so," said Joe. "And didn't I have a hell of a time understanding that? I thought you could make an answer as accurate as you wanted. You want seven decimal places? No problem." Patrick was sitting forward, listening intensely. "I finally got the idea, and I never forgot it," Joe went on. "Well, there I was in weather school in the Air Force, and their dew point calculation gave an answer that was more precise than one of the measurements. 'These decimal points are meaningless,' I said to the sergeant. Yeah, right. Next thing you know, I'm in front of the base commander.
"'Burke,' he says, 'you may have a point. But it's a goddamn small one.
Are you an airman or a goddamn philosopher, Burke?'
"'Airman, SIR,' I said."
"Airman Burke," Art toasted.
Willow was impressed. She thought about Stanford—the academic cliques, the gorgeous football players, the socialites. They were good at what they did; they were judged by how they performed in their groups; they lived by accepted rules. These people, in Mead's meadow, were just as sharp, just as physical (in a different way, maybe a better way), and just as easy and confident. They were all of the aboves. They were free. They were alive, or more alive, in a different way. A shiver ran up her back.
She opened a bottle of wine. The band was tighter, into When the Saints Come Marching In. As the light faded, the uninhabited range of mountains before them became darker and more mysterious, unexpectedly comforting. The mountains were timeless, or in a different flow of time.