Comet Halley

Book 0: Fred Hoyle's World of Science Fiction

by Fred Hoyle

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

Returning to the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge after a spell at the nuclear research labs of CERN in Geneva, Professor Isaac Newton is plunged into the centre of a baffling mystery. One of his research students, Mike Howarth, has picked up strange signals on his satellite telemetry equipment, signals that appear to emanate from a passing comet. Not long after he has passed the vital data into Isaac Newton's hands, Howarth is found dead. Soon after that, it becomes clear that some people in very high places - including the Kremlin and the White House - are more than a little interested in the remarkable events taking place at the Cavendish. But with the arrival of that most majestic of all celestial bodies, Comet Halley, a third and infinitely more powerful superpower enters the scene. And the Comet's extraordinary intentions - not to mention its devastating methods of communicating them to Earth - promise a new dawn for humanity.

Release date: June 24, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 499

Sample

Frances Margaret Haroldsen parked her bicycle in a rack outside the new Cavendish and walked with quick athletic steps towards the main door of the Laboratory. A physicist in her mid-twenties with a junior position as demonstrator, she was the sort of girl men look at once, twice, and then go on looking at.

Her office was along one of the downstairs corridors, an interior corridor that was dark because it was Saturday afternoon and only a minimum of artificial lighting was switched on. Why was it, she wondered, that buildings which seem quite normal when they are fully occupied on weekdays seem all passages and spaces when they are empty at weekends? It was a Saturday afternoon in late October, one of those unforgettable Cambridge afternoons with a cloudless sky that make you feel there should be a smell of wood-smoke over the whole town. The undergraduates were ‘up’ for a brand new academic year, undergraduates young enough to feel the whole world opening out before them. It was an afternoon with sounds travelling in the crisp air, so that even as far away as the Cavendish Laboratory you could hear sporadic roars from the large crowd assembled at the University rugby ground in Grange Road.

Frances Margaret had not quite reached her office when there was the bang of a violently slammed door from farther along the corridor. A slim man about six feet tall erupted from another of the offices. From the silhouette appearing darkly in the ill-lit corridor, Frances Margaret recognised the man, Mike Howarth, also a junior member of the Laboratory staff.

‘Hello, Mike, anything the matter?’ the girl called as the figure approached.

‘This,’ Howarth replied tersely, holding out an envelope which he pulled angrily from an inner pocket of a fur-lined jacket.

Once they were inside Frances Margaret’s office, it could be seen that the envelope bore the crest and initials of the large Government-operated research council CERC. Howarth put a case he had been carrying on a chair while the girl read the letter.

‘They’ve cancelled my contract,’ Howarth burst out.

‘So I see. It’s a pity,’ Frances Margaret replied with a sympathetic nod.

‘It’s more than a pity. It’s a disaster.’

‘I’d say it’s pretty appalling, Mike, but I wouldn’t think of it as a disaster. CERC hasn’t stuck you with a knife or bashed you over the head with a crowbar.’

‘Oh, haven’t they though!’ Howarth exclaimed.

‘We’ll have to think what to do,’ Frances Margaret offered, as helpfully as she could. ‘The trouble is that people are likely to say you were on a risky course.’

‘How else could I have got the results?’

‘That’s why it isn’t a complete disaster,’ Frances Margaret continued, again as encouragingly as she could. ‘You have some results. CERC can’t cancel what you’ve got already.’

‘I’ve enough to convince myself. Enough to convince you and perhaps a few others. But not enough to come out into the open about it. I had to get more signals from Comet Halley. Otherwise people will just laugh. You can hear them laughing, can’t you?’

‘We can appeal against the decision.’

‘Some hope. You know that.’

Frances Margaret sighed and then nodded.

‘It would help if we had a Professor who could throw his weight around a bit.’

‘They’ve been fiddling around with the job for a year now,’ grunted Howarth as he retrieved the letter and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. ‘Imagine it, fiddling around with the Cavendish Professorship. God knows what we’re coming to. But I’m going to fight it. Somehow.’

‘The question we have to think about is how.’

‘God knows about that, too. The thing’s moribund. Have you ever thought of getting out, Frances Margaret?’

‘I keep turning it over in my mind. I thought of applying for a job at CERN.’

Howarth retrieved his case as he prepared to leave, saying, ‘Particle physics. That’s more your line than mine.’

