Part 5 (1/2)

I swung my leg over the motorcycle.

”There's no mistaking him,” she said. ”He has a messy little beard, wears specs. Looks a bit peculiar. Holes in his suit jacket.” She giggled. ”You better watch out or that's what you will become.”

”Why?” I asked, affronted.

”All you scientists end up that way.”

”What do you mean?”

”You have no style. All you think about are your equations.”

”Ah,” I said, rising to the challenge. ”But that is just it, don't you see? The style is in the equations. Some people write ugly proofs, others do it with panache. I like to think mine are as beautiful as, as-well, anything!”

I watched her face become aghast. ”Anything? Anything is not beautiful. Only special things are beautiful.”

I felt embarra.s.sed at my inability to express myself. ”All right, Miss, if you say so. But one day I'll show you some of those equations and you will see what I mean.”

”I look forward to it.”

After giving directions to the quay at Loch Eck, she said goodbye to me, then turned and headed back to the station.

I managed to stall the motorbike after just a few yards. As I was sitting in the middle of the road, kicking the starter, I became aware of a detachment of troops marching towards me. American infantry. It was too late for me to move. They separated on either side of me before rejoining; exercise-hardened faces giving no acknowledgement of my presence.

I sat frozen to the seat. I have never seen a statue of a man on a motorbike but that's what I was, a monument around which they flowed with the molecules of the air. After the rupture, when the men reformed, it was as if there had been no disturbance. Turning on the saddle to watch the soldiers grow smaller down the road, I thought again about the invasion of which they might become a part, for which I was supposed to help predict the weather by unwrapping the mysteries of the Ryman number.

I kicked the pedal. Under gunfire on a beach...I did not envy them that. I kicked the pedal again.

Starting the engine, finally, I was shaken by a grave doubt as to whether anything I could do as a meteorologist could match what would be asked of those soldiers.

Nine.

Loch Eck was a sombre place. Shadows cast by cloud sat on dark green hills rising steeply from black water edged with reeds and rushes. One cloud in particular caught my eye, perched above its hill. It was a member of a cla.s.s of clouds termed lenticular, so called because they often look like a thick lens with a hole in the middle. They're unusual in that, although the locality and shape of the cloud remain the same (they frequently cap mountains), the air comprising it is always changing.

I continued on my journey up the loch, at one point having to show my paperwork to a sentry. After riding by the sh.o.r.e for a mile or two, during which time I also pa.s.sed some navy cadets in a heavy wooden rowing boat, I came to an old stone quay, just as Joan had described. Gathering my thoughts, I propped up the motorcycle on its stand and began walking down the ancient blocks of stone.

My eye followed the grey edge of the quay to where it was interrupted by a broad stairway down to the water. At the top of the stairs stood two men, one of whom was holding a pair of leather reins. Something was waving in the wind above them, echoing the shaking rushes by the edge of the loch.

”Hullo, lend a hand, will you?” he shouted, seeing me watching.

The speaker was a long-haired, bearded, sallow-faced man in his fifties, possibly older. His greying beard was like a sc.r.a.ppy piece of bush; it was as if it was fighting with his skin rather than growing out of it. The leather reins he was holding stretched out into the loch. Out there, a creature was moving through the water, pulling the leather taut. I walked down towards them.

It was an aerial that I had seen waving. The other man-younger, in his early thirties, and almost shaven-headed-held a handset attached to a radio set in his backpack. The handset had red and yellow b.u.t.tons. Both men wore tweed suits, which in the younger man's case looked rather odd; it's not something you expect, to see the skull beneath the skin of someone in a tweed suit. Next to the two men was a crate containing two dozen or so herring-and next to that stood a tea flask resting on some greaseproof paper, which was half wrapped round an unfinished sandwich.

Without explaining further, the older man handed me one of the reins. The moment I took it there was a sharp jerk that almost sprained my wrist.

”He tends to get a bit excited in tight places,” said the man.

”What is it?” I asked, bemused, resisting the tug of the rein.

”It...is Lev,” said the man. ”Short for Leviathan. We're testing the effectiveness of sea lions in guarding harbours against attack. Give him a zap, Julius, will you?”

The other man pressed a b.u.t.ton on his radio transmitter. The rein in my hand slackened. Very soon after, nearer to us than I expected, a whiskered face broke the water.

