Later, at the Bella Centre, Clive noted to his delight that around one hundred and twenty people had shown up to hear him speak. He trawled the audience for familiar faces but found none. A heated debate followed the lecture. Clive knew the routine and had, by now, been on the receiving end of so many attacks that he would have been very surprised if his audience had responded with silence. Yet he noticed the results of the cartilage condensation experiment weren’t considered as revolutionary as Michael and he had hoped.
“It’s an interesting experiment,” someone said. “But it doesn’t cancel out the 286 apomorphies linking modern birds to dinosaurs.”
“I agree,” another said, nodding in Clive’s direction. “The ontogenesis of the bird hand is one of the weakest areas of the dinosaur theory. But we have to live with that. We can’t know the embryonic development of dinosaurs, for obvious reasons. But even without an insight into embryonic development, we have more than sufficient evidence to conclude that there’s a relationship. We really do, Professor Freeman.”
“Yes,” a third person called out. “It’s the equivalent of doing a thousand-piece jigsaw of the New York skyline. Only one piece is missing, and yet you claim you can’t see what city it is.”
“I agree,” a fourth person said.
Clive inevitably reached the point where he simply stuck to his guns and dismissed all criticism. Two people walked out, fewer than usual. He wasn’t facing a polite and sympathetic crowd who lapped up his every word, but they weren’t bad, either. He thought their eyes showed evidence of genuine interest.
One hour later the room was deserted. Clive couldn’t hide his disappointment. A few members of the audience had come down to shake his hand, but he didn’t feel the cartilage condensation experiment had won over anyone. He couldn’t see why. It was a good experiment.
“What do you think?” he asked Michael. “It felt like they didn’t quite follow.” Clive shook his head with frustration. Michael seemed distracted by something. He had been busy taking down the large, colorful 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 position 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 suggesting we could be wrong. We have to allow for the possibility that we might be wrong. The department of Bird Evolution, Paleobiology, 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 grants and, 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 good-bye? And what about the meeting?” Clive shouted triumphantly. “That meeting which I, very conveniently, failed to be invited to.”