Bold War 2020: World Transformation, Unearthed Treasure

By Redemption

Distinguished academic Andrew Buchanan awakes in 2050 from a generation-long coma to find the world has experienced great social and economic change - for the better. He is amazed that so much has been achieved, in his areas of specialty, in such a short time, without resort to technological breakthroughs or religious crusades. Especially as the main instigator was his younger brother Kent, a cynical mining magnate with no interest in social progress. Beautiful Christiana leads him through the profound and long-overdue advances, and how they were achieved against all the odds and the menace of the underworld. Drama and suspense, intrigue and passion - and then the stunning conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Redemption
• Release date: Dec 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310164583

Redemption

About the Author(s)Bold War 2020 is written as/for/by 'Redemption'. In the book it explains that Redemption stands for the initials of two of the characters, Rose E Danne and Ed May, followed by a machine, Pisces Three, all In One Novel. In real life it is the intention of the authos(s) to remain anonymous for the time being, for reasons outlined in the book.A degree of international flavour arises from living and working in California, South Dakota, United Kingdom, France and Australia, with time spent in India and the Far East. Experience includes general management, financial analysis, engineering, sales and marketing, research and development, project management, personal enhancement, continuing education, volunteering, and social and sporting organisations. Exposure obtained at all levels of education, personally and through children and grandchildren.An important need is perceived to improve the social fabric, and the potential and means exist to do so. The hope is that Bold War will open eyes, stimulate thinking, show the way, and perhaps inspire action.Contact through [e-mail]

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It was the glass that saved them. Five millimetres of clear shield kept at bay the five thousand stinging machines bent on avenging the death of their queen.

Look what you've done now! exclaimed Andrew Buchanan, Professor of Social Analysis at Pinnacle University. You and your infernal impetuousity! Kent, younger brother and mining magnate, ignored the protest. Aren't the little buggers wonderful? Full of energy and determination - and commitment. And not a PhD among them. Nothing like that crowd of yours we left at the conference. That bunch of chattering, do-nothing no-hopers."

At least they're not surrounded by killer bees, protested Andrew. How are we going to get out of this mess?

Start the engine! Use the wipers! shouted Kent.

Andrew responded and watched, fascinated, as a mass of bees and then washer fluid and body parts swept sideways. He was visibly affected by the drama and danger, Kent not at all. Just like another day in the business jungle.

Get going and we'll blow the rest off, he said. You know, those tiny creatures with their microscopic brains, they work so hard, cooperate so well, and have a harmonious life. While we humans with our gigantic grey matter, our thought processes and logic - we even put men on the moon, for God's sake - we have these disastrous wars, we are destroying our planet, and nobody can save us from a self-imposed doom. Certainly not those pompous intellectuals that assailed us today.

There you go again, said Andrew tiredly, watching bees being blown rearward as he accelerated the car and entered the free-way. You're so full of this 'talkers don't do anything.' But you know that problems are so big, so complex and so entrenched they can't be solved easily or quickly. What it needs is patient and thorough research and application of quality minds.

'Rubbish! countered Kent. Even Cameron, our special friend and brilliant scientist, believes that science and technology and our modern civilisation should provide the answers, but in the next breath admits that you can't change human nature - as yet."

But he does have a point, said Andrew, letting out a sustained yawn. We can look forward to 'convergence' and 'synchronicity' of known technologies and management techniques with the stimulus from awareness of our predicament to achieve real and realistic progress."

There you go again! exploded Kent. Throwing big words at a problem. Happenstance and serendipity are the most you lot will achieve. However we have managed to solve one little problem - we got rid of those pesky bees.

Only a few bees still clung to the exterior of the car, so he was mostly correct, but not entirely. One bee,'Bzzt', faster than the others during the chase, had landed on Andrew's shoulder as he leapt into the car. Colliding against the seat had broken her wing and sent her tumbling to the floor. Staggered and groggy, bewildered by the noise and vibrations, her instinct drove her to attack the enemy again. Summoning all her remaining strength she began to climb awkwardly up the car seat.

"So what are your marvellous solutions?" queried Andrew angrily.

"You know I've been too busy doing useful things, big brother, but as I've said before, all it would need is good practical ideas, competent people and sustained effort. I can't imagine myself becoming involved because nobody could make the incentive big enough."

Bzzt by now had reached Andrew's shoulder. She could sense the human heat of her foe as she climbed on to his collar.