Signals from comets, Frances Margaret reflected as the office door closed. Preposterous. And yet there was something distinctly curious in Mike Howarth’s data, sketchy as it might be. Besides which, there were one or two curious points she’d noticed herself. She’d intended to tell Mike about them, but he’d been so turned-in on himself that she’d thought it best to wait until after the weekend. Then, on a sudden impulse, Frances Margaret decided that letting Mike go off without telling him what she’d discovered wasn’t right. Deciding she should call him back, Frances Margaret dashed out of the office into the corridor.

There had been enough time for Mike Howarth almost to reach the outer doors of the Laboratory. As she hurried along the corridor Frances Margaret noticed a diffused light appearing from around the corner which led to the main lobby. With the thought that Mike might have switched on the lights in the lobby, she continued quickly. But the light wasn’t right: it was too red in colour to be the fluorescent lighting used in the Laboratory. The light was brighter as she turned the corner, but by the time she reached the main lobby it was suddenly gone, and so was Mike Howarth. A quick check showed that the fluorescent circuit had not been switched on.

Frances Margaret retrieved her bicycle and rode slowly along the lane which leads from the new Cavendish Laboratory to Madingley Road. She tried to persuade herself that the business of the light really hadn’t been as scary as it had seemed. She’d forced herself to return along the corridor to her office. After collecting a file of papers, she’d then quit the deserted Laboratory in short order, if not literally at a run. As events unfolded, Frances Margaret came to believe that she understood what the light had been; for she was to see it again.

Two days later, on the Monday morning, it was just on 10.00 a.m. when a car bearing diplomatic number plates drew up outside the main gate of CERN, the Conseil Europeen pour la Recherche Nucleaire on the outskirts of Geneva, Switzerland. A man of Pickwickian appearance with an alarmingly high colour showed papers to a guard at the gate, and the car was then waved on into the CERN complex.

An hour before, two men had met in an office in the administrative block of CERN. Both were in their middle thirties and both were physicists, the one from Hamburg, West Germany, the other from Cambridge, England – although from a slight accent it was clear that the Englishman, who was noticeably tall, must have had his origins not in East Anglia but in the southwest. He and the German were examining bubble-chamber photographs strewn across a long table.

‘Well, Kurt,’ the Englishman remarked at last with a quizzical expression, ‘it certainly looks like top quark. At last.’

The German had a broad forehead and a quiff of hair that tended to stand up, causing him to push it back into place from time to time, which he did now.

‘Ja, it acts like top quark. Pettini wants to publish.’

‘Pettini is an impetuous Italian.’ A slow smile appeared on the German’s face.

‘It wouldn’t be good to tell him that, I think.’

‘And it wouldn’t be good to publish and then find we’re wrong.’

‘There is pressure from the Italian Government.’

‘There’s always pressure. In my thirteen years here at CERN I’ve never known a time when there wasn’t pressure. I’m getting plenty myself. The British Government would love to save all the millions we’re spending on top quark.’

Once again the German brushed back the quiff of hair.

‘It won’t seem so good if the Americans claim it first.’

The Englishman nodded.

‘I’m aware of that. As much as Pettini is aware of it.’

‘So, Isaac, what do we do?’

‘We consult our conscience, Kurt.’

‘I’d be glad to learn how to do that.’

‘Are you convinced yourself? About this really being top quark. Are you really convinced?’

Kurt Waldheim shuffled uneasily among the photographs. He picked up one of them and studied it for a while. At last he shook his head regretfully.

‘I think it is, but I am not certain.’

‘You’d like another run at it?’

‘Ja, I’d like another run. But you will have Pettini speaking very loudly down your neck, I’m afraid.’

‘It won’t be the only thing I’ve got down my neck just now.’

Kurt Waldheim moved away from the table, dismissing the photographs from his mind.

‘Ja, I’ve thought for a little while that you have a worried look, Isaac. Is it anything I should know?’

‘Cambridge has asked me to take the Cavendish Professorship.’

Kurt Waldheim pondered this news and then shrugged expressively.

‘Well? It would be a very distinguished appointment — and a return home for you. Sometimes it is nice to return home.’

‘We always try to remember the Cavendish the way it was in Rutherford’s day. Unfortunately this isn’t Rutherford’s day.’

‘You could make much of it, Isaac’

The Englishman shook his head doubtfully.

‘If big money hadn’t ruined things, perhaps. You don’t know the way it is with the British research councils, I’m afraid.’

‘I know it from Germany, I think.’

‘I doubt that Germany is quite as bad.’

The slow smile appeared again on Waldheim’s face.

