Barnard, big, square-jawed, thin-lipped, with heavy-framed glasses, six three at least, and bursting out of his shirt, gave an initial impression, by the way he perched his case on his knees and kept his ankles together, of a meek-mannered fellow in a tough guy’s body, more of a Clark Kent type, and apologetic about it. Toby at his side looked to be in a state of shock. There was a novel tremor in his right hand, and he kept swallowing hard, sending his Adam’s apple up with an audible click. This should have been the kind of occasion when he sought out Beard’s gaze for a conspiratorial or satirical exchange. Lawyers! But he would not meet his colleague’s eye. Instead, he stared at his clasped hands as he said, ‘Michael, this is bad.’
In the silence Barnard nodded sympathetically and waited, and then said in a voice pitched a little too high for his form, ‘Shall I begin? Mr Beard, as you know, my firm is instructed from England in the matter of various patents granted to you. I’m going to spare you the legal language. Our intention is to settle this reasonably and swiftly. Our immediate wish is for you to cancel tomorrow’s public event because it is prejudicial to our client’s case.’
Beard’s mind’s eye, like a studio camera on a wire, was moving smoothly through the Dorset Square flat looking for the pile in which his old employment contracts were concealed. He said through a pleasant smile, ‘And what case is that?’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Hammer said softly.
‘In the year 2000 my client personally made a copy of a three hundred and twenty-seven page document which we know to be in your possession. These were notes written by Mr Thomas Aldous before his death and while he was employed at the Centre for Renewable Energy, near Reading, England. This copy has been examined by reputable experts, top physicists in their field, including Professor Pollard of Newcastle University, and they have also examined your various patent applications. From their conclusions, parts of which have been seen by Mr Hammer here, we have every reason to believe that those applications were based not on original work by you, but on the work of Mr Aldous. Theft of intellectual property on such a scale is a serious matter, Mr Beard. The rightful owner of Mr Aldous’s work is the Centre. These were the clear terms of his employment, which you can read for yourself.’
Beard maintained his engaged, kindly grin, but privately he registered this threat or setback in the form of an uncomfortable rippling of his pulse, like a syncopated drum roll, that did not simply distort his consciousness, but interrupted it, and for a second or two he might have passed out.
Then his heartbeat steadied, and he seemed to return to the room and adopted from nowhere a no-nonsense tone. ‘Disrupting tomorrow’s event would be highly prejudicial to our own interests and those of the locality and is clearly out of the question. It’s virtually impossible anyway.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘Have you ever tried cancelling a US Air Force fly-past, Mr Barnard?’
No one smiled.
Beard continued. ‘The second point is this. As I remember, the cover sheet of Tom Aldous’s notes is marked confidential. For the exclusive attention of Professor Beard. I believe this confidentiality has been breached. Thirdly, before his death, Mr Aldous and I worked intensively on artificial photosynthesis. He used to come to my house, so often in fact that, as everybody knows, he ran off with my wife. When we were working together, I did the thinking and talking, Tom did the writing. In our democratic times, Mr Barnard, science remains a hierarchical affair, unamenable to levelling. Too much expertise, too much knowledge has to be acquired. Before they become old fools, senior scientists tend to know more, by objectively measured standards. Aldous was a lowly post-doc. You could say he was my amanuensis. And that was why the file was marked for me, and no one else. I have scores, if not hundreds, of pages of my own notes covering the same material, all properly annotated and dated, and certainly pre-dating the Aldous file. If you insist on wasting the Centre’s resources coming to court, I’ll make them available. But you will be paying my costs, and I shall take advice on whether to sue Mr Braby personally for defamation.’
Toby Hammer’s slumped back had begun to straighten a little and there was hope, or the beginning of hope, in his eyes as he watched his friend.
The lawyer continued much as before. ‘We have letters Aldous wrote to his father describing his ideas and his intention of putting them before you in this file. He wanted you to use your influence to get funding. We know from many sources that your interest at the time was confined to a new kind of wind turbine.’
