The reason was that the subject under discussion was the weather. Everyone could agree that it was undeniably bad.
As gales blew indiscriminately over East and West, and abnormally heavy rainfall was prevalent throughout the Northern hemisphere, no sensitive nationalist could find an excuse for blaming his neighbour.
A few nations, imaginative enough to realise that weather control was within the realms of possibility, had sent scientists as well as meteorologists to Geneva in the hopes of getting some agreement about methods and policy before haphazard experiments began. Britain was among them. That was why the Ministry of Science had despatched Osborne as an ex officio delegate.
Osborne had gone, disturbed, in mind. Despite interdepartmental briefs which had been circulated to draw attention to climatic phenomena for which there was no precedent, this weather conference seemed really of just academic interest - one of those United Nations' activities which kept a lot of people happy and did no one any harm. Osborne wondered whether the trip had been arranged as a preliminary to a transfer to some innocuous department like Met.
as the result of the suspicions of his complicity in the Thorness business.
The minister had been remarkably considerate about the whole thing. Security officers were still interviewing personnel, and Osborne's assistant had become very nervous and timid. Osborne had brightly insisted that if they both stuck to the story that the assistant had accompanied him to Thorness on that momentous night all would be well. It was perfectly normal for a senior official to go around with his P.A. Rather unwillingly the assistant agreed to stick to his story. Osborne suspected that real pressure by the sleuths, or the simpler method of putting the young man on oath, would exact the truth. It was another reason why he would have preferred to remain in Whitehall to watch for a weakening of his assistant's resolution and to give moral support.
Once in Geneva, he decided to make the best of it. Whatever foulness the winter was producing elsewhere, in the Alps it just meant more than the usual amount of snow. Heavy night falls were followed by brilliant sunshine with clockwork regularity. The lake lay ice-blue in the brightness; the famous fountain spurted high in the sky, its spray in rainbow colours. The clean, snow-cleared streets were alive with delegates and their relatives enjoying themselves between sessions.
When he looked through the tall windows of the rooftop cafe at this pleasant scene he thoroughly regretted the time spent in the close and over-heated conference room. But Professor Neilson's paper had not been without interest.
These Americans certainly got down to bedrock when there was a problem to be solved.
Osborne had left before the discussion began - with its inevitable pointless questions which were really statements. He was lazily watching his cafe filtre drip into the glass when a woman approached his table. She was not young, but looked intelligent and pleasant.
'Mr Osborne?' Her accent was American.
Osborne stood up. 'Yes,' he answered. 'I don't think I know - '
She smiled. 'I'm Professor Neilson's wife.' They shook hands and Osborne pulled out the adjoining chair. She sat down.
I'm afraid you've missed your husband's paper,' he began.
'He's just finished reading it. Everyone was most impressed.
He'll be out soon; the discussion should be almost over.'
She did not seem to be heeding what he said. 'Mr.Osborne,' she said quietly, 'I think my husband would like to talk to you. Not about the conference.' She glanced towards the door where a crowd of delegates were moving around the foyer. 'If you could possibly wait till he comes. I'd rather let him tell you what it's about.'
'Of course,' Osborne said. 'Meantime, may I order you something?'
She nodded. 'Some coffee, please.'
When Neilson arrived he looked round carefully, then sat down and addressed himself without any preamble to Osborne.
'I suppose my wife has left it to me to tell you. I badly want to talk. I'll come to the point. How much do you know about an outfit called Intel?'
Osborne took time to decide on his answer. 'They're a big international trading consortium. Very big.'
'Sure,' agreed Neilson, 'they're big. The thing is: are they reputable ?'
'I don't really know,' Osborne said cautiously.
'Mr Osborne,' said Mrs Neilson. 'This morning we had a cable from our son. We haven't seen him for two years. All the cable said was "Will meet you at the cafe Nicole in Geneva one evening this week, Intel permitting." It's the first clue that he was even alive we've gotten since the Christmas before last.'
'But you knew more or less where he was and what he was doing?' Osborne suggested.
Neilson gave a short laugh. 'He went after a job in Vienna two years back. A postcard said he was okay and not to worry. That's all.'
'What sort of job?' Osborne asked.
'Well, I guess that as he graduated from the Massachusetts Institute with a Ph.D. in electronics, it'd be a job in that line.'
'I believe Intel have an office here, or certainly in Zurich.
Have you enquired?'
'Of course,' Mrs Neilson replied. 'They said they knew nothing about the staffs at the firm's offices outside Switzerland. That's why I persuaded my husband to ask you for information.'
'But why?' Osborne demanded.
'Because you're a friend of a friend of my son's,' Neilson said. 'John Fleming. Jan brought him home a couple of times when Fleming came to the Institute on an exchange setup with the Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge. They were great buddies. And, of course, we know Fleming became a key man in your Ministry's programme.'
'I don't think there's anything I can do to help you,' said Osborne woodenly. 'We've lost touch with Professor Fleming .... ' He paused, embarrassed, and then went on hurriedly, 'but I'm not returning to London till the day after tomorrow. Perhaps I could meet your son? If he says in his cable that he's coming this week it must mean either this evening or tomorrow.'
The Neilsons were grateful. They invited him to have dinner with them at the cafe that evening, and, if Jan didn't turn up then, the following evening as well.
That evening Mrs Neilson insisted on going to the cafe by seven. 'I'll sit in the front part,' she told her husband; 'then he'll be sure to see me. We can go into the dining room later.'
She ordered a kirsch and was taking the first sip when he materialised out of the dusk and sat down beside her without speaking; a pale, serious young man, very much on edge. She was shocked by the way he had aged and got so lean; and by how nervous he seemed. He kissed her on the cheek, but he pulled his hand away when she tried to clasp it.
'Please don't make us conspicuous, Mom,' he muttered.
'I'm sorry if that hurts you. But - well, you see, I've good reasons,' He stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette.
'Surely, son,' his mother said, trying to smile. 'I understand.
But at least you're here. I can look at you. It's been so long.'
The love in her eyes hurt him. 'Mom,' he began, hunching towards her across the table. 'I've got to talk, and I may not have much time. You see, I'm on the run. No,' he tried to smile, 'I'm not a criminal. The shoe's on the other foot. The crooks are after me.'
He paused when a waiter came for his order. He sent the man away for a large Scotch, and then started to talk, hurriedly and a little incoherently, as if time was running out.
Soon Neilson arrived with Osborne. The two men had met just outside the cafe Neilson greeted his son with delight, thumping him on the back and grinning happily. 'We'll celebrate this with the biggest steak the Swiss can think up.
And champagne.' He remembered Osborne was standing quietly beside them.
'My apologies, Osborne,' he said. 'I'd like you to meet my son . . . Jan, Mr Osborne is a friend of Professor Fleming.'