contradicts itself. We’re screwed. We’re going to have to go right back to the beginning and start again.”
Lucy looked at them; the five top men, five geniuses: combined salaries slightly more than the gross national product of Chile. There were times when she wondered if she belonged to a different species. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s do the box in yellow.”
There was a silence so deep, so heavy, that if it had carried on much longer it’d have bent the walls of the room. Then one of them said, “Yellow?”
Lucy nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “Nice cheerful colour. I like yellow. I expect a lot of other people do, too.”
“Yellow?”
“Well?”
This time, the silence was so pressurised there was a real danger of blowing out the windows.
“What shade of yellow?”
“Buttercup,” Lucy said firmly. “So, guys? What d’you think?”
“Yellow,” said one of them.
“With blue lettering,” Lucy added.
“Yellow?”
“Yellow.
“So that’s settled then,” Lucy said briskly. “Moving on—”
She got rid of them eventually, but the strain had taken its toll, and she decided on an early lunch, possibly followed by a quick stroll in the— No, probably not. If you go down to the woods today, there’s a small but significant risk of a big surprise, in spite of the best efforts of Dieter and his happy band of musketeers. She stayed in her office with a sandwich and a coffee, and made a few calls.
The first was to a big name at Harvard Medical School. She knew him because he’d been in charge of fawning and grovelling when she went there to open the Lucy Pavlov Research Institute in December of last year. No, he admitted, he wasn’t actually a doctor himself, per se, but if she wanted a doctor he had heaps and heaps of them, if she wouldn’t mind holding for just a few seconds…
The next voice belonged to a woman who sounded like she was talking with her mouth full. Memory loss? Could be one of any number of things. The woman went through them all, and it was like trying on clothes in the sales: they’ve got every conceivable size except the one you want. Sorry, the woman said, when they’d been through all the possibilities, you can’t possibly have memory loss, because you aren’t showing any of the right symptoms, so you must be imagining it.
“I don’t think I am,” Lucy said, nicely but firmly.
“Yes, but …” The woman paused. “Well, there’s one other thing. But it’s so incredibly unlikely.”
Lucy waited. Then she said, “Yes?”
“There’s this stuff,” the woman said. “You may have heard of it, aposiderium.”
“No.” Lucy frowned. “Hold on,” she said, “isn’t that the—?”
“That’s right,” the woman said, “it’s the stuff they use for the security strips in banknotes. The only known source is the core of a meteorite that landed in the Yukon in November 2011. It yielded just over two metric tonnes. It’s a metal, but it’s kind of weird…” The woman paused, giving the distinct impression that even thinking about it was the sort of thing that gives you nightmares, even with your eyes open. “Anyway, they keep it in this incredibly secure facility somewhere on the ocean bed — even I don’t know where it is — and I remember seeing something in one of the journals …”
Apparently, the woman went on, the staff at the incredibly secure facility had started forgetting things. Not where they’d left their keys or their partners’ birthdays or whose turn it was to scrub out the waste-disposal outlets, but distant things, early memories, the names of ancient aunts and long-dead pet rabbits. Initial studies suggested the possibility of a link to close contact with the aposiderium, though it should be stressed that there was absolutely no question whatsoever of any danger to the public at large from handling banknotes, even in quantity. Contamination, if there was any, would only happen if you spent months on
Lucy looked at them; the five top men, five geniuses: combined salaries slightly more than the gross national product of Chile. There were times when she wondered if she belonged to a different species. “Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s do the box in yellow.”
There was a silence so deep, so heavy, that if it had carried on much longer it’d have bent the walls of the room. Then one of them said, “Yellow?”
Lucy nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “Nice cheerful colour. I like yellow. I expect a lot of other people do, too.”
“Yellow?”
“Well?”
This time, the silence was so pressurised there was a real danger of blowing out the windows.
“What shade of yellow?”
“Buttercup,” Lucy said firmly. “So, guys? What d’you think?”
“Yellow,” said one of them.
“With blue lettering,” Lucy added.
“Yellow?”
“Yellow.
“So that’s settled then,” Lucy said briskly. “Moving on—”
She got rid of them eventually, but the strain had taken its toll, and she decided on an early lunch, possibly followed by a quick stroll in the— No, probably not. If you go down to the woods today, there’s a small but significant risk of a big surprise, in spite of the best efforts of Dieter and his happy band of musketeers. She stayed in her office with a sandwich and a coffee, and made a few calls.
The first was to a big name at Harvard Medical School. She knew him because he’d been in charge of fawning and grovelling when she went there to open the Lucy Pavlov Research Institute in December of last year. No, he admitted, he wasn’t actually a doctor himself, per se, but if she wanted a doctor he had heaps and heaps of them, if she wouldn’t mind holding for just a few seconds…
The next voice belonged to a woman who sounded like she was talking with her mouth full. Memory loss? Could be one of any number of things. The woman went through them all, and it was like trying on clothes in the sales: they’ve got every conceivable size except the one you want. Sorry, the woman said, when they’d been through all the possibilities, you can’t possibly have memory loss, because you aren’t showing any of the right symptoms, so you must be imagining it.
“I don’t think I am,” Lucy said, nicely but firmly.
“Yes, but …” The woman paused. “Well, there’s one other thing. But it’s so incredibly unlikely.”
Lucy waited. Then she said, “Yes?”
“There’s this stuff,” the woman said. “You may have heard of it, aposiderium.”
“No.” Lucy frowned. “Hold on,” she said, “isn’t that the—?”
“That’s right,” the woman said, “it’s the stuff they use for the security strips in banknotes. The only known source is the core of a meteorite that landed in the Yukon in November 2011. It yielded just over two metric tonnes. It’s a metal, but it’s kind of weird…” The woman paused, giving the distinct impression that even thinking about it was the sort of thing that gives you nightmares, even with your eyes open. “Anyway, they keep it in this incredibly secure facility somewhere on the ocean bed — even I don’t know where it is — and I remember seeing something in one of the journals …”
Apparently, the woman went on, the staff at the incredibly secure facility had started forgetting things. Not where they’d left their keys or their partners’ birthdays or whose turn it was to scrub out the waste-disposal outlets, but distant things, early memories, the names of ancient aunts and long-dead pet rabbits. Initial studies suggested the possibility of a link to close contact with the aposiderium, though it should be stressed that there was absolutely no question whatsoever of any danger to the public at large from handling banknotes, even in quantity. Contamination, if there was any, would only happen if you spent months on
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