The Dinosaur Feather (11 page)

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
.

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.

“What about the crescent-shaped
carpus
, you moron, the orientation of the pubic bone, and the colossal ifs and buts, which you know ad nauseam, and which allow you—in contrast to those idiots from
Science
and
Nature
—to weed out these crazy articles about kinship? When did you turn into someone who shapes his scientific views to fit a trend? Have you lost your mind?”

Jack gave Clive a neutral look.

“I don’t believe in you anymore,” Jack said eventually. “True, the other side still have certain problems explaining the reduction of the hand, but we’re talking about two hundred and eighty-six apomorphies, Clive, two hundred and eighty-six! A feathered Tyrannosaurus. What do you want? God to pop down from heaven and explain how it’s all connected before you’re satisfied? I’ve supported you professionally for years. I’ve done much for you. Much more than I should. Because you’re . . . my friend. But it has to stop now. A feathered Tyrannosaurus, Clive.
Scientific Today
is a scientific journal.”

“How do you know it’s a Tyrannosaurus?” Clive sneered. “How do you know it’s feathered? You want to put feathers on an animal that couldn’t fly? You know as well as I do that the development of feathers is primarily and inextricably linked with the evolution of flight and didn’t serve as insulation until later. And you also know Tyrannosaurus didn’t fly. You haven’t seen the creature. I haven’t seen it, either. The structures may look like feathers, but they’re likely to be the residual of a dorsal skin fold; they’re
not
precursors of genuine feathers. That should be self-evident! You’re publishing conjecture, it’s unscientific! Have you forgotten you should never, ever, base your conclusions on what others have seen?”

“No, I haven’t,” Jack replied, “and when it’s your turn to describe the animal,
Scientific Today
will be delighted to publish a properly researched article that may conclude that the discovery in Montana
isn’t
a Tyrannosaurus, and that the skin structure
isn’t
feathers. But not until your description is available and has been accepted. It’s never been the intention of science to claim to have found the absolute truth, Clive, but to put forward the most likely hypotheses, and my job,” Jack pointed to himself, “is to publish those papers that reflect the more probable ones, and right now, they aren’t coming from you.”

“Get out,” Clive said icily. He pointed to the door. Jack got up.

“You shouldn’t mix science and friendship,” Jack said calmly.

“Get out,” Clive repeated.

Jack left. Shortly afterward, Clive heard the engine of Jack’s car start.

Kay came into his study.

“Why did Jack leave? What happened?” Her eyes were bulging.

Clive said nothing. He was shaking all over. Jack was a traitor.

“Did you two fight?” she asked. “Clive, what did you say to him?”

Kay’s mouth moved. Say something for God’s sake, her lips mouthed, but there was no sound. Kay put her open, baffled face up to his; like a poker, she stoked the embers and the fire flared up. He struck her. The angle was unfortunate and the impact of his wedding ring made her cheek swell up. Horrified, she touched her face and stared at him. Then she left.

Clive stayed in his study and tried to calm himself down. He reread some of his old articles, and a few hours later he felt better. He went through the house to find Kay. It was dark and quiet. The dishwasher was beeping, and the door to the garden was ajar but Kay wasn’t in the kitchen or in the garden. He went upstairs to the master bedroom. The door was locked. Outside the bedroom door, to the right, lay a comforter and his pillow. Clive knocked on the door, but there was no reply. He started hammering on it.