The Dinosaur Feather

stands until it’s replaced by a better-supported one. Remember Walker? He dismissed his own theory when it no longer held up. He won a lot of admiration for that.’
    Clive stared at Jack and, in that moment, he hated him. He remembered once when Jack was little and had cut his finger on a knife and Clive had stuck his finger in his mouth. Suddenly, he could taste the blood again.
    ‘I want my story on the front page,’ he whispered.
    ‘We already have a lead story.’
    ‘I’ve been an ornithologist for thirty years,’ Clive said. ‘And now you’re telling me that some fashionable palaeontology theory is going to end my career?’ Clive shot up from his chair, reached over the desk and grabbed Jack’s jaw.
    ‘Look at me,’ he hissed. ‘I was like a father to you. I got you out of that shit hole you came from. Everything you’ve got,’ he gestured towards the enormous desk and the stacks of journals, ‘you owe to me.’
    Clive let go of Jack’s face and pointed at his paper lying on the desk. Then he left.
    The next issue of
Scientific Today
was published in mid-August. On the cover was a photo of
Caudipteryx
, its left wing partly unfolded and beneath it the headline:
    T HE E MPEROR’S N EW C LOTHES : T HE C RETACEOUS T URKEY .
    Clive was satisfied.
    In the autumn of 2005, Clive was invited to take the hot seat at a major ornithology conference in Toronto, where he would participate in a live TV debate with a young Danish palaeontologist, Dr Erik Tybjerg, who appeared to have been promoted from being Lars Helland’s PhD student to his errand boy. Clive had met the young scientist several times because Helland made a point of staying away from conferences, and he found Tybjerg intensely annoying. He was an upstart who thought he knew it all, and Clive would regard it as a considerable pleasure to bring him down on national television.
    Clive made a last-minute decision to fly to Toronto via his home town. Since the death of his father, he tended to visit his mother every other year. She was an old lady now, practically blind and living in a care home. Clive looked forwardto seeing her lined face and feeling her hand in his. He left three days before the conference and stayed at a guest house near the care home. When he wasn’t spending time with his mother, pushing her around in her wheelchair, he slept like a log in his room, ate well in the restaurant and even managed four walks around the local area before travelling onwards on the fourth day.
    He landed in Toronto, rested and exhilarated. He was met at the airport and driven straight to the conference centre where he left his luggage with a cloakroom attendant, collected his entry pass and strolled around the many interesting stands.
    Half an hour later he took a seat in a comfortable red armchair on the stage. Opposite was an identical, but vacant armchair. The stage was bathed in light and Clive found it hard to see properly, but he was aware of a large audience taking their seats in the auditorium. A well-dressed young woman came out to greet him, introduced herself as the assistant to the producer and asked if Clive was ready to be hooked up to his micro port. Of course, Clive answered and complimented her on her appearance. He noticed the young woman’s perfume and she stood very close to him while she attached the clip of the micro port to his lapel.
    ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it,’ she burst out. ‘Of course, I’m no expert. But it came as a huge surprise to me!’ She smiled at Clive, straightened his jacket, conjured up a powder compact from her pocket and began dabbing powder on Clive’s nose.
    ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow?’ Clive croaked. The cable for the micro port was choking him and he tried to give it more slack.
    ‘Allow me.’ the young woman said. ‘Turn around.’ Clive turned and she carefully lifted up his jacket. Clive felt the cable loosen and became more comfortable.
    ‘What did you mean just now?’ Clive prompted her. His mobile had been switched off and he hadn’t looked at a newspaper while visiting his mother. He suddenly got the feeling that the President might have been assassinated and that he was the last to know.
    ‘It’s really amaz—’ the woman began, then she stopped to listen to something coming through her headset, excused herself and hurried off.
    Dr Tybjerg entered, grinning like an idiot in the sharp light, and pushed up his unfashionable glasses.
    ‘Professor Freeman,’ he