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.
And there it was. “Helland, et al.” jumped out at him as early as page five, a lengthy and infinitely trivial description of the discovery of a dinosaur tooth on the Danish island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea. Obviously, his esteemed colleagues couldn’t help but remark how this find yet again proved the direct ancestry of modern birds to dinosaurs. Clive let the journal fall from the sofa.
Then he opened up Science. He had to flip as far as page seventeen before “Helland, et al.” leapt from the page. What the hell? Again, the article’s point of departure was some—in Clive’s opinion—utterly insignificant excavations on Bornholm, and the article was riddled with guesswork and conjectures, bordering on fluff. Clive scanned a few more pages before letting the journal slide to the floor.
Finally, he started on Scientific Today.
Jack’s beaming face greeted him from the editorial on page three, and Clive smiled back at him. They had seen each other only last Saturday, and the vibe between them had been really good, as it had been over the last six months. Kay and Molly had become fast friends, and Jack had been less defensive and recalled many of the things they had done together when Jack was a boy. Last Saturday he had mentioned the tree house. It must have been a big job to build, he remarked, and both women had turned to look at Clive. Clive’s heart started pounding, but Jack was relaxed and smiling and seemed to have no hidden agenda. Yes, Clive had replied, it had taken some time. How annoying that we had to move so soon afterward, Jack continued. They were having dinner in Clive and Kay’s freshly painted dining room when, out of the blue, Jack mentioned that his older brother had just been released from prison. “Is that right?” Clive said, relieved to let the tree house slip back into the past where it belonged.
“I never told anyone,” Jack admitted. “It’s not exactly something I’m proud of. But anyway, he’s out now. Fifteen years inside.”
Molly and Jack had visited him the previous day. Jack never explained what his brother had done, and Clive didn’t want to pry. Fifteen years spoke volumes. Jack simply said that it had been good to see him. He’d got a job sorting bottles at a recycling plant, and he was pleased about that. Jack suddenly looked directly at Clive and said “thank you.” The words hung awkwardly in the air, and Clive had no idea what to say. Molly’s eyes welled up, and Kay got up to serve dessert.
Clive stretched out on the sofa, flipped past the photo of Jack and further into the journal. On page five, he nearly choked on his tea. The paper took up six pages and at the top “Helland, et al.” stood out. This was no minor puff piece run during a scientific dry spell. Clive sat up. The subject of the article was the femur of the Berlin Specimen, Archaeopteryx, which Helland and Tybjerg had visited Berlin to remeasure. The last approved measurement, undertaken in 1999 by the ornithologist Professor Clive Freeman, was not only highly inaccurate, it had also led to a series of unfortunate conclusions which—according to Helland, et al.—had distorted important arguments relating to the origin of birds to a very considerable extent. The question now was whether this data distortion was the result of that margin of error that should always be factored into science, or whether the measurements in question were the expression of deliberate manipulation. A brief summary of the incident at the 2005 bird conference in Toronto followed with a reproduction of the press release from Clive’s department, which placed in this context sounded like a total surrender.
Clive was so outraged that he knocked over the teapot when he got up. This paper ridiculed him, and Jack had approved it. His thoughts whirred around inside his head so fast that he could barely keep his balance. He held the copy of Scientific Today away from his body, like a burning oven glove he wanted to chuck outside as quickly as possible. When he opened the front door to get rid of it, Kay was in the process of bringing in the groceries from the car. He tossed the journal aside, but it landed on his foot. He picked it up again and it stuck to his fingers. Kay came to his rescue and grabbed him by the elbows.
“Clive darling, what’s happened?”
“Jack,” Clive snarled. He shook his hand to free himself from the journal and a page with a colorful DNA double helix came loose and spiraled down to the ground. Finally Clive broke free of the journal and stomped past Kay, around the house, and into the back garden where he stayed for an hour.
He didn’t come back inside until Kay opened the living room window and told him dinner was ready. At 9:30 p.m. he called Jack and suggested a meeting. No, no particular reason, nothing that couldn’t wait. A game of chess, perhaps. And, by the way, there was something Clive wanted to discuss with him.
Jack came the next day, and while Kay and he made small talk, Clive said nothing. They retired to Clive’s study for a game of chess. It was a mild summer evening, the window to the garden was open, and Clive could hear birdsong in the distance. He could also hear Kay loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. Jack, who pretended that nothing had happened, pondered his next move for a long time. Clive forced himself to remember that Googling “Clive Freeman” attracted 41,700 hits in 0.11 seconds. When on earth was Jack going to make his next move? Clive got up and mixed them both a drink.
“Why?” he hissed from the drinks cabinet. Jack gave him a baffled look. “Why do you want to destroy the credibility of the world’s finest and most respected natural science journal?” Clive slammed down his drink so hard on the desk that it sloshed over.
Jack’s reaction shocked Clive. Clive had imagined immediate contrition. Downcast eyes, a boy confessing to a man of superior intellect. The only thing he hadn’t imagined was Jack’s calm reply: “That’s precisely what I’m trying to prevent.”
“Then why have you allowed that article in Scientific Today? I demand to know why!”
Jack looked at Clive for a long time before he said: “Because it’s my journal, Clive, and I decide which articles are published.” Clive detected a faint tremor in Jack’s voice.
“It’s unscientific,” Clive shouted, and stamped his foot. “And you know it! You know that their arguments aren’t properly supported. What about the reduction of the fingers, what about the ascending process of the talus, eh?” Clive swirled the alcohol around in his glass and continued his rant.