There had been times in his younger days, when he might have retorted: 'Go lick someone else's arse, hack! I'm only interested in Truth and Beauty!' But somehow, he found that the more wrinkles he counted on his forehead and the more problems he had with his continence and his seven-times table, the more he found a little flattery most welcome.
'I loved your Pandax Building with the interchangeable rooms and total reassembly potential!' shouted a young cub reporter with soft eyes and a delightful cleavage.
'Thank you.' Leovinus beamed in his most venerable and yet at the same time approachable manner.
'You look terrific!' shouted another.
Leovinus was just trying to decide which of the two cub reporters with delightful cleavages he should ask backstage for a little drink, or whether he should invite them both and then see how things worked out, when a male voice cut across:
'Exactly what was the scientific experiment you were working on when you had your recent accident, sir? And is it true that your eyebrows have still not grown back?' Leovinus fought off a panic attack, and told himself his eyebrows looked perfectly OK. This hardboiled journalist was merely trying to wind him up. Then he had to fight off a panic attack about the fact that he'd just had a panic attack. 'It's perfectly normal to get panic attacks at my age!' he told himself severely, while at the same time noting, thankfully, the ripple of embarrassment that had swept through the assembled media. 'I'm lucky I don't have angina and a sagging bottom at my age!' Leovinus had always counted his blessings.
But something had definitely gone wrong with the press conference.
A journalist, from the back, was asking a question in a tone of voice that didn't sound in the least bit ingratiating. In fact there was something so uningratiating about the inflection of the voice that Leovinus could barely understand what was being said.
'I said,' repeated The Journalist in that same uncajoling voice, 'how do you answer the allegations that corners have been cut on the construction of the Starship and that there have been financial improprieties involving your manager, Antar Brobostigon, and your accountant, Droot Scraliontis?'
'Such insinuations,' replied Leovinus, forming his toupeed eyebrows into the most formidable frown, and drawing his shoulders back into what he knew was his most dignified and intimidating posture, 'are beneath contempt. Mr Brobostigon is a man of unblemished reputation and with the highest regard for correct procedure. Droot Scraliontis has been my accountant for the last thirty years and his behaviour has been unimpeachable throughout that time.'
He could feel one of his eyebrows starting to come loose. Funny that - he always imagined that as he got older and more confident he would stop sweating whenever he had to tell a bare-faced lie. But he still did.
'But isn't it true that the standard of workmanship on the Starship has dropped since the building was moved from Yassacca to Blerontin?'
'Absolute poop!' declared the Great Genius, in his best how-dare-you-waste-the-time-of-a-great-genius-like-me voice (which he had been practising recently and now had down to a tee). 'I am personally checking the standards of craftsmanship on every facet of the ship, and I can guarantee that standards have - if anything - gone up since the transferral to Blerontin.' He felt his other eyebrow pop loose from his forehead.
'What do you say about the collapse of the Yassaccan economy, Mr Leovinus?' It was the same dreadful journalist going on. Why couldn't someone ask him whether he preferred architecture to quantum physics or whether he felt painting should be considered a higher art-form than canape´ arrangement? Those were the kind of questions he was a whizz at dealing with these days. 'Do you feel personally responsible at all for the present sufferings of the Yassaccan people?'
Leovinus went for the last-goal-keeper-at-the-net* defence: 'I am an Artist, Mr Journalist,' he said, with that voice of his that made grown men cringe behind their stomachs and young cub reporters with delightful cleavages feel deliciously damp all over. 'Of course, I deeply regret the terrible destruction of an entire culture that their economic mismanagement has brought upon themselves, and I hereby offer my heartfelt condolences to the people of Yassacca, I am deeply concerned that it should have been the construction of my vision that should have been the catalyst of their monetary downfall. But I am an Artist. My responsibility is to my Art. And I would be betraying the sacred trust of my genius were I to compromise my vision for the sake of fiscal expediency!'
- - - - - -
* Blerontin football is played with anything up to six balls, and consequently a large number of goal-keepers is sometimes allowed.
- - - - - -
'Oh! Oooooh! Ahh!' breathed one of the cub reporters, and shifted onto her other buttock.
Leovinus, nevertheless, got the feeling that the entire press conference had spiralled out of control and was now plunging towards some catastrophic conclusion that he must at all costs avoid - even if it meant forgoing a delightful drink with the delightful cub reporters who were even now gazing at him with increasingly delightftil eyes and increasingly delightful cleavages. In any case, he knew how any such assignation would end: he would soon find their smiles begin to grate, their soft gazes would become tiresome, probing arc-lights of banality and he would flee from the two young reporters in despair and disappointment. That was what always happened. For deep down, inside him, Leovinus knew that no one was good enough for him. Why go through it all again?
Leovinus rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Thank you,' he said and was gone.
The greatest genius of his age - gone without even so much as a nod in the cub reporters' direction. It was hardly to be believed.
Despite his age, brilliance and genius, Leovinus was not always a sensible individual. He had passions. Passions that would rise up the inside of his being and take over his magnificent brain like cholera taking over a city. And not all these passions revolved around cub reporters. At present his one over-riding passion was the Starship. That magnificent creation. That crowning glory of his life's work.
Ever since his recent accident, Leovinus had been reluctant to go abroad, partly because his joints had stiffened up somewhat and partly because he didn't want to be seen without his eyebrows. Leovinus was not without personal vanity. He had therefore got into the habit of supervising the construction of his Starship by virtual reality and telepresence - both brought to such a pitch of perfection by Blerontinian scientists that it was sometimes hard to remember which was the real thing - particularly if you were getting on a bit and your mind was on cleavages.
For that is what Leovinus's mind had been preoccupied with for many months now - but not the cleavages of the young cub reporters. No. Leovinus's obsession was the cleavage of data-streams as they separated out into random thought fields; the cleavage of neuroconnectors as they bifurcated into the memory bank and the sensation retrieval system, the cleavage of separators and trans-joiners linking and distinguishing those two vital processes: thought and feeling. His obsession was the heart of his Starship. He called her Titania.
Titania was the heart, the mind, the spirit, the soul of the ship.
A massive cyber-intelligence system was required to run the ship, of course, but, as we now know, intelligence devoid of emotion is non-functional. However smart a robot or computer may be, it can only do exactly what you tell it to do and then stop. To keep thinking, it has to want to. It has to be motivated. You can't think if you can't feel. So the ship's intelligence had to be imbued with emotions, with personality. And its name was Titania.