touched a drink, did not suspect her at all. His question was more of a punishment, and he reasonably expected her instant denial.
In fact, she was affronted. Her lips formed into the pout he found so likeable, before she said in surprise, 'Aren't you? Michael, of course I am.'
Oh yes, that. The tired old argument from equivalence. The level playing field. Rationality gone nuts, feminism's last stupid gasp.
After a pause while he ordered his thoughts, he said, 'What is his name?'
She looked away and said, 'Terry.'
'Terry?' He spoke in disbelief. All that was foolish in her was contained in this idiotic name. 'And what does Terry do?'
She sighed. It had to come out. 'He's a conductor.'
'On the buses?'
'Orchestras, symphonies. You know, classical stuff.'
But she hated classical music as much as he did, no rhythm, she always said, not hot-blooded enough, not Tobagan and Venezuelan enough for her. She was sitting at the far end of the sofa, looking as if she wished she had lied.
He said, 'And has Terry met Catriona?'
This made her angry. In a tone of mocking sweetness she said, 'That's enough about me. Let's talk about you. That was her on the phone, I suppose. What's her name, and what does she do?'
He waved the question away. He was not prepared to set his waitress against her symphonic conductor. 'Look, Melissa, there's something you're not getting. You're the mother of our child…'
'Oh for God's sake, Michael. And you're the father of our et cetera. I can't believe the crap you talk sometimes. And look…'
She seemed on the point of telling him something else, but just then, Catriona wailed from the bedroom and Melissa hurried away to her. When she came back he was standing on the far side of the room, near his luggage.
'That's right,' she said. 'Go. Fuck off. I'm throwing you out.'
'No need,' he said, and picked up his bag and left.
She phoned him in the morning when he was at Heathrow to tell him she loved him. He told her that he was sorry the evening had ended the way it had and blamed himself. They spoke again when he arrived in Dallas and made up a little more. When he thought about it now he was in two minds. He was angry and jealous and wanted to claim Melissa for himself and stuff Terry's baton down his throat. On the other hand, this Terry was his permission, his passport to more fun with good old Darlene. How much fun of this kind did he have ahead of him? And perhaps this was the point – he had the perfect situation after all. But then he thought of this man in Melissa's bed, or reading Beatrix Potter to his daughter, and he realised that he must give up Darlene and get back to London as soon as he could. But then, what about Darlene? Hopeless, to think about it now when he was so weary, when being in Lordsburg tomorrow would clarify everything.
He fell asleep fully dressed on the bed, with the palmtop still in his hand.
Interstate 10 was quicker, but they preferred the lonely back road, Route 9, that ran a few miles above the Mexican border, straight as a Euclidean line between low hills and the Chihuahuan desert scrub. It was almost midday, forty-four degrees and rising. Ahead, the two-lane road tapered away and dissolved into a mess of heat warp where buckled light showed smooth mirage puddles that evaporated at their approach. In an hour they had seen only three vehicles, all of them white pick-ups belonging to Border Patrol. When one passed, its driver raised his hand in grim salute. Beard drove, and Hammer sat hunched over his laptop, typing and muttering to himself, 'Fucking right they don't…that's better…but I haven't…try apologising, asshole…' Occasionally, he offered his companion genuine information. 'New York Times have cancelled…We had two jets for the fly-past, but that war hero with one leg at the Chamber of Commerce, the ex-pilot, knows everyone, so now we have seven.'
Beard drove at a steady fifty-five, the elbow of his steering hand cushioned comfortably on his paunch. In the States, it came easier, to drive at a lordly pace, with the big engine barely turning, almost silent. The country had lived en masse with the automobile longer than any other. People had wearied of the car as a racing device, or penis or missile substitute. They stopped at suburban crossroads and politely negotiated with glances who should go first. They even obeyed the fifteen-mile-an-hour limits around schools. At his untaxing speed, with the faded yellow lines rolling under the SUV, his thoughts turned obsessively, uselessly around the project. He held seventeen patents in the panels. If ten thousand were sold…and the conversion rate of water to hydrogen in ideal conditions like these €¦ a litre of water held three times the energy of a litre of gasoline. So in a smaller car with the right engine they could have made this journey with two litres of water, three wine bottles full €¦ They should have bought wine in El Paso, because the choice in Lordsburg was narrow €¦
His thoughts unfurled like the miles, and he was relaxed and happy, despite his session with the doctor. His sense of freedom was at one with the cloudless sky, blueish-black at the zenith, and the empty landscape before him. Here was the culmination of eight years' work. Travelling to Lordsburg was every Englishman's ideal of America – the open road narrowing to the horizon, the colossal space, the possibilities. Along the route, especially on the southern side, projecting from the tops of sandy banks and hillocks, were piles of stones, some of them five feet high, one stone balanced on another to give a vaguely humanoid aspect. They had a primitive, ancient look, and when he had first seen them he had assumed they were Aztec relics, the local equivalent of menhirs and dolmens. But they were marks of triumph left by Mexican immigrants who had crossed the border and tramped the miles of scrub to rendezvous with their connections. At intervals by the road were Border Patrol observation stations. Elsewhere they parked their pick-ups on strategic rises and watched through binoculars the grey-green expanse of arid ranchland. Who could blame the immigrants? Who would not want to come to a place where a foreigner could be welcomed to launch a revolutionary energy plant with generous local help and tax breaks, and army marching bands and air-force fly-pasts? It would not have been so smooth in Libya or Egypt.
Hammer interrupted the pleasant inward drift of his thoughts. 'There's a message from a lawyer in Albuquerque, been trying to get in touch with you. Says he represents an Englishman called Braby. Wants to talk to you about something in connection with his client.'
'He wrote to me last week, wanting a meeting,' Beard said. 'Ignore it. I don't owe Braby any favours. He's the one who got me sacked from the Centre in England. Remember I told you that story.'
Hammer straightened up and slumped back against the headrest. 'Looking at this screen is making me sick.' He spoke with eyes closed. 'The lawyer's name is Barnard, and he's flying down here tomorrow. He needs to talk to you. You sure there's nothing wrong, something I should know about?'
'Braby's just the sort to kick you in the face, then ask a favour. Ignore it.'
Hammer kept his eyes shut and said nothing for a minute, and Beard thought he had fallen asleep until he said, 'When a lawyer comes some distance unasked to meet you, travelling at his client's expense, you expect trouble.'
Beard let this go. What was there to argue about? He had been ignoring Braby for years. Let him do the brave thing, and pick up the phone himself. It was not difficult to guess his business. An introduction to the NREL in Golden, access to venture capital for the Centre, or maybe the inside line on solar or on tax breaks. Why worry?
They passed through Columbus, and as the Cedar Mountains rose into view they had one more desultory conversation about their iron-filing scheme. Everything was in place, the investors, the captain, the ship, an option to purchase the filings. All that was missing now was a carbon-trading scheme.
'We've got Obama working on it,' Hammer said. 'We can think about other things, but when it comes, we'll be ready.'
The instrument panel was showing an external temperature of one hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than either man had ever known. Beard pulled over so they could experience the full blast. It was a mistake perhaps, to go hatless straight from the refrigerated cabin into such savage heat, or perhaps it was his sudden exertion after ninety minutes behind the wheel. As he stepped onto the edge of the road, just as he was about to exclaim to his friend something banal, he felt dizzy, his consciousness partially faded and his knees gave way. If he had not kept hold of the car door handle, he would have dropped to the ground. As
