by S. J. Gazan
When he had finished on the computer, he leaned back and tried not to think about Jack. Why hadn’t he called? Clive still hadn’t met Molly, Jack’s wife. They had just had their second daughter, and Clive hadn’t even seen the first one yet. Once upon a time, Clive had been the sole recipient of Jack’s rare, blinding smiles, the one who triggered his exclamations of surprise, the one who prompted him to press the tip of his tongue against the corner of his mouth in concentration when learning new facts. Now it was likely to be Molly and the two little girls. Clive was well aware that the distance was partly his own making. Jack had briefly met Clive’s sons, Tom and Franz, one day when the boys had picked him up from the university parking lot, and had, on one occasion, met Kay at a conference dinner that Jack had attended alone. However, distance was one thing, deliberate avoidance was something else. Jack was conspicuously polite and friendly, and always had time for a professional discussion, but Clive found his private reticence unbearable. They didn’t have to get together with their wives and children, the very thought caused Clive to break into a sweat, but Clive and Jack had a connection and it was as if Jack refused to acknowledge it, even when they were alone. It was absurd. Clive knew Jack better than anyone. He had Jack in his blood, in the tips of his fingers, which still remembered the feeling of ruffling Jack’s dark hair.
Jack would know perfectly well that the discovery of an allegedly feathered dinosaur meant late nights for Clive, who would need weeks to defend his position and refute the implications that the media and every other idiot would draw from the discovery. Jack not letting Clive into his life might be a coincidence, it might even be Clive’s own fault. But Jack not calling him, that was deliberate.
Clive called a meeting with his department that Monday, and later the same day they issued a press release announcing that UBC’s department of Bird Evolution, Paleobiology, and Systematics was obviously excited at the discovery of a feathered dinosaur, but that they had nothing further to say until they had been allowed to examine the specimen themselves. Afterward Clive completed an application to view the animal, knowing full well that it would be a great deal of time before permission was granted. Jack still hadn’t called.
The following January, the two Chinese paleontologists, Chang and Laam, finally described and named the animal and announced that it wasn’t a dinosaur. Clive was triumphant. They named it Sinosauropteryx, concluded it was an ancient bird, and consequently no one was surprised that it had feathers.
However, Clive’s joy was short-lived. Fossils started pouring out of China’s soil, literally, and in every subsequent case, Chang and Laam had no doubts: these weren’t ancient birds, they were dinosaurs. And they were all feathered.
Clive sent a reminder regarding his application, and when it was finally approved he flew to China immediately. It took him two weeks to examine Sinosauropteryx, and he also had a closer look at Caudipteryx and Protarchaeopteryx. Delighted, he called Jack and told him to hold the front page. Clive’s enthusiasm was infectious. “This is a rotten line,” Jack laughed, “call me when you get back.”
Clive spent another two days in China before flying home. He was overjoyed. Beipiaosaurus, Sinornithosaurus, Microraptor, Caudipteryx, and Protarchaeopteryx were obviously all ancient birds but not dinosaurs. Furthermore, the Chinese had turned out to be very welcoming, not at all reticent as he had been told, and the food was superb. One afternoon he strolled through a garden of cherry trees, whose white petals fluttered poetically onto passersby and wished Jack could have been there with him. If only they could have some time together. Jack was a science writer, one of the very best, but, of course, there was a price to pay. Jack shared Clive’s scientific views, Clive knew that, but Jack self-evidently couldn’t appreciate the discussion about the origin of birds fully, when he also had to consider so many other topics. If only they could have some time together, then Clive could explain the details to him. This would boost Clive’s position enormously. Scientific Today was selling better than ever, everyone in the science community read it and wanted to publish in it. Jack and he would once more be an unbeatable duo.
Across from the cherry-tree garden was a market, where Clive bought two bronze beetles in a glass dome for his sons and a large piece of silk for Kay. When he got back, he would ask Jack if they could go away together. Just for a couple of days. Just the two of them.
When he got back to Canada, Clive went to see Jack. He had written most of his paper on the plane, and when he landed in Vancouver the major themes of his arguments were outlined. Triumphantly, he slammed it down in front of Jack.
“Did you have a good trip?” Jack asked, smiling.
“Yes,” Clive said.
“Coffee?”
Clive declined. Jack went to get some for himself, and when he returned he closed the door behind him and called his secretary to say he didn’t want to be disturbed for the next fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, Clive thought. Jack let himself fall into the chair behind his desk and looked at Clive.
“I can’t print your paper,” he said.
“What?”
“I’ve got doubts,” Jack replied.
“About what?”
“About the origin of birds.” He held up his hand to forestall Clive’s reaction, but Clive was speechless.
“For years your position was reasonable. We were missing many decisive fossils, phylogenetic methods were still unreliable, and there were problems explaining the reduction of bird fingers…. During all that time I understood perfectly well why you didn’t buy the dinosaur theory. But now? New evidence is discovered every week, Clive. And everything points to birds being present-day dinosaurs, don’t you see? More than 250 apomorphies link birds and dinosaurs. Two hundred and fifty apomorphies! Including feathers. Feathers! Not to mention that more than 95 percent of the world’s scientists today agree that cladistics is the accepted phylogenetic method. Everyone’s using cladistics, except you. You have an impressive résumé, Clive. No one would think less of you if you changed your position—on the contrary. That’s the very core of science. That a hypothesis stands until it’s replaced by a better-supported one. Remember Walker? He dismissed his own theory when it no longer held up. He won a lot of admiration for that.”