‘Mr Barnard,’ Beard spoke in the falling tones of gentle, steely admonition. ‘My life’s work has been in light. Since the age of twenty, when I learned by heart the poem of that name by John Milton. Some twenty-five years ago, I received the Nobel Prize for modifying Einstein’s photovoltaics. Do not try to tell me my interests are or were confined to wind turbines. As for Tom’s letters, he would not be the first ambitious young man who made grand claims about his achievements to a father who was still supporting him.’
Beard drew his dressing gown around him, and nodded reassuringly at Hammer.
Barnard conceded nothing. He simply moved to his next point. ‘This is not central to our case, it merely corroborates it. We have transcripts of a recording of a speech you gave in the Savoy Hotel, London, in February 2005. We find that it was mostly derived from various paragraphs in Mr Aldous’s file.’
Beard shrugged. ‘And those paragraphs were derived from me.’
‘We also have,’ Barnard said, ‘notes made by Mr Aldous in the year before he met you, and these demonstrate a deep interest in global warming, ecology, sustainable development, and various calculations, the sort of things that were developed in this file. And before you tell me, Mr Beard, that he must have got these from you somehow, even though he didn’t know you, you should be aware that our office has researched thoroughly every public lecture, radio talk, media interview, newspaper opinion piece, every course you gave at university, and there is nothing of yours that touches on artificial photosynthesis, nor is there a single mention by you of climate change or renewable energy in the months and years before Mr Aldous died and his file came into your possession. Hardly what one would expect, is it, Mr Beard, from a public figure like yourself making breakthrough discoveries in the field?’
Hammer had slumped again, and at last Beard was angry. What was this ludicrous man doing in his room, sitting so primly on the bed which minutes before had supported the glorious form of Darlene? Beard was on his feet, one hand holding his dressing gown in place over his private parts, the other jabbing a finger towards Barnard’s face. ‘Climate change? You’re conveniently forgetting that I was head of the Centre before I ever knew Tom Aldous. No win, no fee, is it, Mr Barnard? Looking to get rich? Well, take this back to your Mr Braby. Tell him I know a shabby opportunist when I see one. We’ve made something beautiful here and he thinks he can hitch a ride. He’s also stupid enough to think that a court will believe that this is the kind of work a graduate student can dream up alone. Tomorrow our site will be delivering clean low-cost electricity to Lordsburg. Tell Mr Braby to watch it all on TV, and we’ll see him in court!’
Barnard had also stood and held his briefcase against his chest. He was shaking his head, and when he spoke his voice was tight with a new emotion, indignation or pride or some blend of the two. ‘There is one further development you should be aware of. Mr Braby is no more. Last month was the Queen’s birthday and to mark the occasion as special she invited him to become her knight of the realm. He is now Sir Jock Braby.’
Beard moaned in exasperation and made a show of clapping his hand to his forehead. But there was a look of panic in Hammer’s eyes. If Braby had the Queen of England on his side, what possible chance did they have in an English court of law?
Beard said, ‘It’s all crap, Toby. Don’t listen. This is the Queen’s Birthday Honours List. She doesn’t choose it, she knows fuck all about it, and they all scramble to be on it, every booby and arriviste from science and the arts and the
civil service who wants to strut about the place hoping to be taken for a member of the minor aristocracy.’
There was a silence after this outburst, and then Barnard sighed and took a step around the bed towards the door. ‘Shall we assume then, Mr Beard, that Her Majesty hasn’t gotten round to choosing you?’
Beard said crisply, ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
Barnard let his briefcase swing down and dangle at his side. Toby was now on his feet. Barnard said, ‘Well, on behalf of Sir Jock Braby and the National Centre for Renewable Energy, I want to put it to you one last time. If you agree to call off tomorrow’s media event and agree to revisit the patents situation, you’ll find us sympathetic collaborators who will certainly find a role for you in the development of a technology which rightly belongs to the Centre. If not, then our first move will be to go to court to freeze all exploitation until this matter is resolved.’