”If there's a mine down there, he'll find it,” explained the fellow with the reins. ”I'm Geoffrey Pyke, by the way. Combined Ops Experimental Section. This is my chum Julius. He's the youngest don in Cambridge. Studies blood. And this is Lev. Come on!”

I thought it strange, considering the secrecy of his department, that Pyke should openly identify himself to me like this, but that was the sort of unconventional, wilfully unorthodox man he was.

He called again at the sea lion and made a signal with his hand. Lev began to frolic in the water beneath us. Pyke made the signal again.

”And you are...?” he said, without looking at me.

”Henry Meadows. Met Office.”

”Met, eh? Yes, someone said you might be dropping by.”

The sea lion flopped onto the wide steps that rose along the side of the pier and started to climb them, levering itself up with its tail, step by step.

”Gradus ad Parna.s.sum,” said Pyke, holding up a herring.

The animal wore a harness, behind which it dragged a wretched tangle of reins. Gulls began to circle above the herring and the sandwich.

”We must do something about those reins,” said the man called Julius.

”Soon there won't be any,” said Pyke. He turned to me. ”Sea creatures, Mr Meadows, are far more intelligent than we realise. Especially the whiskered mammals. And the dolphins, of course.”

Lev reached the top of the stone stairway. Pyke gave him a fish. He lay at our feet, raising his black, sleepy-looking eyes to us as he chewed, slapping his tail on the slabs in what seemed like satisfaction. His thick hairy coat was covered with glistening droplets. He had extraordinarily long ear-lobes, which made him look as though he were wearing a Tibetan hat.

”How can we help?” continued Pyke. ”I say 'we'-in fact I'm the only person from Combined Ops up here at present. Julius is just helping out for a few days. But if you have a specific problem...” He began unclipping the reins from the harness. ”Discoveries, isn't it, Lev, my lad? That's what we're after. At least, that's the plan.”

”Discoveries cannot be planned,” said the shaven-headed don, in a tone of only half-jovial reprimand. ”They tend to show in the most unexpected places.” He had an accent. I later learned his surname was Brecher. He was one of those German scientists, many of them Jews, who had fled n.a.z.i persecution.

”That may be, Julius. But perhaps we should turn our attention to more pertinent matters, like how can we be of a.s.sistance to our man from the Met. What are you working on?”

I told them a little about my work in fluid dynamics and at the Met Office, mentioning in pa.s.sing Ryman's method of applying differential calculus to the physical quant.i.ties of weather. Pyke had already heard of it. Then Brecher said much could be learned about biological systems from studying them mathematically in a similar way. ”In all these disciplines there is a flux of identification and differentiation, as the system seeks rules by which to govern itself. The system's own context is part of that. Think of the relations.h.i.+p between blood flowing in a capillary and the other tissue around it.”

When I knew Brecher in later years-we would often play billiards in the Baron of Beef in Cambridge-I would come to recognise such statements as typical. Of all the brilliant men I met during that peculiar wartime winter, he was the most able to express his ideas with philosophical cogency. But in the end it was always blood with Brecher. I don't know how many times I saw his serious, energetic demeanour bent down over the cue, or listened over the click of the b.a.l.l.s to him giving voice to some theory of the blood.

I tried to ignore him because it was all so seductive. I mean biology: you have to keep some areas of intellectual enquiry off-limits, pretending they are an uninteresting lumber room off to the left.

Otherwise you end up wandering down a maze of interconnecting caves until you enter the cavern of the central mystery. A place filled with sublime terror, where there is regularity but no fixed criteria for judging it; a place where you know the terms in which the mystery might be stated but not what it actually is. I suppose knowing the horror of this is the price of the relativity Ryman and other more famous thinkers have bought for humankind.

At the time I had no such fears. ”I'm actually hoping to work with Ryman,” I said. ”He lives up here. I wondered if you had come into contact with him. Sir Peter Vaward, our director, said you may be able to help me in this regard.”

Pyke's eyes widened. ”Ryman...yes, I knew he was in these parts. The king of turbulence! I once went to a fascinating seminar he gave-we were at Cambridge together-but I've never met him socially. Not sure I can be of any use to you.” He knelt down and rubbed the sea lion behind the ears. ”I thought Ryman was a conscientious objector, anyway. Wouldn't have anything to do with the war. How come he's letting you work with him?”

”It's a bit complicated,” I said, thinking on my feet.