Half Life

Half Life

by

Pamela Kelt and Robert J. Deeth

Historical romance set in 1930s Norway

Smashwords edition

Copyright © 2016 by Pamela Kelt

All rights reserved

First published 2013

Cover Design:

Pamela Kelt

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* * * *

Discover other titles by Pamela Kelt on Smashwords:

Ice Trekker

Tomorrow’s Anecdote

True Haven

A Walk in the Park

Last Spring

Midsummer Glen

The Deed Box

* * * *

HALF LIFE

"Some search for the North Pole. Others seek to split the atom. They are both perilous journeys. When it comes to the former, it is up to the men and women involved to consider risking their lives. I throw up my hands and leave them to it. However, when it comes

to the latter, these nuclear adventurers risk the future of mankind, and I, for one, fear for us all."

Aaron Edelstein (1868-1939), Chancellor’s Lecture, 1933, University of Vienna

* * * *

Chapter One

Occupation? The border guard turned his official grey gaze upon her.

Pardon?

Occupation. Job.

Oh, I see. Sorry. Chemist.

"Farmasøyt?"

No. A doctor.

"Lege? Physician?"

PhD. I’m a theoretical chemist. Research. After nearly a dozen years at Cambridge, Dulcie was used to explaining. She pushed her passport toward him and loosened the belt of her macintosh. It was nine o’clock on an August morning in Oslo, and surprisingly warm. The official peered at the photograph. He looked back at her. She smiled and waited.

The guard sighed and dialled his telephone. After a few words, he replaced the receiver and turned to her. Lyngen Institute? Sohlberg?

That’s right, she said. I’m with Professor Spinneyfield.

Ah. He nodded, then stamped the page like a baker stamping biscuits. "Velkommen til Norge, Doktor Bennett."

She nodded, replaced it in her clutch bag and moved away, glad to be back on dry land after the crossing from Copenhagen. The professor passed through quickly and was soon trotting alongside, head tilted like an optimistic partridge in a windswept moor out of the shooting season. He scanned the terrain. This way! He veered off toward a sign that read "Tog Oslo-Bergen" next to a picture of a train. She adjusted the strap of her shoulder case. It was heavy. Inside was her calculating machine, which she refused to let out of her sight. It had cost a small fortune, and weighed around a stone, but she was quite used to carting it about—and making sure it didn’t ladder her stockings. She was grateful she’d sent her trunk on in advance.

Ahead, a double door opened. Steam billowed out and a square-shouldered man in a well-cut greatcoat launched out. Both Dulcie and the professor pressed themselves against the tiled wall as he swept on, leading a group of men who moved forward in formation, sleek in black and grey. Some carried briefcases in soft leather. Two more men in black coats appeared from behind Dulcie and approached the party. They saluted, using the straight right-armed salute she’d seen on the newsreels. "Heil Hitler!" The leader nodded, and followed them out of the customs hall into a waiting Mercedes-Benz embassy staff car, its black, polished bodywork gleaming. Swastikas fluttered from the front wings. The soft leather top was already folded down.

Who were they? She kept her voice low.

Spinneyfield just stared. A fellow traveller in a sharp suit and brown hat leaned toward them. German inspection group from Telemark, judging by the arrivals board, he said, tapping his nose. "Coupla Gestapo and a bunch of tame scientists. I bet they’re scurrying back to the embassy to send in their reports about heavy water production to the Führer."

Really? Dulcie wondered how he knew so much.

Oh yeah. He stressed the first word. The plant’s been producing the stuff since ’34. He held out his hand. Sorry, should’ve introduced myself. The name’s Wendell P. Sanger.

The professor intercepted. How do you do? I am Stanley Spinneyfield, Professor of Theoretical Chemistry, Cambridge, specialising in wave function theory. Oh, and this is my research assistant, Dr. Dulcie Bennett.

I heard. Sanger raised his hat and gave her figure an admiring glance. Although you don’t look like any research assistant I’ve ever seen.

Dulcie smiled, but said nothing. This type of comment was all-too familiar but, for some reason, she didn’t mind. In fact, she rather liked Sanger, and his deep brown eyes that looked amused. Easy laughter lines ran either side of a friendly mouth. She also enjoyed his accent with its hard-boiled vowels. New York, she decided.

And you, Mr. Sanger. What brings you here? the professor was saying.