Clive stared at Jack and, in that moment, he hated him. He remembered once when Jack was little and had cut his finger on a knife and Clive had stuck his finger in his mouth. Suddenly, he could taste the blood again.
“I want my story on the front page,” he whispered.
“We already have a lead story.”
“I’ve been an ornithologist for thirty years,” Clive said. “And now you’re telling me that some fashionable paleontology theory is going to end my career?” Clive shot up from his chair, reached over the desk and grabbed Jack’s jaw.
“Look at me,” he hissed. “I was like a father to you. I got you out of that shit hole you came from. Everything you’ve got,” he gestured toward the enormous desk and the stacks of journals, “you owe to me.”
Clive let go of Jack’s face and pointed at his paper lying on the desk. Then he left.
The next issue of Scientific Today was published in mid-August. On the cover was a photo of Caudipteryx, its left wing partly unfolded and beneath it the headline: THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES: THE CRETACEOUS TURKEY.
Clive was satisfied.
In the autumn of 2005, Clive was invited to take the hot seat at a major ornithology conference in Toronto, where he would participate in a live TV debate with a young Danish paleontologist, Dr. Erik Tybjerg, who appeared to have been promoted from being Lars Helland’s PhD student to his errand boy. Clive had met the young scientist several times because Helland made a point of staying away from conferences, and he found Tybjerg intensely annoying. He was an upstart who thought he knew it all, and Clive would regard it as a considerable pleasure to bring him down on national television.
Clive made a last-minute decision to fly to Toronto via his hometown. Since the death o
f his father, he tended to visit his mother every other year. She was an old lady now, practically blind and living in a nursing home. Clive looked forward to seeing her lined face and feeling her hand in his. He left three days before the conference and stayed at a hotel near the nursing home. When he wasn’t spending time with his mother, pushing her around in her wheelchair, he slept like a log in his room, ate well in the restaurant, and even managed four walks around the local area before traveling onward on the fourth day.
He landed in Toronto, rested and exhilarated. He was met at the airport and driven straight to the conference center where he left his luggage with a cloakroom attendant, collected his entry pass, and strolled around the many interesting booths.
Half an hour later he took a seat in a comfortable red armchair on the stage. Opposite was an identical but vacant armchair. The stage was bathed in light and Clive found it hard to see properly, but he was aware of a large audience taking their seats in the auditorium. A well-dressed young woman came out to greet him, introduced herself as the assistant to the producer, and asked if Clive was ready to be hooked up to his microphone. Of course, Clive answered and complimented her on her appearance. He noticed the young woman’s perfume, and she stood very close to him while she attached the clip of the micro port to his lapel.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it,” she burst out. “Of course, I’m no expert. But it came as a huge surprise to me!” She smiled at Clive, straightened his jacket, conjured up a powder compact from her pocket, and began dabbing powder on Clive’s nose.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow?” Clive croaked. The cable for the microphone was choking him, and he tried to give it more slack.
“Allow me.” the young woman said. “Turn around.” Clive turned, and she carefully lifted up his jacket. Clive felt the cable loosen and became more comfortable.
“What did you mean just now?” Clive prompted her. His cell phone had been switched off, and he hadn’t looked at a newspaper while visiting his mother. He suddenly got the feeling that the President might have been assassinated and that he was the last to know.
“It’s really amaz—” the woman began, then she stopped to listen to something coming through her headset, excused herself, and hurried off.
Dr. Tybjerg entered, grinning like an idiot in the sharp light, and pushed up his unfashionable glasses.
“Professor Freeman,” he said, offering him a sweaty hand. Clive shook it. Tybjerg might be a walking encyclopedia, his knowledge was truly impressive, but he was devoid of charm.
“As a scientist you would have to rejoice, no matter what your views are, wouldn’t you say so?” Dr. Tybjerg stuttered. “You must admit that it’s hard to believe?”
“What are you talking about?” Clive said as calmly as he could manage, but he felt his voice tremble.
Dr. Tybjerg gave him a puzzled look.
At that moment the host appeared and explained the format of the debate to the audience. Professor Clive Freeman and Dr. Erik Tybjerg were introduced to each other by their full titles, to the audience and the viewers, after which the host handed floor to the two duelists. Clive made a friendly gesture to Tybjerg, who opened the debate.
“As you all know, the day before yesterday it was announced that the remains of a feathered Tyrannosaurus had been found in Makoshika State Park in the state of Montana, close to Hell Creek where the world’s first Tyrannosaurus Rex fossil was found in 1902.”
Clive stared at Tybjerg. His jaw dropped.
