Bebe was with me just a minute after Angel left. I’m sure he waited just down the corridor so he could get to me immediately. He always had a key for my room, but had yet to enter when I still had a girl with me. Perhaps he bugged the room: I’d put nothing past Taikon. He was clutching newspapers, laptop and a notebook. We discussed the day’s schedule as I washed and dressed and read the papers together as we always did. The tabloids had had some fun with my comments of the night before. Bebe muttered as he read, making the occasional note, but when finished he told me he was still sure the committee was on side. He had also spoken to those who mattered at Taikon, including George, who I hoped enjoyed his night with Amanda. The message was that they were far from pleased and as expected there would be tightened security, but that was the likely extent of the repercussions.
I tentatively suggested to Bebe that I postpone the trip to New Zealand and concentrate on a more measured response to Driesler, but the company had already discussed and discounted such an idea. It was agreed that a return to my home country with all the positive press it would attract far outweighed any other consideration.
‘I know it’s going to be hard for you going back, Jack, but it’s time you faced up to what happened.’
‘I suppose so.’
There was no stopping it now. I was going home. Shit.
This newspaper has always supported and admired Jack Mitchell. At a time when science and what we might term normal society are growing further apart, Mitchell has succeeded better than anyone in bridging the gap. The scientific enterprise at times appears incomprehensible to the average person, a dangerous divide as we engage in debates about GE, stem cell research and cloning. Mitchell’s own Superforce theory is built on maths that no one with anything less than a university degree can hope to understand. This carries many dangers, given the importance of the theory and the new technologies it may produce. How important, then, that, with his current show, Mitchell should try to explain not only his theory, but also science generally, in a way we can understand. As science continues to shape our world it is essential we grasp its fundamental concepts. What a shame that Mitchell has let himself and his great enterprise of popularising science down. The kind of gutter-sniping he has engaged in with Frank Driesler is really beneath him. We hope that this is an isolated incident and that as he returns to New Zealand with his tour he concentrates on what he does best.
THREE
From the moment the automatic doors of the airport open to suck me inside, I’m directed by computer chips. They ensure I sit in the correct seat on the correct plane, send my bags to the correct baggage train and guide me to the correct gate. Throughout my stay in the airport, machines and electronics control my every move. The airport is technology in critical mass. And wherever there’s technology there’s rampant consumerism.
Once upon a time you could only buy a paperback and a bottle of whisky, but now airports mimic malls with their dominating brand names and Hollywood faces selling beauty to the ugly by image and sex appeal alone. When baggage allowances restrict my luggage space, I’m presented with an unlimited choice of items for which I have no room.
I also dislike airport architecture. Actually, I loathe airport architecture. It’s just plastic and steel merged into award-winning designs, temples to modern technologies the way railway stations were to a bygone age. Give me the solid protection of those bricks any day; there’s something about modern buildings that give the impression of imminent collapse.
You’d think I’d be happy to leave the airport, but it only means entering an even worse place, the plane. Flying freaks me out. I often ask myself why I’m afraid of something so wondrous. Often I’ve watched birds and imagined the exhilaration of swooping and banking, of the wind against my face and my stomach in my throat with the bare-arsed excitement of it all. But we aren’t designed to fly. My only thrill in a plane is relief at avoiding a seat next to the fat sod I’ve suspiciously eyed in the lounge or the screaming kid who’s wheeled a toy between my feet.
And it amazes me how much a plane can shake on take-off without actually falling apart. Far from feeling as though I’m sitting in a state-of-the-art machine, I might as well be on the number 58 bus on its way to town. Perhaps this is why I really hate flying: it’s the overwhelming fear of, well, of dying. When I’m about to spend the next twenty-four hours in a machine half the size of a rugby field, suspended ten thousand metres above the ground, I don’t want to feel the thing creaking and groaning before it’s gone anywhere. And then when the shaking gives way to something approaching smooth flight, there’s that moment when the plane feels as though it’s about to drop out of the sky. I spend the entire flight thinking I’m never more than two seconds from extinction.
I made the mistake of sharing these thoughts with Bebe. He was unsympathetic, probably because he’d heard it all before. All he could offer me was the suggestion that I do some work. Now that was a novel thought, an original concept. What work is there left for me to do? I mean, come on, what do I do as an encore to the Theory of Everything? Really, I’ve done myself out of a job, done away with any further interest in physics. All that’s left is bits and pieces, some mopping up here and there. When you’ve eaten the most succulent of meats, who eats the scrag-end? I haven’t done a thing for six months and can see no point in starting now. So what else is there to do on a plane to distract from the slightest change in engine tone that signals decompression and an imminent fatal dive? Drink. It amazes me how much I can drink in twenty-four hours when there’s nothing else to interrupt the rhythm. By the time we crossed the blue waters of the Manukau Harbour and dropped out of an Auckland dawn, I was fucked. Customs and passport control came and went without registering. During the drive from the airport to the city Hilton, I slept.
It was mid-afternoon when I woke with a category one hangover that burnt every contour of my head and hurt most parts of my body simultaneously. Category ones were rare, but like migraines they were at times irresistible, and fighting them was useless. Total surrender was the only option. To be honest, that suited me. As soon as I woke I felt an uncomfortable feeling of doom, that as soon as I stepped from the hotel I’d be mugged by the unpleasant ghosts of my past. In the room, protected by my mega headache, I felt the demons excluded. Only Bebe could gain access, which he did, politely, in the late afternoon.
‘Will you look at this?’ He waved an email in the air as though swatting flies. He was obnoxiously happy, and my grunt of half acknowledgment was not enough. ‘It’s really rather wonderful for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Quite amazing.’
I rolled over to face him. For a moment I felt as though I’d left my head in its old position and it took several seconds for it to catch up with the rest of my body. ‘All right, Bebe, I give in. What is it you’ve got there?’ I tried lifting my head, but failed and let it settle again on the soft pillow.
‘You have an invitation, Jack.’ He danced a little jig. ‘You shall go to the ball, Cinders.’
‘Bebe, please, I know you love the pantomime, but just tell me and then let me go back to sleep.’