Sanger pulled a face. I’m just a secretary to the head of the U.S. outfit that’s funding our research in Norway. My job’s to report back on our guys’ progress.

The prof barely listened. I am looking forward to some pretty lively discussions about Enrico Fermi’s work on bombarding elements with neutrons instead of protons.

You don’t say.

Battle lines have been drawn.

Well then, prof, I guess we’re all headed in the same direction.

Geographically, politically, or sub-atomically?

Sanger laughed. His teeth were white and square. I heard about you Brits and your humour. All three, I hope. Especially these days.

Wendell Sanger held open the door for her and she went through and found herself on a station platform, clouds of condensation billowing out as if a liquid nitrogen Dewar had sprung a leak. A porter in a uniform waved them forward. Doors banged, someone shouted something she couldn’t make out, then, before they’d found their seats, the train lurched forward.

* * * *

She dropped onto the threadbare seat and placed her two bags beside her. It was two whole days since she and the professor had left Cambridge and taken the train (second class) to Dover. After hours of trundling through northern European wheat fields, they’d arrived in Copenhagen and taken the ferry to Oslo. She opened her handbag, found her compact, and refreshed her lipstick. By now, they were travelling in dazzling sunshine through some of the most spectacular scenery Norway had to offer, and she settled back to watch.

Bolt upright, Spinneyfield sat opposite, reading his guidebook, glancing out as the train toiled upward into the forested mountains. It was almost twelve hours to Bergen, and another few hours to go after that. She should have brought another book.

Sanger was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably booked a sleeper. Smart devil, she thought. The professor had insisted on this train trip, being a great fan of the railways. She wasn’t, but, being the research assistant, she had no choice in the matter. She caught her reflection in the glass and was forced to agree with Sanger. She wasn’t the typical research assistant. Her peers were all men in their early twenties, with schoolboy haircuts and lumpy jackets. Dulcie wore her dark hair cut in a sleek bob. Even though she needed to wear the regulation white lab coat, she wore suits specially made by a tailor on the King’s Parade (based on an ensemble she’d bought in London), and her shoes always co-ordinated with her bag, as was the case today. As for jewellery, her choice was inevitably pearl earrings and a diamante bracelet watch.

All a far cry from the fresh-faced eighteen-year-old who’d arrived in the city a decade ago. She smiled at the memory of the childish clothes, the side hair-parting, and flat shoes. She had changed so much. This trip could mean some changes, too.

She glanced at the prof’s plump figure buttoned into a rather out-dated brown tweed jacket. Fluffy silvery hair clustered either side of a bald pate. With his battered trilby and his briefcase by his side, he could only be an academic—or perhaps an evil mastermind in disguise.

In truth, although he talked all the time, she seldom knew what he was thinking. She wondered if he even knew she was planning to apply for a permanent position at the university. Few women ever tried. Perhaps that was why he was exiling them to Norway for a year, just to keep her to himself? Was he that devious?

Ah! he cried, tapping at the window, waggling his eyebrows, which sprouted alarmingly above small, sharp eyes. Lake Krøderen!

Really? She stared out of the window, her thoughts wandering as the prof prattled on about monazite and rare-earth metals.

Cedric would have hated this journey, she decided. He liked his comforts. Luncheon at college at one on the dot. Sherry in the senior common room at six. Bicycle clips on the hook by the lab door. Even the few times they’d managed to get away together, she’d been surprised how fussy he was about cushions and pillows and blankets and toothbrushes. His blond hair always needed to be combed just so, and cheeks freshly shaven. Well, his wife could deal with all of that now. She had him all to herself. Dulcie had abdicated.

The train charged into a tunnel, distorting the sound of the engine. She shifted in her seat, seeing the professor smile his supervisorial smile. In some ways, he wasn’t a bad boss. In fact, compared to some dons, he was positively revolutionary, selecting a female scientist as his assistant. Probably not an evil mastermind, then, she decided, editing her thoughts.

Of course, she had by far the best qualifications. Maths at Newnham, followed by a PhD, moving into theoretical chemistry with Spinneyfield. From the outset, he seemed to be impressed and now barely even checked her maths any more. She was a perfectionist, checking and double-checking her work until her fingers blistered from turning the handle on the barrel of her trusty Brunsviga calculating machine. She patted the reassuring bulk of the moulded case.

