13
The train arrived at St. Pancras Station in London.
They both got out of the carriage with its long, streamlined nose that reminded Isaac of his mother’s flat iron, while Bikie thought it looked like a red-and-yellow Japanese dragon.
After they went up in the lift, their eyes were met by a huge, bright dome of glass and iron set on walls of red brick with archways and plastered columns. Beautiful, raw neo-Gothic architecture.
“Bikie, did you know that this place has the longest champagne bar in Europe?”
“I don’t know what you’re hinting at, girlie. Let’s just have a coffee from the machine.”
The machine poured them coffee in cups that had a new stag printed on them: “2. soluble plastic”: in two years there wouldn’t be a trace left of those plastic cups. They each bought a sandwich from the next vending machine and sat down under a sculpture called “Meeting Point”.
Passengers walking by seemed not to see a high sculpture of an embracing young couple, frozen in cast metal.
Not far away was another sculpture, a bit smaller: a respectable-looking man gazing up so intently at the dome that he had to hold on to his hat to stop it from falling off. It was Sir John Betjeman, a poet who adored railways and had been feverishly active in the middle of the last century in the campaign against dismantling the platform of this station. “Look at him, an example of a man who grabbed tight hold of the past in good time. A good sign.”
From the station they went to the University campus, which was a forty-minute drive from London. The University was now named after Jeremy Link.
The genial Hindu taxi driver asked if this was their first time in London.
“Yes, we’ve come to repair our karma,” Bikie informed him.
The Indian gave a broad smile and said that you didn’t repair karma, you restored it.
“My name’s Rashid. Would you like me to explain what karma is and how it influences a person’s life?”
Bikie nodded. Rather than travel in silence, he could listen to something interesting, and not just from a journalist, but from a real Hindu.
Isaac didn’t listen; he was again caught up in his thoughts about the ups and downs of love.
“Thanks Rashid, that was interesting.” Unlike Isaac, Bikie had spent the entire journey discussing and arguing about his karma with the driver. “When we go back, I’ll call you and you can pick us up. Did you get that, Isaac? If you spat in someone’s face in a past life, it may hit you in this one!”
“What?” Isaac had missed the conversation and he didn’t understand a thing.
“Look at you! What a blockhead with leaky karma you are! You’ve got two holes, in your left ear and your right one. It all flew in one and out the other. You missed everything!” Bikie explained disappointedly. “All that interesting stuff you were just told and you didn’t pick up a thing.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t in the mood for listening. And I do know what karma is.”
“In your case that’s as much use as a straw hat against a meteor shower,” Bikie replied acidly. “I’m not going to repeat it all. Listen to me next time, and I’ll swap your karmic sombrero for a decent anti-tank helmet!”
“It’s a deal,” Isaac said with a smile. “But can I have an anti-Bikie helmet?”
“There you go. You’ve just made another hole in it!” Bikie exclaimed indignantly. “What you’ve got isn’t karma, it’s a colander. And your head hasn’t got cerebral convolutions in it, just spaghetti.”
“I hope it’s Italian, at least.” “Yeah, Italian, hard-shell noodle.”
Isaac and Bikie walked up to the library building. They wanted to look inside – it must be really beautiful! It was centuries old and the collection of books had to be huge. All universities unofficially competed with each other to have the best library. Another depository of the ideas and thoughts of great people, only not computerized. If the Agency could have found a way to augment its capacity not by using people, but the books they had written, what immense power that would have been! The book-learning machine! Though there was nothing good about artificial intelligence either. All the films on that subject inevitably ended with a computer declaring war against mankind.
The University was beautiful and it had a certain aroma of aristocratic dignity. Neatly trimmed lawns on all sides, with students on them, discussing something or other: some sitting there, reading textbooks, some lying on the grass and fiddling with their laptops. A scene from a fairytale. And lots of attractive girls.
“I’d come here as a lecturer,” said Bikie, impressed by two young girls who had just walked by.
“And what would you teach? Rebellion and rock-n-roll?” “Libertarianism and freethinking. Epicureanism, as well.” “This is a mixed University. You ought to go straight to one with just women to do your lecturing. Although you’re more interested in the practical classes aren’t you?”
“Screw you. If you envy my high-flying fantasy just say so. You’ll never reach such heights with that spaghetti of yours.”
“Do I understand right that you won’t take me as a lab assistant in your department?”
“In my department I conduct all the lab work in person,” Bikie declared solemnly, adjusting his jeans lewdly. “But we’ll find a sweet little fat girl for you.”