Free Nature's Shift by Brian Stableford Page A

easily enough, and if you want to bring an assistant, that’s fine…provided that he or she is capable of discretion. I can’t have information being leaked, Peter. I know that I can trust you—but I need to make that clear. I have to maintain secrecy, until I’ve perfected my procedures. You do understand, don’t you?”
    I didn’t, yet—how could I, when he hadn’t explained anything? What he was saying did help, slightly, to explain why he hadn’t published anything in years, but only in a superficial sense. Science isn’t supposed to have secrets. It’s an innately collaborative endeavor, whose purpose is to bring knowledge into the light, to add to the sum of human understanding. The legendary wizards of old hoarded the wisdom they were supposed to have, deliberately hiding it away in order to maintain a monopoly—or, more likely, to conceal its idiocy and impotence—but real science is intrinsically opposed to that philosophy. Even in matters where money is at stake, because some discoverer or inventor wants to profit from his endeavor—and who doesn’t?—there’s an elaborate system of patents to protect financial interests while permitting and facilitating publication. That has been true for centuries, and in a time of ecological crisis, the pressure on scientists to reveal anything and everything that might be relevant to combating the crisis is more than a duty; it’s a necessity. Rowland and I were living in interesting times; the survival of the species had been at risk for at least four generations, and would still be at risk for at least another four. Anyone who discovered anything that might help was morally obliged to make it known.
    For the moment, however, all I could say was: “Okay. Whatever conditions you impose, I’ll abide by them.”
    â€œGood,” he said. “In that case, it will be very pleasant to see you again. You have no idea how starved I am of real conversation. This isn’t the same.” He waved his arm to indicate the telephonic apparatus that was connecting us. He was right about conversation not being the same over the phone, even if the cameras weren’t rigged to lie. Electronic communication gives us sight and sound, but not presence. Real presence involves touch, and all kinds of olfactory stimuli of which we’re not even consciously aware. A person can sit in front of a screen all day, talking to a hundred other people in turn, and still be “starved of real conversation,” for lack of the authentic nourishment of presence.
    Rowland had to be lonely. He had to be grateful for the fact that I wanted to visit, even if he hadn’t been able to admit it to himself before, because of his passion for maintaining the secrecy of whatever it was that he was so determined to keep secret. In all likelihood, he really did need to see a friendly face, and to keep company with a friend for a while. I really would be doing him a favor.
    â€œI’ll call again as soon as I’ve got a timetable worked out,” I said. “There are some formalities to clear up with the university, but there won’t be any hitches. I hope to be on my way by the end of the week, if that’s not too soon.”
    â€œNo problem,” he said. “Just let me know what you need, and I’ll make what advance provision I can. We can sort out the details when you’re here. There are inevitable delays in delivery way out here, but money talks, and I have plenty of that, thanks to dear old Roderick. I don’t say that the impossible gets done at once when I snap my fingers, and even the possible takes time, but whatever we need, I can get.”
    I appreciated the we .
    â€œThat’s great,” I said—and bade him a temporary farewell, in order to set the wheels in motion.
    That proved a good deal easier than might have been expected. I had to apply for instantaneous