Good, wholesome numbers, she thought. Black and white. Non-subjective. Rows and columns, no wavy probabilities. Abruptly, her stomach rumbled. She rummaged in her coat pocket and produced two rolls she’d bought on the ferry to Oslo. She offered one to the professor. Luncheon?

Ham and egg! How nourishing. He fished a newspaper out of his briefcase and draped it over his knees. He took a messy bite and some egg landed on a picture of a brunette wearing too many jewels and a thin-lipped smile. Dulcie twisted her head to read the headline. American socialite Wallis Simpson joins King and guests for cruise along Yugoslav coast.

Dulcie glanced at the paper, feeling relieved that her personal life wasn’t quite so complicated. At least she wasn’t a divorcée and consorting with a monarch.

The professor chose to be oblivious to the stray egg and put on his omniscient face, which was deeply irritating because he was usually right. Did you realise that along this stretch of railway it is only in the late summer that there is no snow? Soon, everywhere will be white.

She made an appropriate noise, making a mental note to go shopping for winter clothes right away. What did one wear? Cambridge was often below freezing, but this experience was going to be quite different.

I trust the next few months won’t be too dull. He dabbed at his chin, watching her reaction.

A break from the Cambridge ‘hothouse’ could be just the thing.

Indeed. He gave her a sideways look and folded up the newspaper. But what can you expect? He was a botanist, after all. Still, a whole year in Norway should see it all blow over nicely.

Blood rushed to her face. So, the professor did know about her affair. At least he’d kept her on. Some bosses would have found a way to get rid of a woman with the wrong sort of reputation. She tried to think of something to say and decided to stay silent.

Never mind all that. Fresh start, what? Just ignore what the others say, continued the prof in a brassy, bright tone.

So there it was. Spinneyfield now had something on her. He would be prepared to overlook her behaviour, if she continued to work for him. Academic blackmail, pure and simple. Even if another permanent job came up, in Cambridge or anywhere else, and she decided to apply, what kind of reference would he write? She was trapped. Meanwhile, Cedric could continue swanning about in Cambridge unscathed, running those long fingers through his fringe and making the ladies swoon.

I think I’ll have a short nap, Dulcie. Wake me in an hour?

She nodded, shifting uncomfortably on the prickly seat. Only nine more hours to Bergen.

* * * *

The sky was darkening as they reached the coast. The professor had booked two rooms at a small hotel, and after a light supper she headed upstairs to her room. She closed the door, relishing the privacy. There was a small nightclub just below, and she stood by the window, smoking a cigarette, listening to the music until midnight.

Next morning, after an odd breakfast of cheese and sweet rolls, they hailed a cab and bumped along the cobbled streets at an inappropriate speed toward the harbour.

My wife would have loved all this, said the professor as they rattled along, gazing out at the steep gabled buildings reflected in the water. But it wasn’t to be... He sighed. I shall write scores of postcards to tell my son and daughter-in-law all about it.

Maybe you should go to America and tell them in person, she suggested, gripping the seat.

He cocked his head. I could at that. Travelling could become quite addictive, even for aged widowers.

She was busy pooh-poohing politely when the taxi swerved into a parking space perilously close to the steep jetty. The driver slammed on the brakes and turned off the engine. They got out and looked round, the crystal air coursing into her head and making her feel almost light-headed.

Hey! Prof, Dr. Bennett!

It was Wendell Sanger, dapper in a light grey suit and snazzy tie that would be hard to miss in a modern art gallery with pretensions. His mood was ebullient. He strode over. Ain’t this great? Ethel gave me this fancy camera that I just gotta try out.

Ethel?

The boss! Promised her lots of snapshots. Might be small, but it’s a fancy piece of kit, this little Exakta. He lifted up a small black box and peered down into the viewer. Watch the birdie! He clicked. One for the family album.

The professor tapped her arm and nodded toward the end of the jetty. That’s our transport. She turned to see a silver plane, perched on two ungainly pontoons that defied the concept of flight. It rocked gently as the harbour waves splashed against the jetty, making her feel queasy already.

German-built floatplane, said Sanger, taking another shot. If you hadn’t a guessed. A Junkers 52. Too slow to be an effective bomber, so they converted them for civilian use. They just chop the wheels off and stick on the floats. Makes a whole lotta places easier to reach. Especially up here, with all the fjørds.