Hammer, turning to Beard, looked like he was about to go down on one knee. ‘Michael, that could take five years.’
Beard was shaking his head. ‘No, Toby. I say no.’
Barnard said, ‘The British government has deep pockets, at least in this affair. They’re keen to see the Centre own the patents and show the taxpayer a decent return.’
Hammer clutched at the lapels of Beard’s dressing gown. ‘Listen, we owe a lot of money. No one’s going to sign with us until this is straightened out. We can’t afford lawyers.’
‘We’ve put in all the work,’ Beard said as he pushed Hammer’s hand away. ‘If we roll over now, we’ll be lucky if they take us on as lavatory attendants.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Barnard said. ‘I’m pretty sure we can offer you something better than that. And Mr Hammer’s right. When news of our legal contest becomes public, people will not want to do business with you. Surely it’s in your interests too, not to make a splash tomorrow.’
‘I’m putting this as politely as I can,’ Beard said. ‘Please leave.’
With the faintest pursing of his thin lips, Barnard turned and opened the door. Over his shoulder the orange desert sky was fading through yellow to luminous green.
Hammer, usually a cool type, wailed on a rising note, ‘Michael, we’ve got to keep talking! Mr Barnard, wait, I’ll come out with you.’
The lawyer inclined his head regretfully. ‘Sure, but it’s Mr Beard’s signature that we want,’ and he stepped out into the dusk, and Hammer hurried after him. The door swung shut, and Beard heard the voices of the two men retreating across the parking lot, with Toby’s suddenly growing louder, beseeching, begging for time, then giving way to Barnard’s insistent murmur.
He was slumped in the chair just as before, still wondering about a shower. The episode appeared like a playlet staged for his benefit. For the moment he was numb to its implications. He was aware that a great wall obstructed the progress of his life and he could not see past it. His thoughts were stilled. His only concern was that Melissa and Catriona would arrive in less than an hour and he should be dressed to greet them. After many empty minutes he went to the bathroom and got under the shower and stood there blankly, barely conscious, with hot water drumming on his skull. At a sound, he put his head out of the cubicle and listened. There was a loud knock on his door, then another. There was silence, then his palmtop began to ring from the bedside table as the knocks resumed and grew louder. Hammer called out his name many times. No doubt desperate to come in and persuade him to be Braby’s minion.
Beard retreated under the shower, and when he was sure that his friend had gone away he stepped out and began to dry himself. Hot water on his skin had done the trick. He was refreshed and knew what must happen. It was all down to attitude. Tomorrow’s opening must go ahead. The rewards might be snatched away, but the world would see what he had accomplished. He would go out in a blaze. Or better, persuade someone with money to back him through the courts in return for a part share. Their most important visitors were already in their hotels in El Paso, and some were coming through Silver City. The sun would rise, the panels would makes gases out of water, the gases would run the turbines, electricity would flow, the world would surely stand amazed. Nothing must interrupt the Beatles medley and the screaming low-level jets.
With a towel stretched round his waist, whistling ‘Yellow Submarine’, he came back into the bedroom, rummaged in his case and pulled out a shirt, which he shook free of the laundry-service cellophane and cardboard. The sound of plastic wrapping was a reminder of one more animating factor, his hunger. Having refused his brunch, and replaced it with his lunch, he was running a meal deficit which he was about to address. He found clean underwear and socks – strange to think back to the days when he could put his socks on while standing up – and unfolded his best non-crease suit. Of course, he was dressing for Melissa. At the thought of her, while dousing himself with cologne at the bathroom mirror, he went back into the bedroom to spend some minutes straightening out the bed. And at the thought of Darlene, and how and where everyone would sleep and what would get said, his mind reared up like a skittish horse and went off in another direction. Which was alcohol. The restaurant across the road did not serve it. From a compartment inside his suitcase he brought out a silver and calfskin hip flask filled with Dutch gin, Genever, easily good enough to be drunk at room temperature, and indistinguishable from water. He took a shot now and put the flask in his pocket. Then he paused before the door and drank a longer shot, and stepped outside.
