Solar

Beard drew his dressing gown around him, and nodded reassuringly at Hammer.

Barnard conceded nothing. He simply moved to his next point. 'This is not central to our case, it merely corroborates it. We have transcripts of a recording of a speech you gave in the Savoy Hotel, London, in February 2005. We find that it was mostly derived from various paragraphs in Mr Aldous's file.'

Beard shrugged. 'And those paragraphs were derived from me.'

'We also have,' Barnard said, 'notes made by Mr Aldous in the year before he met you, and these demonstrate a deep interest in global warming, ecology, sustainable development, and various calculations, the sort of things that were developed in this file. And before you tell me, Mr Beard, that he must have got these from you somehow, even though he didn't know you, you should be aware that our office has researched thoroughly every public lecture, radio talk, media interview, newspaper opinion piece, every course you gave at university, and there is nothing of yours that touches on artificial photosynthesis, nor is there a single mention by you of climate change or renewable energy in the months and years before Mr Aldous died and his file came into your possession. Hardly what one would expect, is it, Mr Beard, from a public figure like yourself making breakthrough discoveries in the field?'

Hammer had slumped again, and at last Beard was angry. What was this ludicrous man doing in his room, sitting so primly on the bed which minutes before had supported the glorious form of Darlene? Beard was on his feet, one hand holding his dressing gown in place over his private parts, the other jabbing a finger towards Barnard's face. 'Climate change? You're conveniently forgetting that I was head of the Centre before I ever knew Tom Aldous. No win, no fee, is it, Mr Barnard? Looking to get rich? Well, take this back to your Mr Braby. Tell him I know a shabby opportunist when I see one. We've made something beautiful here and he thinks he can hitch a ride. He's also stupid enough to think that a court will believe that this is the kind of work a graduate student can dream up alone. Tomorrow our site will be delivering clean low-cost electricity to Lordsburg. Tell Mr Braby to watch it all on TV, and we'll see him in court!'

Barnard had also stood and held his briefcase against his chest. He was shaking his head, and when he spoke his voice was tight with a new emotion, indignation or pride or some blend of the two. 'There is one further development you should be aware of. Mr Braby is no more. Last month was the Queen's birthday and to mark the occasion as special she invited him to become her knight of the realm. He is now Sir Jock Braby.'

Beard moaned in exasperation and made a show of clapping his hand to his forehead. But there was a look of panic in Hammer's eyes. If Braby had the Queen of England on his side, what possible chance did they have in an English court of law?

Beard said, 'It's all crap, Toby. Don't listen. This is the Queen's Birthday Honours List. She doesn't choose it, she knows fuck all about it, and they all scramble to be on it, every booby and arriviste from science and the arts and the civil service who wants to strut about the place hoping to be taken for a member of the minor aristocracy.'

There was a silence after this outburst, and then Barnard sighed and took a step around the bed towards the door. 'Shall we assume then, Mr Beard, that Her Majesty hasn't gotten round to choosing you?'

Beard said crisply, 'I'm not at liberty to say.'

Barnard let his briefcase swing down and dangle at his side. Toby was now on his feet. Barnard said, 'Well, on behalf of Sir Jock Braby and the National Centre for Renewable Energy, I want to put it to you one last time. If you agree to call off tomorrow's media event and agree to revisit the patents situation, you'll find us sympathetic collaborators who will certainly find a role for you in the development of a technology which rightly belongs to the Centre. If not, then our first move will be to go to court to freeze all exploitation until this matter is resolved.'

Hammer, turning to Beard, looked like he was about to go down on one knee. 'Michael, that could take five years.'

Beard was shaking his head. 'No, Toby. I say no.'

Barnard said, 'The British government has deep pockets, at least in this affair. They're keen to see the Centre own the patents and show the taxpayer a decent return.'

Hammer clutched at the lapels of Beard's dressing gown. 'Listen, we owe a lot of money. No one's going to sign with us until this is straightened out. We can't afford lawyers.'

'We've put in all the work,' Beard said as he pushed Hammer's hand away. 'If we roll over now, we'll be lucky if they take us on as lavatory attendants.'

'Gentlemen,' Barnard said. 'I'm pretty sure we can offer you something better than that. And Mr Hammer's right. When news of our legal contest becomes public, people will not want to do business with you. Surely it's in your interests too, not to make a splash tomorrow.'

'I'm putting this as politely as I can,' Beard said. 'Please leave.'

With the faintest pursing of his thin lips, Barnard turned and opened the door. Over his shoulder the orange desert sky was fading through yellow to luminous green.

Hammer, usually a cool type, wailed on a rising note, 'Michael, we've got to keep talking! Mr Barnard, wait, I'll come out with you.'

The lawyer inclined his head regretfully. 'Sure, but it's Mr Beard's signature that we want,' and he stepped out into the dusk, and Hammer hurried after him. The door swung shut, and Beard heard the voices of the two men retreating across the parking lot, with Toby's suddenly growing louder, beseeching, begging for time, then giving way to Barnard's insistent murmur.

He was slumped in the chair just as before, still wondering about a shower. The episode appeared like a playlet staged for his benefit. For the moment he was numb to its implications. He was aware that a great wall obstructed the progress of his life and he could not see past it. His thoughts were stilled. His only concern was that Melissa and Catriona would arrive in less than an hour and he should be dressed to greet them. After many empty minutes he went to the bathroom and got under the shower and stood there blankly, barely conscious, with hot water drumming on his skull. At a sound, he put his head out of the cubicle and listened. There was a loud knock on his door, then another. There was silence, then his palmtop began to ring from the bedside table as the knocks resumed and grew louder. Hammer called out his name many times. No doubt desperate to come in and persuade him to be Braby's minion.

Beard retreated under the shower, and when he was sure that his friend had gone away he stepped out and began to dry himself. Hot water on his skin had done the trick. He was refreshed and knew what must happen. It was all down to attitude. Tomorrow's opening must go ahead. The rewards might be snatched away, but the world would see what he had accomplished. He would go out in a blaze. Or better, persuade someone with money to back him through the courts in return for a part share. Their most important visitors were already in their hotels in El Paso, and some were coming through Silver City. The sun would rise, the panels would makes gases out of water, the gases would run the turbines, electricity would flow, the world would surely stand amazed. Nothing must interrupt the Beatles medley and the screaming low-level jets.

With a towel stretched round his waist, whistling 'Yellow Submarine', he came back into the bedroom, rummaged in his case and pulled out a shirt, which he shook free of the laundry-service cellophane and cardboard. The sound of plastic wrapping was a reminder of one more animating factor, his hunger. Having refused his brunch, and replaced it with his lunch, he was running a meal deficit which he was about to address. He found clean underwear and socks – strange to think back to the days when he could put his socks on while standing up – and unfolded his best non-crease suit. Of course, he was dressing for Melissa. At the thought of her, while dousing himself with cologne at the bathroom mirror, he went back into the bedroom to spend some minutes straightening out the bed. And at the thought of Darlene, and how and where everyone would sleep and what would get said, his mind reared up like a skittish horse and went off in another direction. Which was alcohol. The restaurant across the road did not serve it. From a compartment inside his suitcase he brought out a silver and calfskin hip flask filled with Dutch gin, Genever, easily good enough to be drunk at room temperature, and indistinguishable from water. He took a shot now and put the flask in his pocket. Then he paused before the door and drank a longer shot, and stepped outside.

Always a delicious moment to be savoured, and never to be had in the British Isles, when, showered and perfumed and wearing fresh clothes, one steps out from the air conditioning into the smooth, invincible warmth of a Southern evening. Even in the denatured neon glow of the Lordsburg mini-strip, the crickets