She stared at the swastika painted on the tail. It stared right back, black and harsh, a contrast to the cheery red, blue, and white of the Norwegian flags that dotted the harbour. But isn’t Norway neutral?

"Of course, gnädiges Fräulein. They turned to see a blond man approach from the warehouse behind them, unzipping a thick leather flying jacket as he strolled toward them. Quite the dashing aviator, thought Dulcie. Tall, muscled, clean-shaven, with well-cut hair. But there was something arrogant in the way he regarded the passengers. That, combined with the distinct whiff of sickly cologne, made her dislike him on sight. The man’s gaze slid past her toward Wendell. Until recently, this aircraft was in the service of Lufthansa. The Norwegians purchased it from us last month, he went on. No doubt, they will change the...what is the word...? Livery? Yes. Now, if you have taken enough photographs... He let his voice fade. Sanger scowled and put away his camera. Danke schön, Mein Herr."

His English was good, but Dulcie recognised the clipped vowels and occasional lisped consonants of North Germany. She had spent several summers as an exchange student in Hamburg perfecting her command of spoken German. She liked to keep in practice, but now had to content herself with chatting to visiting academics.

"My name is Hauptmann Fritz Beck, the pilot on the Svane II," he said, unknotting an ivory silk scarf.

Sanger leaned over to her. "Don’t ask what happen to the Svane I."

No, said Beck, glancing at Dulcie. Best not. But that pilot had not been trained by Lufthansa. When the ladder is in place, you may board. Once your paperwork has been checked, of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me. My flight engineer needs my assistance.

"Natürlich," replied Sanger, in an appalling German accent, and winked at her.

A man in spattered overalls was working his way down the wing root walkway, wiping the inevitable film of engine oil off the passenger windows before clambering along the left float toward the port engine, checking the propellers. The pilot went over and they exchanged a few quiet words, ignoring the waiting passengers. As Dulcie watched, she thought the engineer might have been an albino, but he turned, and she found herself being ogled by a ruddy-cheeked thickset young man with a wide, flat forehead, piercing blue eyes, and fleshy lips. He muttered something to the pilot without averting his gaze. Both men laughed and Dulcie looked away, annoyed.

Whatever the engineer was doing, it seemed to take forever. At one point, the engineer’s voice drifted over.

"Das Öldruck im rechten Motor ist immer noch ein bisschen hoch..."

"Macht nichts. Ein schwieriger Start veilleicht aber wenn’s nötig ist, können wir auf zwei fliegen."

Her stomach fluttered. Had she heard that correctly? Could the aircraft really take off on only two engines?

What are they doing? bleated the professor. Is anything the matter?

No, no, she said quickly. Won’t be long now. Finally, a stiff-backed flight attendant in a brass-buttoned serge coat appeared, ushered them to the edge of the jetty, and assisted them up the metal ladder over the water. Grabbing her things, she felt as though she were climbing out of a swimming pool rather than clambering onto a plane. Its ridged fuselage glinted in the sunlight. It was even larger close up, which was reassuring.

A firm hand guided her through the cabin door, and then she came to a halt, startled. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. A simple interior, perhaps. Metal panels, canvas seats. Quite basic. Instead, it was like the Orient Express. It had a single row of seats on each side for eighteen passengers. White linen covers, white cushions, white tablecloths, white curtains tied with white ribbons.

Once again, the ghost of Cedric drifted through her mind. He would have loved every starched fold and perfect bow. She batted the memory away and found her seat. Other passengers had been arriving, including several she recognised from the train. They picked their way down the corridor and sat down.

She crossed her legs and peered out of her cabin window at the skyline of Bergen, making sure her canvas bag was safely stowed under the seat. The plane bobbed up and down. It was an odd sensation, she decided, adjusting the safety belt. Here she was, on board a Nazi flying boat half way up the coast of Norway, facing nearly five hours of air travel barely skimming the waves. She had never been aloft and wondered what it would be like. She didn’t suffer from seasickness, but what about air travel? She wondered what had happened to the Svane I.

She stared at the water, contemplating her decision to accompany the prof on his sabbatical to Norway. Surely it wasn’t a mistake? Well, at least Cedric Healey wouldn’t leave his wife now. He’d hinted as much at their last meeting, and she’d been horrified, recalling the day she’d spotted them shopping on Mill Road. It was horribly prosaic, mainly because she’d looked so nice and ordinary, with her plain coat and thick stockings. His wife would have been devastated if Cedric had left her for another. As for Dulcie...well. The experience had cut her to the quick. She’d ended their liaison right away.

