The coastal road heading north from the academy reaches open country within four minutes. It is a gentle climb until you reach the top of the cliffs, then it descends steeply to the next inlet along the coast, named St. Anthony’s Cove. It then widens into a divided highway, taking drivers on a direct route out of Cornwall.
There are only three houses around the cove; two are together on the left as you drive through, and the other—a renovated fisherman’s cottage—sits well back from the road on the right. It has a narrow driveway, a small, neat but nondescript lawn at the front, and a steeply climbing halfacre of field at the back. A few apple trees form the boundary at the edge of the property before it becomes farmland. Although it is barely visible from the road, there is a new, substantial, and glaringly modern extension behind the house.
This was where Dr. Nathaniel Flowerdew had lived since losing his job at Greencorps—a major international oil company and sponsor of Cornwall Academy. Although it was barely a ten-minute drive to the school, the cottage was remote enough to avoid tourists, and certainly anyone from the school. The other two houses in the cove were both second homes and usually empty. Even when the families were there, they showed no interest in their nearest neighbor—and that suited him just fine.
Flowerdew had built the extension almost immediately after moving into the property. He had filled it not with furniture but with scientific equipment. It wasn’t actually an extension of his home at all—it was a laboratory. With the exception of one corner, which housed a rowing machine and a treadmill, it was full of centrifuges, gas jars, blowpipes, models of molecular structures, computers, and assorted machines packed closely together. Many displayed digital screens that blinked with the latest lines of data they had produced.
It was a beautiful evening, with one of the finest sunsets of the year lighting up the sea. A few cars had even pulled over to watch the last rays disappearing spectacularly into the Atlantic. However, this had gone unnoticed by Nathaniel Flowerdew. He was hunched over a beige glass machine, using two steel levers to maneuver Itchingham Lofte’s heavy little rock into a metal chamber. He straightened up slowly, his hands on the small of his back, and gave a low whistle. Every other movement he made was as rapid and fluid as his protective clothing would allow. As soon as he had arrived home after school, he had found his helmet, lead-lined apron, and shiny gray radiation gloves. At no time did he turn his back on the rock. This was the fourth experiment he had conducted that evening, and he had become more and more animated. After each test was completed, he moved over to a computer and fired off an email.
The same email to the same recipients.
Four times.
Flowerdew noticed a tremble in his hands, which he tried to still. Despite his exhaustion, his speed around the lab was increasing. He had started talking to himself, too: “You have got to be joking …” he said. “What the …?” and, most recently, “You … have … got … to … be … kidding.”
The lead case which he had put the rock in during his brief trip home earlier in the afternoon sat on top of one of the workbenches, its lid open. He banged it shut as he passed and headed out the door into the field. He removed his gloves and mask, took a handset from his pocket. Hesitating only briefly, he dialed a number from memory. There was an international-length pause.
It rang just once before a woman’s voice answered. “Hello, who is this?”
“It’s Nathaniel Flowerdew in England.” He stopped, suddenly uncertain what to say next. “It is imperative I speak to Mr. Revere or Mr. Van Den Hauwe. I wouldn’t ring if it weren’t important. I have tried to email but have gotten no response. Please tell them it really is urgent.”
“One minute.”
At least she didn’t hang up, thought Flowerdew, sitting down on a garden chair and looking up at the stars as they started to appear. A minute passed, and with no “hold” music playing he started to wonder whether he had lost the connection. Then the phone was picked up again, and his heart lurched. But it was still the same woman.
“We have read your emails. Send another with all your results. Good night.” And she hung up before Flowerdew managed to say more.
He jumped up, went in and grabbed a laptop from the lab, then ran outside again. (No mask, but he had spent only a very short time inside.) He sat down on one of the garden chairs, perched the laptop on his knees and turned it on. He waited impatiently for it to allow him access to his emails, his hands poised above the keys. As the page loaded, Flowerdew fired off another, more detailed explanation of what he thought he had in his lab. He copied in all the results of his tests so far and attached a number of photos. The whole process took him ten minutes. He pressed Send.