Tiring of the familiar argument, Andrew said Enough! Now what was this important thing you wanted to talk to me about?

OK, said Kent, What I wanted to tell you, and you will be surprised, is…"

At that instant Bzzt's primal urge thrust her sting to its full depth in Andrew's neck. High-voltage pain made him flail wildly at the source - with both hands. Involuntarily his foot jabbed hard at the accelerator. The car roared and slewed and, despite Kent's frantic grab at the wheel, careened over a small cliff and crashed abruptly to a stop. Dust and fumes rose from the wreck where the two men sprawled in exaggerated postures, unconscious.

The only remaining movement was from the bee's sting, pulsating, still pumping its deadly injection into Andrew's inert body. The primitive had done her deed. Was there a purpose? To what end?

FOREWORD

This is one of the new a.c. (active choice) books of the twenty-first century. Unlike the conventional one-pattern-fits-all, take-it-or-leave-it structures, you, the reader, are given choices to match your preferences.

Some sections of the book are inset from the margin and the margin marked. These sections provide supplementary information, further explanation, extra detail, additional depth, more thought and/or refinement.

Your choices include the following:

(a) Quick, simple read. The easiest and quickest way to proceed through the book to gain an appreciation of the content and intent is to by-pass all the inset sections. This is recommended for first time readers. You can then return to these 'asides' later as required for further elaboration and reinforcement.

(b) Paragraphs - single inset. These are identified by the key word (immediately before or in the first part of the section) in bold type and underlined thus: "name of subject. Content is of lesser importance than the main body of the book and can be deferred if you wish. The margin at the start of the section is marked with a V and ends with =".

(c) Paragraphs - double inset. Identified as: "name of subject. Of lesser importance than single inset. Can be deferred till later still. The margin starts with VV and ends with =="

(d) Straight through read. Just read it as it comes - like other books - if you prefer it that way.

Words that are new or little used in the early part of the twenty-first century are listed in the Glossary. References in the book to quotations are listed in Endnotes at the end of the book.

Bold War 2020

Part I

TWILIGHT / GENESIS

CHAPTER 1 Walk in the park

It was late in the afternoon of the initial day of Year 1 AB, generally known as 10th October, 2020, when the world, finally, was stung into action.

Damascus Park nestled between the river and a small town of middle USA not distinguished for anything in particular. Into its park strolled Hank Williams and his two grandchildren on one of their regular excursions.

'Gramps' was enjoying retirement after ten years as janitor at the high school. He was the first to admit he was only the tiniest of cogs in the workings of the town. But although a stranger to influence in local matters, he had been known to make comment about society at large. An advanced civilisation we ain't, he told the children as they walked. Advanced maybe, what with our computers and whiz-bang technology. But civilised? No siree. We kill people, we take drugs - after all, young Miss Jessica, even alcohol is a drug and don't you forget it - people bash each other, and don't want to work together.

But this week the tone of his comments sounded with a new hollowness. Before, his objections hid behind the fact that he was working, didn't have enough time, too many problems of his own. Now the wheel had turned and he had all the time in the world and few reasons, he had to admit, not to examine things from a different perspective. Which he should be able to do, if anywhere, in the park, his refuge, a neutral space for reflection and perspective, a leavening of balance and proportion, a wellspring of possibilities. At least in theory.

Over the years he had reluctantly come to terms with the realisation that he, and the rest of society as far as he could see, was powerless to halt the steady deterioration that was, well, everywhere. Like rust on steel left out in the rain - inevitable and becoming permanent. What he couldn't grasp was how to admit to these children, his progeny, clinging innocently to his hands, that he was passing to them a world only marginally better in some respects than he had found it, and going to hell in things that mattered. Crime, wars, pollution, even family life, friends, trust. Everything was getting too big, too complicated, changing too fast. He had a gnawing awareness of irresponsibility, lack of stewardship - and was irritated and tired for too much of his new-found time.

Jessica, six, and Sylvester, eight, loved their weekly walks. Freed from parental control, with an ice-cream and facts about the world thrown in. Gramps! Look! Over there! Sylvester pointed to a tree near the path. He was delighted to discover something new, to initiate an exchange with their old, warm oak tree of knowledge.

Why, it's a swarm of bees. Isn't that something?

Just like Uncle Toby's, exclaimed Jessica.