‘It’s like somebody else’s canteen,’ he said. “The food always seems better than in your own canteen.’

‘The problem is that if I refuse it certainly won’t help the British grant to CERN.’

‘I see it is a problem. But I thought there might be something else.’

‘Something else?’

Kurt Waldheim persisted.

‘Yes, I thought there might be.’

There was a long pause before the Englishman replied.

‘We’ve known each other for a long time, Kurt. If I were to talk to anybody it would be to you.’

‘Can I help?’

‘It’s a confidential thing, I’m afraid. Hopefully, it won’t last. Then I’ll be able to concentrate on top quark again.’

‘Which will be good for top quark, I think.’

The Englishman returned somewhat wearily from the table with its bubble chamber photographs to his desk, saying, ‘Break the news gently to Pettini.’

When Kurt Waldheim had left the office, the tall man walked to a window from which he could see snow-covered mountains across the Swiss-French border. He was lost in thought when a secretary came in with the announcement:

‘Your visitor has arrived, Dr Newton.’ She pronounced his name Newton in the French manner.

The man with the florid face and Pickwickian stature followed immediately behind the secretary. He came forward effusively with outstretched hand.

‘Dr Newton, I’m John Jamesborough – Foreign Office.’

‘I had your message.’

‘Yes, well, I thought we should make contact’

‘Why, if I may ask?’

‘I’m under instructions to offer you any assistance you may need.’

Isaac Newton had no liking for the direction in which he suspected the conversation was leading.

‘Frankly, I wasn’t looking for any assistance. You see, Mr Jamesborough, I’ve lived for thirteen years in Geneva, so I know my way around the town reasonably well by now.’

‘We weren’t thinking about that, of course.’

‘It might help if I knew what you were thinking about.’

‘Your report, Dr Newton. About conveying it to the Prime Minister.’

‘It isn’t ready yet.’

‘When it is, the report should go through the diplomatic bag. From the moment you set words on paper, Dr Newton, those words will have a high security status. Obviously.’

A wry expression flitted briefly across Isaac Newton’s face.

‘Obviously,’ he acknowledged.

‘Many people will be curious about them.’

‘Including the Foreign Office, no doubt.’

‘I would hope, Dr Newton, you will copy your report to us – as a matter of courtesy, obviously.’

It was an advantage of Jamesborough’s very high colour that you couldn’t tell if he blushed as he made this request. The wry expression returned as Isaac Newton replied immediately:

‘I can set your mind firmly at rest there, Mr Jamesborough. My remit is to report directly to the Prime Minister. Whether the Prime Minister decides to copy the report to you is not for me to decide.’

‘The situation is very irregular.’

The conversation was evidently leading nowhere, with Isaac Newton finding it increasingly difficult to hide his mounting irritation at being asked to divulge what, honourably, he could not divulge.

‘The trouble, Mr Jamesborough,’ he began in some distaste, ‘is that nuclear warheads are also very irregular. I’m sorry if this sounds inhospitable, but nuclear warheads aren’t very hospitable either. My promise to the Prime Minister requires me to attend today’s session -for my sins.’

‘Is anything special expected?’

‘I trust not. If anything special ever happened at disarmament talks we’d have people in shock all over the place.’

‘That’s rather cynical, isn’t it?’ Jamesborough asked with a disapproving frown, seeking to gain a small point. Disregarding the frown, Isaac Newton glanced at his watch to indicate that he was required elsewhere.

‘You may count yourself lucky, Mr Jamesborough, that you haven’t had to listen to these superpower talks for weeks on end the way I have. Otherwise the worm of cynicism would long ago have hatched itself inside your bosom.’

It had been on the tip of Isaac Newton’s tongue to say ‘ample bosom’, but somehow he managed to bite back the temptation.

‘Can I give you a lift into town?’ Jamesborough asked.

‘Thanks, but I go, I come back, as they say. I’d prefer my own car, if you don’t mind.’

Realising that nothing substantial could be won, Jamesborough moved towards the office door, saying as a last small manoeuvre, ‘You will remember the security aspect? If anything came out it would be exceedingly embarrassing.’

The wry expression flitted once more across Isaac Newton’s face.

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘You have my solemn word. I’ll remember security. I rarely forget it.’

