The Dinosaur Feather

large, colourful posters, but had stopped.
    ‘Michael?’
    Michael didn’t react until Clive was right next to him.
    ‘Earth to Michael,’ Clive said.
    ‘Clive,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
    Clive looked baffled.
    ‘The department is closing,’ Michael explained. Clive gasped.‘The decision has been made. Our department will be merged with the Department of Vertebrate Morphology and you . . .’ Michael touched his head and said in an anguished voice, ‘There isn’t a post for you. That’s the official version. You’re being made emeritus professor. On paper. Of course, we’ll continue to include you. Well, I’ll include you in my projects, definitely. I was supposed to tell you before we went to Europe. But I couldn’t. I’ll understand if you’re angry.’
    ‘But why?’ Clive stuttered. He was stunned.
    ‘I’m on your side, Clive,’ Michael hastened to add. ‘It’s not that. Look at the condensation results. I support you. But every day new evidence emerges which suggests we could be wrong. We have to allow for the possibility that we might be wrong. The Department of Bird Evolution, Palaeobiology and Systematics has become synonymous with your scientific position and that was never the intention. It can’t happen, it’s hurting UBC. We’re known as the Creationist Faculty. We have fewer students than ever and you know what that means.’ He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. ‘No one takes our graduates seriously, they can’t find work, and the faculty desperately needs money. We have to change course if we’re to have a hope of increasing our student numbers. And you’re too well-known, Clive. The feeling is that we can’t save the sinking ship as long as you’re the captain.’
    Clive stared at Michael.
    ‘I’ve secured funding for the department for more than thirty years. Every single time money was handed out,’ he whispered.
    ‘And that’s why you need to stop now. While the going is good. It can’t last. You will be given fewer and fewer grantsand, finally, none at all. Besides, the University Council demands it. An immediate merger and your retirement.’
    ‘I’m in my prime,’ Clive objected.
    ‘I should have told you before we left. Or on the plane, at least,’ Michael said, ‘but it wasn’t easy.’
    ‘Business class tickets and a Michelin star dinner? Was that the department’s attempt at a golden goodbye? And what about the meeting?’ Clive shouted triumphantly. ‘That meeting which I, very conveniently, failed to be invited to.’
    ‘I’m really very sorry,’ Michael said again.
    Clive clenched his fist.
    ‘I want to be alone,’ he hissed. Michael threw up his hands.
    ‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ he said in a matey voice. ‘Life goes on, eh? You made a huge contribution, we all know that . . . without you the department wouldn’t have had such a high profile, and—’
    ‘I want to be alone,’ Clive roared.
    ‘Calm down. It’s not my decision,’ Michael said, hurt, and headed for the exit. He shook his head lightly as he left. He was merely the messenger.
    When Clive was alone, he stared at the huge PowerPoint screen. He felt numb and consumed with hate. When he heard footsteps, he thought Michael had come back. But it wasn’t Michael, it was the young woman from Helland’s funeral. She held out her hand and he shook it out of pure reflex.
    ‘My name’s Anna,’ she said. ‘I would like to talk to you, please.’
    ‘You were at Helland’s funeral,’ he said. ‘Why were you staring at me?’
    ‘I was surprised to see you,’ she replied calmly. ‘Curious.’
    Her eyes were almost yellow and there was a touch of defiance about her mouth.
    ‘And why is that?’ Clive started gathering up his papers and returning them to his briefcase.
    ‘I’m Professor Helland and Dr Tybjerg’s postgraduate student,’ she said. ‘I’ve written my dissertation on the controversy surrounding the origin of birds. There are some anatomical details I would very much like to discuss with you. I’ve come to ask if you would meet me in the Vertebrate Collection. Tomorrow . . .? Or is Monday better? Will you still be here on Monday?’
    He stared at her.
    ‘Being Professor Helland and Dr Tybjerg’s postgraduate student is your problem,’ he sneered as he picked up his jacket and his briefcase. ‘What’s there to talk about? Helland is dead and I’m sorry about that. Tybjerg . . .’ He glanced at her. ‘Tybjerg didn’t even