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smile, ‘which has led to some amazing and unexpected discoveries. But under the present funding arrangements, my research could easily be channelled into work on biological weapons.’ She shrugged, ‘I’m faced with some difficult decisions.’
    Harry said her NOGA fellowship was ideal for just this purpose. ‘And don’t forget, there’s plenty of help around. Just let me know if there’s anything or anyone you need.’
    Harry then turned to Jack, cocking his head in such a way that the light bounced off his baldness.
    â€˜These troubled times have brought you back into the swim,’ he said.
    There are bald heads that are classical domes which concentrate the thoughts, others are globes of worldliness. Harry’s baldness, Jack decided, was not of either kind. His head lacked hair and the skull thus bared lacked those interesting mounds that suggest wisdom and experience. Harry’s head was big. His skull was naked. A numbskull, Jack thought, and stifled a laugh.
    â€˜Well, Jack, what do you say about your new popularity?’ Harry’s voice was raised.
    And Jack’s humour evaporated. It was as if Harry were conducting the evening, conducting them all. Jack looked across at Ava. She was watching her husband with a smile on her face, gazing at him with unambiguous pride. This new Harry had an unnerving confidence entirely lacking in his younger self. This new Harry, it seemed to Jack, was accustomed to running the show.
    4.
    Jack was home by eleven. His flat was empty, the evening was empty, his life, if not yet empty, was draining fast. He poured himself a glass of wine and stood at the window, staring into the blackness. From the road outside came the swish of cars speeding people home to families and conversation and someone to sleep with. He stared at the glass until his own image forced itself into consciousness, then abruptly he turned away.
    He had chosen the permanent glitter of the remembered past over an increasingly parsimonious present, but now hewas wondering if it was nothing more than the comfortable familiarity of the past that made it so attractive. Like nostalgia, that B-grade emotion. For everything about tonight had disappointed: the conversation, the humour, his best and oldest friends.
    He refilled his glass and wandered into his study. This room, little changed from his university days, used to be his bedroom; this place where he now lived, was where he grew up; this flat used to be his parents’ flat. Around the time he had left for New Zealand, his parents had moved down to Tasmania. Unsure whether they wanted to start again in a new place, they had rented out the flat. But several years later, drawn by what they described as the only truly radical community in Australia and the only location with a civilised climate, they decided to move to Tasmania permanently. In the same week that they put the flat on the market, the NOGA fellowship was offered to Jack. The flat was withdrawn from sale and Jack moved in. He bought some furniture, he stocked the kitchen drawers and cupboards, otherwise everything remained much as it was when he was growing up.
    There was a flyer on his study wall advertising an anti-apartheid demonstration and next to it a ‘Sisterhood is Powerful’ poster; above his desk was a picture of a blood-coloured mushroom cloud and the caption ‘One Nuclear Bomb Can Ruin Your Whole Day’. An old school tie hanging from the door handle was pinned with badges: ‘When this button melts we are in a nuclear accident’; ‘Seen one nuclear war you’ve seen them all’; ‘Who killed Karen Silkwood?’. If he were to flip through his notebooks and diaries of his university days, he would find references to debates, lectures, seminars, radical theatre, late-night readings, seasons of European films, and discussions withan astonishing array of people. There was something intrinsically wonderful