Isaac Newton parked his car, a large Mercedes, and walked into the Geneva disarmament centre, which had a record for nil results dating from the pre-1939 days of the League of Nations. After showing his badge and identification card he was conducted to the conference hall by a girl of more pleasant aspect than the place itself. As Isaac Newton took his seat in an area reserved for diplomatically-accredited observers, the delegates of the superpowers came to order, facing each other in rows – like two ancient armies of the classical age, except that each delegate had a name placard, which courtesy had not been accorded to ancient fighters in their long-since-forgotten causes.

A senior Russian delegate began speaking and, as a formal gesture, the Americans put on headphones, ostensibly to hear an immediate translation of the Russian, but actually to daydream. Without enthusiasm Isaac Newton also put on headphones. His remit was to make a report, technical and otherwise, on how the British nuclear deterrent related to the talks. Although this was a matter on which the Russians made trouble whenever it suited their purpose to do so, it lay strictly outside the immediate proceedings, and this had permitted the Prime Minister to ask for a technical report rather than a diplomatic one. The Foreign Office had no liking for this procedure, especially with the report coming from an outsider like himself, instead of from an insider who could be relied upon not to disturb the status quo.

After the Russian had been speaking for an hour and a quarter, Isaac Newton decided that enough was enough – he could always read the translation, which he would have to do anyway, just as the Americans did. By now he knew his way out of the building more or less like the proverbial back of his hand. He had moved quietly from the conference hall and was just on the point of punching a lift button when a man he half-recognised stepped into the cage beside him. The half-recognised man had not used headphones back there in the conference hall, so that it was apparent he belonged to the ‘other side’.

‘Is a breakthrough near?’ Isaac Newton asked as the lift moved.

‘A breakthrough is always near,’ the man replied.

‘It must keep you busy.’

‘In Russia we are always busy.’

‘I imagine it makes for a happy life,’ Isaac Newton continued, doing his best.

‘A very happy life,’ was the guttural response.

The lift stopped and both men- got out. Isaac Newton nodded, smiled, and said:

‘Well, I’m glad to have met you, sir. It’s always nice to meet cheerful people.’

Somehow this little conversation epitomised the situation. Whatever technicalities he decided to report to the Prime Minister, Isaac Newton was convinced of the broad proposition that little positive would happen on the superpower front without some drastically new approach being made. It would have astonished him to have learned how close such an approach might be, and how deeply he would be involved in it himself.

Two months later, Isaac Newton travelled from Geneva to London by an early morning flight. Because he was tall and had a long stride he outdistanced other passengers to the immigration desk, and so was first into the Heathrow customs area. He’d brought no baggage beyond a briefcase, which he’d carried with him on the plane, so he walked immediately towards the ‘Nothing to Declare’ exit. Here, however, he was stopped by a zealous customs officer who viewed fast-moving passengers with suspicion.

‘Are you resident in this country, sir?’ the man asked.

‘No, in Switzerland.’

‘Would you open your briefcase, please?’

Isaac Newton complied and explained:

‘Business papers.’

The official ran his hands around the interior of the briefcase, obviously on the lookout for drugs, and missed Isaac Newton’s report, the report which the Foreign Office would have been so glad to get its hands on. The official eventually stepped back from his bench with a nod. Walking quickly to the taxi rank, Isaac Newton disregarded the advice of Sherlock Holmes always to take the third taxi, and took the first instead.

‘Where to, sir?’ the driver asked.

‘10 Downing Street.’

When the taxi driver reached the heavy traffic of central London, Isaac Newton found himself watching the manoeuvrings of nearby cars, at first idly and then with some attention. There was the usual sprinkling of people waiting outside 10 Downing Street. Waiting for what? For the skies to fall in, presumably. There was a man with a walkie-talkie radio set who suddenly moved away into Whitehall. Media personnel? Perhaps, perhaps not.

The policeman on duty outside Number 10 had been told to expect him and Isaac Newton was quickly admitted into the Prime Minister’s residence, where he was greeted by a slim young man with lank fair hair.

‘I’m Pingo Warwick, the PM’s PPS. The PM’s waiting.’

‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late. The traffic was heavy. I suppose I should have stayed in London overnight,’ Isaac Newton apologised, shaking hands with Pingo Warwick.

‘That’s all right. Before I show you up I should mention about lunch. There’s a delegation from Qatar, but you’re welcome to stay…’

‘I’d like to catch the afternoon flight back to Geneva.’

Pingo Warwick nodded.

‘From your message that’s rather what I thought.’ Then he led the way upstairs to the Prime Minister’s home office.

‘You had a good journey?’ the Prime Minister asked as a formality.

