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Chapter
25
For
David Lutman, dressed in a traditional black morning suit, bow tie,
and a top hat that would never be worn throughout the whole day
except for photographs, the whole occasion seemed terribly American
and surreal.
Although
his brother Tom was his best man, Patrick Clarkson had ensured that
his duties would be made easier and simpler by assigning him only the
giving of the ring, introducing the guest speakers, and delivering
his speech. The house staff would be handling the rest.
The
service was conducted in his future father-in law’s small church.
Lutman was duly asked if he would take Deanne to be his lawfully
wedded wife, and that he would love her, and cherish her, for as long
as they both shall live. After looking into her eyes, and gazing at
the brilliant white wedding dress with the longest train he had ever
seen, he had no qualms or hesitation whatsoever in declaring that he
would do so.
Deanne’s
voice faltered as she was about to answer. She looked up at the high
stone ceiling. She felt sure her mother was enjoying the whole
occasion.
*
The
bride and groom’s relief was apparent when the service, and all the
photographs that immediately followed, was over. Happy couple and
guests were driven over to Clarkson’s house for the recepetion in a
brilliant white and suitably dressed-up Rolls-Royce. As to whom their
guests were, apart from his immediately family, Mr. David Lutman had
no idea who anyone was, with one exception.
Carl
Pickover’s presence had been a subject of considerable debate
between him, and Lutman and Deanne. They felt he was not well known,
or known long enough by them to be justified as a guest. In the
event, they agreed his presence might be useful: Deanne’s father
had invited a lot of physicist friends, and he could chat to them to
see if he could discover anything.
For
Deanne, there was certainly one other very familiar face in the line
of people that were waiting to formally greet the couple and to hand
over their wedding gifts.
‘Hello
Deanne,’ said a youngish, well-groomed man in a broad Nottingham
accent.
‘Tony?’
She
stood, surprised, and then she smiled broadly. ‘Tony! Tony Fenton!
It’s really lovely to see you again! How’s Collette? Is she
here?’
‘Sadly
she isn’t,’ replied Fenton dryly. ‘Bit short notice, you know.
But she’s fine. She says hello, and congratulations. Han, Abs and
Em all send their love, too, and are asking when you’re coming back
to Nottingham!’
‘I
suppose you’d better ask my husband!’ she laughed.
‘Well,
you couldn’t’ve got a better day for the wedding,’ Fenton
added, ‘no way you’d’ve got sunshine all day and daytime
temperatures close to 80 degrees in April in the UK.’
They
hugged, he kissed her on both cheeks, and turned to her husband.
‘That was a lovely service today. You’re an incredibly lucky man,
David.’
‘So
you must be Tony, Deanne’s father’s friend!’
‘Certainly
am! How’re you doing?’
They
shook hands. ‘Couldn’t be happier. Tell me, how's Hensfield
doing?’
‘The
football team? Lost two nil last Saturday, I’m afraid. Struggling a
bit now, unfortunately for you, although I reckon we’re going
down!’
‘Ah
yes,’ added Deanne, ‘I forgot you love soccer.’
‘Well
I’m not going to let that spoil your day,’ said Fenton
cheerfully, ‘You two enjoy yourselves.’
Pickover
mulled around inside and outside the marquee, introducing himself as
a friend of Deanne’s, and keeping small talk strictly on his and
their occupations. When it came to sitting down for the wedding meal,
however, he found himself next to one of Clarkson’s physicist
buddies. He appeared to be genuinely happy to discuss his work with
him.
*
David
Lutman had insisted that, as they had a proper wedding, then they
should have a proper honeymoon. And so both agreed that the subject
of time machines would be dropped completely during their two-week
vacation in Florida.
He
quietly acquired a new card for his cell phone, and only both sets of
parents were given the new number: no time machines also meant no
Carl Pickover. Pickover had, naturally, wanted to tell them what he
had learned at the reception, and insisted that they take her phone.
‘No, we’ll call you when we get back,’ Lutman had cheerfully
enthused.
*
Pickover
decided to arrange a meeting with his new buddy, Cameron Carter,
three days later. At the reception, he had felt confident enough to
divulge his theories to him about traveling through time and the
possibilities of the technology required. His reward was Carter
telling him that he knew one of the 3000 scientific and technical
staff that helped to prepare, run, analyse and interpret the
countless complex experiments at the CERN laboratory in Geneva.
When
asked why he felt it so important to pursue his time-travel theory,
Pickover carefully responded, ‘I… just have some positive ideas
but I need someone with extensive knowledge in this field of quantum
physics to either prove or disprove my theories.’
‘Then
this guy at CERN should be able to help you out,’ said Carter
enthusiastically. ‘In fact, he’s due back in the States in a few
days. I’ll give you his cellphone number. He’s smart, and there
are few people who know more about the subject then, of course, your
Hawkings, Einsteins, Thornes, Malletts, and Davies’s.’
‘So
he’s American?’
‘Sure
is, but he does a lot of work connected with particle accelerators in
Geneva, particularly with the LHC. And he’s a bloody good
mathematician, too.’
Pickover
was handed Cameron’s business card and wrote down the name and
number of the man at CERN on the reverse.
‘Hope
you’re not gonna need the LHC,’ added Carter.
‘Let
me guess. Broken down again?’
‘What
d’you think? And when it’s repaired?’
‘Two
year waiting list for use.'
Carl Pickover tried to force a smile.
Carl Pickover tried to force a smile.
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