No one else complained, which meant it was either a conspiracy against Americans, or the Italians had simply developed a tolerance for sunbaked pig. Then the main course — oily, deep-fried sea-something with an odor of catfish stink bait. After two bites, his stomach went over the edge.
Linda Robertson bent for her purse and caught a whiff of her husband. “Oh my, did you throw up?”
“Throw up?” he squeaked. “Why would you think that?”
“Your knees are dusty, and I do have a nose,” she quipped. “Michael, look at me. You did, didn’t you?”
He grimaced. “The fish had a funny aftertaste.”
Carlo Burno, the master of ceremonies, was making his way down the lengthy table, greeting each of the ten finalists and their spouses.
Linda checked the time and tore open a roll of antacids. “Do you want to lie down? There’s a lounge upstairs.”
Robertson’s only response was a sour belch.
“Professor, I’m your wife, and I love you.” She turned his head. “See that saxophone player? If you make a scene at this table, I’m going back to the hotel with him. Chew.”
“You barely ate anything,” Carlo observed as he reached their table, massaging Robertson’s shoulders. “Perhaps we should have prepared something a little more American. I hear y’all are partial to fried chicken.” The remark drew a table chuckle.
“It’s the competition,” Linda spoke up. “He’s a little queasy. He’ll be fine.”
Carlo smiled sympathetically. “Parasites. Sometimes they hide in the suction cups. It’s rare, but it happens. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m reminding all the finalists about the press conference. The winner will have a few minutes to address the media. With so many reporters here, we might as well take advantage of the publicity. Good luck.”
Suction cups? Robertson felt his stomach undulate. His mouth filled with saliva. Focus. Concentrate on the audience… no — read something.
He snatched the ceremony’s program booklet. Candidate biographies. The inflow of information successfully routed his brain away from suction, stomachs, and food. He had never seen his name in gold leaf before. He flipped to the back page and an English version of the menu. His eyes widened:
…remove eyes, outside skin, and intestines… cut off head and tentacles… combine ingredients into cavity and sew closed…
“I’m sorry I missed such a delicious meal. Calamari imbottiti is an Italian tradition,” a heavyset man announced in a thick German accent. “Good to see you again, Michael. I’m so pumped I really don’t feel like eating. The world’s most prestigious technical competition can ruin an appetite, even in Rome.”
“Hello, Gerhard,” Robertson said, setting the program booklet aside and closing his eyes again. “I thought Germans were always prompt?”
“I was trimming my acceptance speech. It was much too long.”
“Gerhard Bender, this is my wife, Linda.”
“Ah, the kindergarten teacher.” His eyes roamed boldly over her body. “Somehow I thought you’d be younger. I represent Innovation Technologies.”
Linda crossed her legs and pulled her skirt taut. “I represent Decatur High School,” she clarified with a nasty look. They shook hands.
He pulled her face closer. “Forgive me, but I’m so pumped. I insist on a dance after the minor formality of winning.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Your husband won’t mind, will you, Michael? Michael — wake up. Are we boring the king of the flying bugs?
“Are you and your British friends at Cambridge still staying up nights peering into a microscope and counting the wing beats of the hawk moth, or are you now collaborating with those zookeepers at MIT who train rodents to search for earthquake victims? What was that project again? Ratbot?
“You know, working with animals is not that difficult. Neither is flight. Birds have been doing it for years. Flap a wing, and into the air you go.
“Speaking of that, it’s a real shame you came all the way to Rome just to go back with nothing but air. But I suppose you can always say you gave it a good American try.”
Linda had an uncontrollable urge to slap Gerhard, but she feared his cheeks might burst. She fondled a dinner knife. “And what exactly is your entry?”
“My winning entry is a concept called ‘FreeNet.’ A completely digitized and paperless society. Free Internet access, monitor screens, and print capability for everyone. We’ve tested a Berlin market for over a year. All paper media is cloud-based. Magazines, newspapers, business and legal documents, advertising, every piece of mail — all digitized. You decide what you wish to read and print. It will transform the world.
“We even sent a team to interview your American postal service. Unfortunately, when they understood FreeNet’s ramifications, things got a little hostile. Innovation always has a winner and loser. And trust me, they would be big losers. The projected cost savings gained by eliminating all the human mail carriers was huge. We haven’t yet extrapolated the benefits to the global environment by saving all those trees.
“A little more practical than a flying bug, isn’t that right, Michael? I’m so pumped.” He lifted a glass. “To FreeNet and the end of junk mail.”
The room’s lighting dimmed.
Robertson cautiously felt his stomach. He’d never won anything in his life except a disappointing white ribbon in a fourth-grade spelling contest.
Perennial… p-e-r-e-n-i-a-l.
I’m sorry, son, but we needed two Ns.
Linda squeezed her husband’s hand. “How much is 250,000 euros in US doll—?”
“Shhh,” he interrupted. “That’s bad luck.”
Conversation in the room quieted. Overhead spotlights beamed onto a podium in the center of an elevated stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed in English through the speaker system. The room went silent. “Pirelli Managing Director of Research and Development, Carlo Burno.”
Applause.
Carlo strode to the podium and gently adjusted the microphone. “We’ll begin with a most appropriate quote from someone who helped liberate our country from the Nazis in World War II. ‘For over a thousand years, Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of a triumph, a tumultuous parade.’ ” He turned to the head table. “On behalf of General George S. Patton and Pirelli International, I welcome you, the modern-day conquerors who have left your own research wars to be with us this evening.
“One of you will indeed enjoy triumph. Not by means of a victory over a traditional enemy, but rather a victory over technology. You are here not by chance but by skill, dedication, and, most important, design. We at Pirelli believe that design excellence must be recognized and rewarded on a world scale.
“As you know, the Pirelli Award favors a diverse scientific culture and is a further testament to research and development, especially when humanity benefits from new ideas and technologies. Our international jury has evaluated over one thousand entries and culled them down to you, a select group of conquerors. I should also mention, while it’s not a guarantee, all six previous winners went on to a certain Scandinavian capital to solidify their achievement in science. But such triumph tends to arrive suddenly with much fanfare and leave just as unexpectedly. Cherish this moment and remember: all glory is fleeting.”
Three giant overhead screens lowered, framing the room.
Carlo turned to a group of nine men seated at a table off-stage to his left. “Has the jury made a selection?”
“We have,” responded Ilya Frigogine, jury coordinator and former Nobel Laureate for Chemistry. He approached the stage and transferred an envelope.