‘Except for a customs chap who almost impounded my briefcase.’

‘Didn’t you use your diplomatic passport?’

‘I kept it in reserve. You have the papers, Prime Minister?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘They were sent in the diplomatic bag.’

‘When?’

‘Two days ago. Which isn’t a long time I suppose, the way Whitehall sees time.’

This remark almost succeeded in its aim of provoking an explosion from the Prime Minister.

‘Not a long time!’

The voice was sharp. Affecting not to notice, Isaac Newton held out a slim blue file.

‘I’ve prepared a short summary of my main report. You can skim through it in a few moments. My taxi from Heathrow was followed, by the way.’

‘Are you sure?’ the Prime Minister asked with raised eyebrows.

‘I’ve grown pretty watchful these past three months. I had the idea, Prime Minister, that quite a lot of people would have been happy to stop these papers from reaching you.’

‘Then perhaps I’d better get on and read them,’ the Prime Minister said, opening the file energetically, an edge still in the voice.

John Jamesborough was not enjoying his meeting with Sir Arthur, partly because there was a feeling in the air that he’d bungled the job, and partly because he hated having the riot act read to him in front of Smithfield. In contrast to Jamesborough’s own high colouring, Smithfield always had a drained look about him, drained like the meat carcasses in the market of his name.

An imaginary observer would have noticed that the document in a blue file lying on a polished mahogany table in front of Sir Arthur was identical to the one which had just been handed to the Prime Minister. As a non-imaginary observer, John Jamesborough noticed with distaste that ash from Smithfield’s cigarette had tumbled onto the table. Particles of the ash were dancing on the dark smooth surface, dancing to a tune called by a draught from a large ceiling fan, which Sir Arthur, an old India man, had insisted on installing in his office in memory of former salad days.

Smithfield scanned the blue file, took a pull on his cigarette, and said in his flat way:

‘Clever bastard, if you ask me. Travelled Swissair, Geneva-London, internal booking by CERN travel office, no name given. Used ordinary passport at Heathrow, not diplomatic, but was spotted because of distinctive appearance. He was among the first at the immigration desk and went straight through customs. No baggage, see? We picked him up near White City, making straight for Downing Street. He sent this blue report two days ago in the diplomatic pouch. Why would he do that if he was going to bring it over from Switzerland himself?’

‘Perhaps he had afterthoughts,’ Jamesborough suggested.

‘Afterthoughts, my Geister! He did it to find out. He’ll know by now that it didn’t reach the PM. And the PM will know, and all the fat in hell will be in the fire. See?’

Smithfield took another pull, blew out the smoke, and only just stopped himself from stubbing out his cigarette on the mahogany table itself. Sir Arthur, he remembered, was very proud of the mahogany table, not that there was likely to be much of Sir Arthur left once all that fat started to sizzle.

‘Have you an ash-tray?’ he asked belatedly.

Sir Arthur picked up the blue file.

‘Yes, well, it will be easy enough to send this along, after copying it, of course.’

‘Of course,’ nodded Jamesborough, relieved that the meeting was coming to a close.

‘Two days late! If the PM swallows that eternity then all I can say is God help the country,’ Smithfield remarked, in a voice which Jamesborough had always disliked.

The Prime Minister put down the slim blue file, was silent for a moment longer, and then said:

‘You put it very clearly, very decisively – just what I wanted.’

‘I’d say that’s rather overgenerous, Prime Minister,’ Isaac Newton demurred.

‘I think you hardly appreciate one of the big problems in Government. To obtain unbiased information, I mean.’

‘I can appreciate that.’

‘It’s impossible, you see, to do any better than the quality of the information one receives. Will you have a sherry?’

‘I believe you have a special lunch coming up.’

‘Qatar. Islam. No alcohol.’

‘Then a dry sherry please.’

The Prime Minister went to a small cabinet and poured out two glasses, saying, ‘They have more than a quarter of all the natural gas in the world.’

‘Who, Qatar?’

The Prime Minister brought the glasses.

‘Amazing, isn’t it. More than a quarter of all the natural gas in a tiny place like Qatar.’

‘How are they going to get it out?’

‘The best way would be a pipeline into the Med. Then into Europe. It would keep European industries running for a very long time, without any Eastern bloc interference – which connects quite clearly with your report, doesn’t it?’

‘How’s that, Prime Minister?’ Isaac Newton asked, sipping the sherry.