The duel lasted thirty minutes, and throughout the whole ordeal Tybjerg was visibly nervous but quick-thinking. He listened attentively, he never interrupted Clive and every time he demolished one of Clive’s arguments, he was thorough, meticulous, almost. When Clive declared that he wanted to examine the animal before forming an opinion, Tybjerg gave Clive a looked of genuine surprise and wonder, and said:
“How long are you going to use that argument? Until a feathered Apatosaurus turns up on your doorstep?” It was an obvious joke, but no laughed.
When the spotlights faded, the audience started to disperse and Clive studied his hands. He didn’t dare look at Dr. Tybjerg, who hadn’t moved since the stage lights dimmed. Afterward he had no idea what provoked him. A faint cough? The quiet superiority? Whatever it was, he glanced up and the second he met Tybjerg’s eyes, he slapped him with the back of his hand. Dr. Tybjerg sprang up, horrified, touching his eyebrow, which had split open. Clive looked at his hand, at his wedding ring. It was stained with blood. When he looked up again, Tybjerg had left.
Then he heard footsteps.
“What happened?” the confused young assistant shouted.
“Uh,” Clive began. He dusted off his clothes. The assistant looked at him and then in the direction in which Tybjerg had disappeared.
“Uh,” Clive repeated and dusted his clothes again.
Back in Vancouver, Clive felt strangely accepting of the news. He refused to talk to the press, didn’t reply to e-mails and telephone calls, and he informed the faculty press office that he had no plans to counter-attack.
“I have resigned myself to the folly of this world,” he told the press officer. Then he called a meeting with his department where they agreed to keep a low profile while redistributing their workload. The next allocation of research funding would take place in three years, and no one needed reminding that if they were unable to convince the world that birds were not descended from dinosaurs, they would never get another grant.
They decided to start three major excavations and an expensive developmental study to observe the cartilage condensation in bird embryos. Clive’s junior researcher, Michael Kramer, would be heading the project.
Once that was in place, Clive headed home.
As Clive cycled through the forest, the sun shining through the trees, he thought about Jack. They hardly ever spoke these days. When Clive submitted a paper, Jack rarely acknowledged receipt, and when Clive rang with changes, Jack’s secretary would deal with them. Clive had even called Jack at home and left a message, but Jack never called back.
Whenever Clive opened Scientific Today looking for his contributions, his joy at seeing them was diminished. Clive appreciated the expensive layout, the graphs, and the illustrations, but he felt no real pleasure. Jack and Clive had met in their passion for nature. Now he was alone.
Clive thought about the situation for a week, then he called Jack and invited him and Molly over for dinner. He practically pleaded with Jack to come.
“Jack,” he said. “Let’s put the past behind us. Let’s do the right thing, let’s not mix science and friendship.” Jack replied with silence.
“I can’t stand not seeing you,” Clive suddenly burst out, and held his breath.
Finally Jack said: “All right, we’ll be there.”
Kay was delighted that the famous Jack Jarvis and his wife were coming to dinner.
“What an illustrious guest,” she said, thrilled. “What will we serve them?”
Clive took the cookbook from his wife’s hand and led her into the living room where he told her the whole story. Or, almost the whole story. Kay was fascinated.
“He must have been like a son to you. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Fancy them moving away like that,” she added. “That poor boy must have felt like he was losing his father all over again.”
Clive nodded.
That Saturday Jack and Molly arrived right on time. Molly was radiant and very beautiful. She shook Clive’s hand energetically and said what a pleasure it was to meet such a legendary scientist. Her husband had talked so much about him over the years, she said, but she had no idea that they had known each other since childhood.
“I was sorry to hear about the recent trouble,” she carried on, cheerfully, “but Jack says that’s how it is with natural science. All storms blow themselves out eventually.”
Clive smiled and took their coats. What a chatterbox she was. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had imagined but definitely not this.
“Odd,” Kay said when the evening was over and Molly and Jack had left. “Molly is as outgoing and sparkling as Jack is closed.”
Clive nodded. Jack had seemed a little sullen, but then again with the women chirping away, it had been hard to get a word in.
At the start of July 2007, Clive developed an earache and decided to leave work early. He had been troubled by a cold since Kay and he had spent two weeks in their vacation home, and it was getting worse, not better.
The study of cartilage formation in embryonic chickens was looking very promising. Clive didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he had butterflies in his stomach as he followed its progress. He thought about Tybjerg and Helland. Helland still published, but it was nothing compared to Tybjerg, who was rapidly firing off papers. Even now, while Clive was awaiting the outcome of the condensation experiment and thus not publishing much himself, Tybjerg wrote one article after another, and in every single one of them he distanced himself from Clive’s views.
Neither Tybjerg nor Helland had commented on the incident in Toronto. Clive was amazed that Helland had managed to restrain himself. Helland still e-mailed Clive every now and then with references to papers he thought Clive ought to read, or attaching silly natural history cartoons. But he never once mentioned Tybjerg. The outcome of the cartilage condensation experiment filled Clive with rapture. Neither Helland nor Tybjerg had any idea of what was about to hit them.
By now he had cycled through the forest. He looked forward to reading the latest issues of Science, Nature, and Scientific Today in his bag. When he got home, he made himself comfortable on the sofa and started with Nature.