As for how she felt about him now, she preferred not to dwell on the matter. In fact, the whole sorry business had made her concentrate on her career. Now was the time to stand up for herself. Put her case for pursuing a permanent job as an academic. She felt sure she could do the research, deal with the students, handle college duties and take on the male dons. She had been doing most of it already. There was such a phenomenon as a female academic. In fact, she was becoming increasingly determined to use the year to prove herself and make some startling new discovery and turn this to her advantage...

There was a bang and a guttural splutter as the front engine coughed into life. A cloud of smoke drifted past the window. Dulcie tried not to think about faulty motors and closed her eyes, but the engine caught and began to run smoothly. A few minutes later, the left and right engines were chugging. To her relief, all three appeared to be running smoothly. With the main door locked and the landing lines untied, the ungainly machine gently drifted away from the dock and taxied out across the water.

The attendant hovered at Dulcie’s shoulder. First, we shall demonstrate the safety jackets, he said, and then, when we are clear of the Bergen mountains—which are quite high as you can see—and safely over the Norwegian Sea, would madam care for a cocktail?

God, yes, she said.

Beside her, the professor polished his spectacles. I don’t suppose one could order a sherry?

The attendant smirked. Sweet, medium, or dry?

Sanger’s head emerged around the seat in front. I’d go for a Manhattan, he said. "With ice. Lots of ice. After all, we are headed for the Arctic Circle."

Chapter Two

Early morning sunlight streamed in, framing the Bauhaus clock in the lounge. The device was so fashionable it had no numbers, and both hands looked the same. It summed up the apartment. Sleek, stylish, compact, with a cerebral hint of design over function.

Still in her dressing gown, Dulcie filled the shiny rocket-ship percolator with water, packed in some grounds, and switched it on. There had been no instructions, but she’d bullied it into submission and had become quite addicted to the ritual. Her work routine was already well-honed. Almost six weeks had passed and she’d adopted a morning ritual. Breakfast at seven, bus at eight, institute by half-past.

Perched in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, she sipped some orange juice and stared out at the view of rooftops, as the sun rose above the mountains beyond.

When they’d arrived in the town of Sohlberg in August, the daylight hours were similar to Cambridge, despite the fact they were so far north. At first, Dulcie had found it hard not to wake when the sun rose at four thirty. It got dark around half-past eight in the evening. Now at the start of October, dawn was just before six o’clock, so it was light by the time she rose for breakfast. As for the afternoons and evenings, after a long soft dusk, it was pitch black twelve hours later.

She was hoping to see the aurora borealis, but it had failed to show. It was like sitting on the coach, waiting to see the Blackpool Lights—and discovering you were in Bootle.

When the coffee was ready, she poured a cup, then glanced at her watch. Half seven. Half an hour before catching the bus to the institute up the hill. As she picked at a pastry bought the evening before, she perched at the breakfast bar, idly finishing some calculations.

The single-bedroomed flat on the first floor of a turn-of-the-century block was ideal, suiting her needs exactly. Laid out more or less in a square, the kitchen and lounge faced the street, while the bedroom and bathroom were at the back. Hidden away by the entrance, with Scandinavian ingenuity, was a walk-in closet that made the place easy to keep tidy.

The kitchen was especially swish, with fitted cupboards and geometric tiling. It had a polished wooden floor, geometric art, and angular lamps with a hint of industrial chic. All a far cry from her modest two-up two-down in Trafalgar Street, with its worn burgundy carpets and seasoned, barley twist furniture.

The prof had limited funds, so he’d contacted the institute on her behalf to see if anyone wanted a sabbatical in Cambridge. One chap duly obliged, and she agreed to swap homes for a whole academic year. This barter system was new to her, but she dutifully packed up her clothes and incidentals, and had them stored away, leaving her house free for her Norwegian guests—one Arvik Allevig, a young meteorologist and his new wife—both with a taste for modernity.

Dulcie smiled as she remembered her saggy sofa, and the crocheted blanket that her Nan from Macclesfield had given her when she first got into university. Maybe she’d redecorate when she got home.