Always a delicious moment to be savoured, and never to be had in the British Isles, when, showered and perfumed and wearing fresh clothes, one steps out from the air conditioning into the smooth, invincible warmth of a Southern evening. Even in the denatured neon glow of the Lordsburg mini-strip, the crickets or cicadas – he did not know the difference – went on singing. There was no money in stopping them. And no means of preventing or franchising the neatly etched half-moon that hung above the gas station.
Tonight, however, his pleasure was marred. Parked thirty feet away from his motel-room door was a black Lexus, and climbing into the driver’s seat was Barnard. Standing on the passenger side, waiting to get in, with that same bag at his feet, was Tarpin. As he opened his door he noticed Beard and half smiled and made a knife of his forefinger and drew it across his throat. The engine started, the headlights came on, Tarpin got in with his luggage and the car reversed from its space and pulled out of the parking lot. Baffled, Beard watched them go, and remained on the spot after they had disappeared. Then he shrugged and went over to the office to tell the receptionist to let Melissa know where he could be found, then walked across the road to the Blooberry and arrived with his good mood partially restored. He was not going under.
He could make a case that there was no better or happier place to eat in the United States than the Blooberry Family Restaurant – speciality, a steak skillet breakfast. The unreflecting atheist was bound to find interest and instruction in the Mennonite tracts on a table by the entrance. ‘A Happy Home’, ‘A Loving Marriage’, and nearer his own field, ‘Caring for the Earth’. By the checkout was a gift shop where in the course of eighteen months he had bought more than two dozen T-shirts for Catriona. The restaurant floor was large, the waitresses all seemed close versions, merry cousins, of Darlene. Off-duty cops ate here, and Border Patrolmen, truckers, hollow-eyed interstate travellers sitting alone, and families, of course, Hispanic, Asian, white, often in large spreads across three or four tables pushed together. But even when it was crowded, the Blooberry was dignified and subdued, as though it quietly craved a drink. The place was soothingly anonymous. Not once had he been recognised as a regular by the jolly staff. Interstate 10 was close by and turnover was high.
The food happened to suit him. As he waited to be seated he had no need to reflect on choices – he always ate the same meal here. There was no point in straying. He was led to a booth in the farthest corner. To help settle his impatience for the starter to arrive, he poured a stiff measure of gin into his empty water glass and
drank it down like water, and poured another. Everything was terrible, but he was not feeling so bad. At least this Terry no longer existed. Or was that such a good thing? Melissa and Darlene, a serious mess. He could not face it, he could not bear to think about it. But it would be faced. And poor Toby. He knew he should phone him to explain why the demonstration must go ahead, but for the moment he could not be doing with another argument.
To keep his mind off his order – fifteen minutes had passed, and it usually took less than five – he looked through his emails, and here were a couple of items that made him exclaim with pleasure. The first was an informal approach from an old friend, an ex-physicist now working as a consultant in Paris. A consortium of power companies wanted Beard to bring his ‘wide experience of green technologies to the task of steering public policy in the direction of carbon-free nuclear energy’. On offer was a salary well into six figures, along with an office in central London, a researcher and a car. Well, of course. The argument could be made. The CO2 levels went on rising and time was running out. There was really only one well-tested means of producing electricity on a scale to meet the needs of a growing world population, and do it soon, without adding to the problem. Many respected environmentalists had come round to this view, that nuclear was the only way out, the lesser of two evils. James Lovelock, Stewart Brand, Tim Flannery, Jared Diamond, Paul Ehrlich. Scientists and good men all. In the new scale of things, was the occasional accident, the local radiation leak, the worst outcome possible? Even without an accident, coal was daily creating a disaster, and the effects were global. Was not the 28-kilometre exclusion zone around Chernobyl now the biologically richest and most diverse region of Central Europe, with mutation rates in all species of flora and fauna barely above the norm, if at all? Besides, wasn’t radiation just another name for sunlight?