"No, not so in this instance, mademoiselle. It was provisionally agreed that Dr. Detrick would be allowed to address the conference, subject to his paper being cleared by the committee. The committee has now seen the paper and made its decision." Again the half-shrug, the tepid smile.
Cheryl ground her teeth. It was her father's passive attitude, his air of resignation, that angered her almost as much as this bland, round-shouldered nonentity in the dark suit with shiny elbows. Didn't he care? Damn it, he was a scientist, like herself, and for that reason she felt keenly the injustice of years of effort wasted on the whim of a faceless committee. To be treated in such a despicable fashion and told that not only was his paper disbarred but he would not be permitted to take part in any discussion from the platform. Christ, it was galling!
"By all means Dr. Detrick and yourself are free to attend the conference as delegates," the official informed her, speaking directly to Cheryl, having decided that she was the one to appease. "The conference is, after all, international, and we are pleased that you have decided to attend."
The young girl swallowed her anger. "That's most kind of you, Monsieur--"
"Carpentier." He made a little bow.
"Monsieur Carpentier." She breathed and said in a low voice, "But if you think that's the end of it, you're very sadly mistaken, Monsieur Carpentier." His smile faded around the edges. "My father didn't come all this way to sit around exchanging small talk. He came to deliver a paper and you haven't given us one reason why you won't let him. You say the decision isn't yours; okay, I accept that. You also tell us that we can't talk to the people whose decision it is. Right. But you can't stop us talking to the press. Maybe what this shambles of a so-called conference needs is a rocket up its ass."
"Monsieur, please . . ." The official looked pained and appealed to Theo. "I can do no more. I am the spokesman, that is all. I have much to do. You will excuse me, please." His shoulder twitched and he seemed to drift away and disappear.
Theo turned to leave, his face impassive.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" Cheryl cried, enraged by his docility. "Just let these people walk right over you? My God, I thought your work meant something to you. I got the impression that nothing else did for the past twenty years," she added bitterly.
There and then she could have cut her tongue out, but it was too late. It had been said.
"You were only saying what you felt," Theo said to her later, at
dinner, when she had fumbled her way toward an apology. Having listened, he brought his hand across the white tablecloth and covered hers. "I understand. You have every right to feel I have neglected you. But I would like to say thank you."
Cheryl gazed at him with a slight frown. "What for?"
"For speaking up for me. I knew then that you did care, that we are, in spite of everything, father and daughter."
She felt herself coloring. Shit, why wouldn't her emotions stay still? One minute she hated him, the next she felt compassion--affection-- even genuine love. One thing she did know, and this had never wavered: her respect for him as a scientist. And maybe, just maybe, she thought, he couldn't have been both devoted father and dedicated scientist.
She tossed her sun-streaked head in mocking self-disdain. "I always insist on my rights. I'm good at that."
"I'm glad that you are."
"Oh, sure."
"Because you insisted on mine, too," Theo reminded her with a smile.
The waiter placed avocado salad in front of Cheryl. Another waiter poured lentil soup into Theo's bowl.
"I must be dumb or something," Cheryl said, "but I still don't understand. I mean, why come all this way and then give in without a fight? Without even a protest?"
Theo picked up his spoon and paused, staring down at the steaming soup. He said, "When you've worked for a long time on something and devoted all your energy to it, you suddenly find that you've no energy left. It's been used up. My work is important to me, of course it is, but after so long I find that I'm--" He broke off, searching for the word.
"Tired?"
"Yes." Theo nodded slowly. "Disillusioned. People won't listen, they don't want to listen. I tried in Washington, but it was no good, so I came here, thinking that these people would be different, more open, more receptive. But it seems I was wrong." He dipped into his soup. "People don't wish to face the truth. They'd rather not see, not listen." He drank and dabbed his lips. "It's so much easier and more comfortable that way."
"The truth about what?"
"About our planet," Theo said, raising his eyes to look at her.
"Is that what you came here to tell them?"
Her tone of bewildered skepticism made him realize the enormity of the task that faced him. If his own daughter thought him deranged, what chance did he have of persuading anyone else? Parris Winthrop must have harbored similar suspicions, Theo realized. The old man's lived alone too long; his mind's become unhinged by solitude.
He told Cheryl of the conclusions he had been driven to, quoting whole passages from the paper he had been forbidden to deliver, and after coffee had been served she said, "If you have the data and can prove what you say is true, why won't they listen? Surely they must listen."
"It's a matter of interpretation," Theo explained. "It's quite possible to accept the figures as genuine and yet to disagree with the predicted outcome. The worldwide decline in phytoplankton is not in dispute-- but what that might mean in terms of oxygen depletion is open to debate."
"Then you could be wrong?"
"It is always possible to be wrong," Theo answered gravely.
"But the least they could do is listen. What have they to lose?" It was the question of a naive schoolgirl and Cheryl winced at the tone of righteous indignation in her voice. She was regressing into the role of Daddy's little girl, as if eager to make up for lost time and have a belated stab at the part.
"My predictions will hardly be popular with the scientific community, you must know that," Theo said. "Scientists by nature are conservative creatures. They don't like change, and anyone who predicts change, especially of this magnitude, will not be welcomed with open arms." He looked down at his powerful hands, the palms ridged with callouses; not the hands of a scientist. "I was stupid to expect otherwise. I've been away too long."
"But what if you're right? People must be told. They have to be forced to listen."
"How?"
She shook her head, at a loss. "I don't know--but there has to be a way."
There was a hard core of determination there that secretly amazed him. He had never thought of Cheryl as being a person in her own right: She was his and Hannah's daughter, not a separate individual at all. Now he saw her anew--or rather, for the first time--as an intelligent young woman of strength and character. Her energy, he saw, unlike his, hadn't been drained, but was full to the brim. She had enough for both of them.
Cheryl had been distracted by someone across the restaurant. She touched Theo's arm, who leaned back in his chair, a slow smile lighting up his face. The man came over to their table and as she watched the reunion a childhood memory stirred within her. She remembered meeting the Russian and his wife, whom she recalled as rather a finicky little woman, though kindly and fond of children, as many childless middle-aged women are.
"You will not know me," Boris Stanovnik said in his deep Russian voice, taking her hand. "You were a little child, with golden hair and, er --what are they called?" He tapped his cheeks and nose.
"Freckles," Cheryl smiled. "I still have them in summer, but not the golden hair unfortunately. Yes, I do remember you. I was tiny and you were a giant," she said, at her most artful.
Boris chuckled. "And children never forget giants, eh?"