Coffee finished, Dulcie brushed her teeth and got dressed. It hadn’t taken long to realise her sharp suits and peg heels were out of place north of the Arctic Circle. After scouring the stores, she’d found a gentlemen’s outfitter and ordered three pairs of trousers with deep cuffs, high waists, and deep pockets. Worn with brogues, a soft sweater, pearl necklace, and a silk scarf, she felt they gave her the look of an American socialite dropping into the country club for an hour’s lesson with the golf instructor. And, she had to admit, they were infinitely more comfortable than anything she’d worn before; and what a sense of liberation! Cedric always complimented her on her ankles, so she wore heels to please him. Not any more.

She grabbed her new woollen swing coat and slung the canvas bag containing her precious calculating machine over her shoulder. Hats had been a problem, too, and she’d finally come up with a simple and elegant solution—a felt beret. It looked chic, and didn’t blow off in a sudden gust of wind. She pulled it on, and checked herself in the mirror. Smart, functional—and warm. If one lived through a few Cambridge winters, one learned to adjust.

She left the apartment and descended the stairs to street level. As she headed off, she could see the lounge curtains on the ground-floor flat twitch. Mrs. Rosenquist, a dumpy woman with bulging, suspicious eyes, was the nominal concierge, and always seemed to be there, watching. She gave a debonair wave and the curtains went still.

As usual, that morning Dulcie took the shortcut by the harbour. Treading carefully on the slippery decking, she passed the faded weatherboard houses and rusty boats. What would it be like here in midwinter, with snow on the ground and a lazy sun that stayed below the horizon? No doubt she would manage. The locals did.

The bus arrived (spot on time, as she had come to expect) and she climbed on board, nodding to the driver. He nodded back, and the vehicle turned and went down the main street. Once a simple fishing village on the northern tip of Norway, Sohlberg now had pretensions. Not least of which was the Lyngen Institute that stood on the hillside overlooking the town—a stark, white temple of proficiency and science filled with crusty academics and white-coated acolytes.

Leaving the bus stop, she walked briskly uphill past the landscaped lawns and shrubs that separated the carpark from the building, and up the path to the entrance, a tall fortress of glass and steel that projected from the rest of the structure and that never ceased to impress her. She went to the nearest set of doors and pushed them open. The metal handles were forged in patterns of geometric lines suggesting transverse waves, and were cold to the touch. Wind whistled past, as it always did in structures when fume cupboards were in use. The doors closed after her with a sigh, and she stepped across the circular, brightly lit foyer; sunlight shining through the rows of horizontal, curved windows—the very latest in decorative chic, created by an up-and-coming Danish architect to take advantage of the light.

To the left lay the east wing, filled with shiny new labs. The introductory tour by a pale-faced technician called Sverre Hjellewaal seemed a lifetime away, when she’d been paraded past yards of polished teak benches, and rows of shelves filled with carefully labelled bottles of varied liquids and crystalline compounds.

Today, she nodded to the receptionist seated behind a central teak desk, and headed right to the west wing, down a corridor that led to an office that she had to herself. After hanging up her beret and coat near a radiator, she set to work.

She pulled over a pile of calculations on the radioactive properties of uranium 238 and began to check them. The professor’s handwriting was cramped, but she was familiar with his shorthand by now. She made a few notes in the margins, but her hands were still cold, so she unpacked the Brunsviga and set to work.

We shall be looking at Fermi’s neutron capture data from ’34, the professor had announced on the first day. I’m dubious about his interpretation. Of course, the obvious conclusion is that one makes ‘Element 93’. But I am not convinced Fermi has properly demonstrated the necessary beta emissions, and neither, if you recall, has what’s-her-name.

Dr. Ida Noddach.

Whatever. You only have to read her article in wherever it was.

"Zeitschrift für Angewandte Chemie," said Dulcie.

If you say so. Anyway, I never took to that dreadful name he came up with. Hesperium! Really. Far too fanciful. I, however, intend to prove the existence of a new element, and give it a decent British name.

He’d then maundered on about Marie Curie winning the Nobel prize twice, once for physics and once for chemistry. And only last year her daughter won the chemistry Nobel for her work on artificial radiation. I suppose she had a natural advantage. Maybe it’s time I rethink our strategy, and concentrate on getting something from the Royal Society.

Dulcie worked until