He sat looking at his laptop, not sure what to do next. It was now completely dark, but the bright lights of the lab spread out across the yard into the field beyond. He put down the laptop and reached into his pants pocket for a coin. Absentmindedly he worked it from his little finger to his ring and middle finger, twisting it up, over, and under like a weaver at a loom. It reached his index finger and thumb, and then he reversed the process and the coin worked its way back again. With the exception of his fingers, he was quite still.
Ten minutes later the phone rang, sounding very loud in the yard, and Flowerdew jumped up, pocketing the coin.
“It’s Christophe Revere, Nathaniel. How are you?” It sounded as if the French co-chair of Greencorps was just calling for a late-night chat, but Flowerdew knew that nothing could have been further than the truth.
“Good, thank you, Christophe. Well as can be expected here, anyway.” He stopped himself from grumbling about the academy; this was not the time and would not have been welcome either. “Everything in the email is true. The rock in my lab is extraordinary. I have only basic equipment of course, but it’s pointing at 126. I know that’s ridiculous, but I’ve checked and rechecked my results. And it’s coming back 126.”
The Frenchman cleared his throat. “Let us be clear what you are claiming.” His tone was half interested, half amused. “When you say 126, you mean element number 126. The 126th element.”
“Yes, Christophe,” said Flowerdew breathlessly. “I know….”
“When only 118 exist. Everything we know or can possibly think of is made from just the 118. I realize this is basic science, but maybe we all need a refresher course?” Christophe Revere chuckled. “You seem to have forgotten much in Britain.”
There was a click, and Flowerdew assumed he was now on speakerphone. In the background he could hear French and Dutch being spoken.
Flowerdew decided to take the initiative. “I know you are laughing, and I don’t blame you. I would in your position too. But before you hang up, just look at the preliminary results I have sent you. Go get your experts; see what they say. I wouldn’t have troubled you if I weren’t totally convinced that you must check this out.”
He heard another voice: “Nathaniel, it’s Jan. You know as well as I do that it can’t be a new element. No one has discovered a naturally occurring element since 1937. That part of the table is complete. It’s perfect. The new ones only exist in laboratory conditions, for fractions of a second, and I believe you need a particle accelerator. Are you seriously expecting us to believe that a new one has turned up in some kid’s rock collection? And now it’s just sitting there in your house? Unless you’re rewriting the laws of science, you’ve lost your mind.”
The Dutchman was always the more aggressive of the two, but even so, Flowerdew didn’t like what he was hearing. “I know how this sounds. But I’m not drunk and I haven’t lost my mind. I’m telling you, I have a rock here that is behaving in a way I have never seen before. All the readings coming from it suggest it will fit into the Table of Elements at 126.”
“What about 119 to 125? Where are they?” asked Revere.
“Good question, Christophe. No idea,” said Flowerdew. “Think of it this way: if I’m right, I have in this lab here the most precious rock ever. Of all time. Worth more than any diamond. If there are others like it—and of course there will be—they’ll pump out so much energy, Cornwall could declare itself energy independent by Christmas. New power stations from Bude to St. Ives. Do you want to take the risk that I’m wrong?”
Christophe Revere spoke first. “OK, we’re interested. If you are wasting our time on this, you do know we will cut you off completely, don’t you? We took a risk recommending you to the academy in the first place. We might be its chief sponsor but we had to push hard. Some of our other schools just refused. By rights, you should be in that prison with your colleague, Shivvi. If you become an embarrassment again …”
“I was aware of the risks of contacting you, yes.”
“Have you completed all your tests?”
“No, there are two more to do—but I would be surprised if they gave any contradictory data.”
“Finish the tests. Send us all the results. Everything.” Revere paused. “However, we really need to know more about where the boy got it from. It obviously won’t be the only one. You say in your email he got it from a dealer.”
“I’ll question him further tomorrow, but there are limits to what you can do if you are just a teacher.”
“We can make help available if necessary. Talk to the boy tomorrow and call back at this time.”
Jan Van Den Hauwe’s voice came on the line again. “You have made us look stupid before. God help you if you do it again.”