‘Well, if we and the French give up our nuclear deterrents in the extremis of the superpower struggle there’ll be nothing to stop all Europe from being held to blackmail. Not from the superpowers in this case, but from any little pipsqueak with a pretension to nuclear technology. Frankly, I hate pipsqueaks.’

As if a switch had been pressed, the Prime Minister suddenly rushed back to the cabinet, seized a canister and began spraying its contents into the air so liberally that Isaac Newton instinctively covered the mouth of his glass with a hand.

‘Ha!’ the Prime Minister almost shouted, ‘A fly. I hate flies. They come in from somewhere. Horse Guards Parade, I expect. You were saying?’

‘I wasn’t. It was you who were saying. About Qatar.’

‘Oh yes, about Qatar,’ the Prime Minister acknowledged, taking the canister to the cabinet and returning with a sherry decanter. ‘But to change the subject: I believe you’ve had what is known as an approach from Cambridge.’

‘Yes, I’ve had an approach about the Cavendish Professorship,’ Isaac Newton replied noncommittally.

‘I hope you will accept.’

‘Frankly, Prime Minister, I wasn’t thinking of doing so.’

The Prime Minister came forward with the decanter and recharged Isaac Newton’s glass, saying with a suggestion of a frown, ‘A pity. Since you’re being frank, can I express a frank opinion?’

‘Of course.’

‘I understand CERN offers the best opportunity in your field – a very expensive field…’

‘Top quark is expensive, admittedly.’

‘Top quark?’

‘The particle everybody is looking for at the moment.’

‘I see. Yes, well, your success at CERN is what we all hoped for when things were started more than thirty years ago. Even so, one has to remember that it is contributing nations like Britain which keep CERN going.’

Isaac Newton smiled a little ruefully.

‘Meaning people at CERN like me should do something in return? Like accepting professorships when they’re offered?’

‘An investor expects some return for the capital he invests.’

Taking the bull by the horns, Isaac Newton pointed towards the slim blue file and said with a smile:

‘Could I suggest that my report …’

‘Is something of a return. You could suggest it and I would agree with you. Privately. What I can’t do is acknowledge your report publicly.’

‘Why not, Prime Minister?’

‘Because no official channel of communication exists between us,’ was the Prime Minister’s unexpected reply.

‘Then how are you supposed to obtain information? About anything, I mean?’ Isaac Newton asked, showing his surprise.

The Prime Minister grinned without humour.

‘Through the Civil Service, or through officially constituted committees of enquiry appointed with the knowledge of Parliament.’

‘To be fair, I can see some sense in that.’

‘Yes, it keeps out quacks and soothsayers. Of course, I’m not suggesting…’

Congratulating himself that the topic of the Cambridge Professorship seemed safely out of the way, Isaac Newton continued quickly:

‘I understand that too. But doesn’t it mean that you’re subject to manipulation? I’m sorry to put it so bluntly.’

At this the Prime Minister reared up.

‘Put it as bluntly as you like. I am subject to manipulation. Every Prime Minister is subject to manipulation. That’s why the manipulators scream to high heaven when I step outside the pattern. That’s why the FO is screaming about your report. In their view, it’s an improper document. Why did you send it in the diplomatic pouch by the way?’

‘So they wouldn’t think I was coming to London myself.’

‘Good heavens! You’re as suspicious as I am myself. The maddening thing is that they have it so tied up that it’s hard to do anything. A bit of lopping here and a bit of chopping there, but you can never go at it like a gardener, giving the whole thing a thorough pruning. So I take it out on the flies. Flies don’t affect the opinion polls, not yet at any rate. But to come back to Cambridge – you wriggled away from that subject quite cleverly – I need something to justify the position at CERN. Something firm I can argue. Something like your return to Cambridge.’

Isaac Newton realised that it was now or never, that he must dig his toes in if he was not to be outmanoeuvred.

‘I still feel,’ he said, ‘that it would be a little like paying you twice for the same article: once the report; twice the return to Cambridge.’

‘Then you’d have a credit balance, wouldn’t you?’ the Prime Minister replied in a flash. After a moment’s pause Isaac Newton continued as best he could:

‘It may seem mercenary, Prime Minister, but would you care to spell that out?’

It was now the turn of the Prime Minister to pause. Whatever might have been said was interrupted by a light tap on the door, giving the Prime Minister an easy exit.

‘Ah, that must be Pingo. My goodness, how time has flown. Qatar is upon us.’

The tap was repeated. When nobody entered at a call from the Prime Minister, Isaac Newton