Well, not quite. You see, the bees at Uncle Toby's are in a hive. They have their own home. These bees have been kicked out of a hive somewhere and are looking for a new place to live.

Why did they leave home? asked Jessica, round-eyed.

Do you remember what I told you about queen bees?

They nodded, their attention feeding his satisfaction. He had befriended the school librarian and came, late in life, to learn from books and reading. He entered a new world of discovery, the boundless horizons of the bookshelf extended in a third dimension by the depth of his enquiring mind. It added to his knowledge, changed his outlook, stimulated overdue thoughts about philosophy - why are we here?, do I have a purpose in life? Suddenly, with time on his hands, his reading expanded, his thoughts multiplied.

"Well, in their hive the number of bees would have grown so much that it got too crowded. A new queen bee was born and the old queen had to fly away and take half the worker bees with her."

Why didn't the new queen leave home? asked Sylvester.

I don't know the answer to that sonny, but it's always the old queen that leaves - and she's on that branch there covered by hundreds of her workers to protect her. That's called a swarm.

He loved the look in their eyes; total concentration - and he could almost hear their grey matter soaking up the new information and anything else of interest he could pass their way. The library had been a great source of knowledge. And yet the students, for which it had been built, were often only half-hearted in their use of it. So much knowledge, the wealth of information on the shelves, so little accessed, how much less actually used?

All that information within each book. Just open the cover and there it is. Close the book and put it on the shelf and the information stays hidden - just below the surface and available, but useless until read. The difficulty with Sylvester and Jessica wasn't in their absorbing and understanding what he had to say, it was in him finding topics of interest and expressing them adequately.

Language could be used to enlighten and inform or to obscure and confuse, as he knew from his readings and occasional talks to 'educated' people. To encourage and inspire or to subjugate. A powerful tool or a dangerous weapon. He wished he, and in due course these children, had more control over it. So many books written, and yet people get so little knowledge to use for their benefit, so little understanding about life. Information and language so rich, useful knowledge and application so poor.

And did you know, knowing they didn't, that the new queen came from special eggs laid by the old queen. Hers was the first one to hatch and the workers always destroy the others. If two queens happen to emerge at the same time they fight until one is killed.

Why? asked Jessica, disturbed.

I don't know, little darling, that's just the way it is. Nature is tough, but hey, it's a pity the leaders of our war-like countries don't fight each other, personally, to settle their arguments instead of sending armies of young people to kill each other while they look on.

Sylvester edged nearer the low branch but jumped back as bees flew near him. They sting, he said. "I had a bee-sting once and it hurt very, very much. Why did it hurt so much Gramps?"

"Because it injected poison into you . A mixture of many chemicals. And there was a hook on the end of the sting that made it hard to pull out of your skin.'

Yes, and it kept on stinging and stinging, Sylvester said, re-living the incident with face contorted.

That's because it kept pumping the poison, even after its body was pulled away from the sting and it died.

Ugh! I'm glad it died, said Sylvester, shivering. What are they doing now?

They're looking after the queen while other worker bees look for a new home.

Why are they called workers? queried Jessica.

"Because most of their lives they spend doing all kinds of jobs. And all the workers… heh, heh… are lady bees. The day they're born they start to clean and make honeycomb cells and help store food. And then they feed the young and help guard the hive from other insects or animals or birds.

"Half way through their life, when they're only three weeks old, they become field bees and start collecting pollen and nectar to store in the hive. And that's what they do for the rest of their lives. So you see, in their short time on this earth they are multi-skilled - cleaners, builders, nursemaids, explorers, gatherers, carriers, air conditioners, guards - much more than I ever learned to do in my fifty years of working. And they're a model of hard work, co-operation and responsibility - compare that with the laziness, the selfishness and the lack of community in our world."

V

He was struck by a brief mental glimpse of order, of elevated and cohesive brilliance. He 'felt' the configuration but couldn't describe it. Did it arise from nature - in the trees, the sky? From the bees? Was it a glimpse of possibilities inherent in humanity? Like his old car badly in need of a tune-up? In sharp contrast to these primitive and minuscule insects humming harmoniously through their fine-tuned lives? The vision evaporated.

=

Turning sharply he put a hand on Sylvester's shoulder, who knew a question was coming. So how long would they live? he asked, looking intently into the eager eyes.

Sylvester calculated briefly and said with a big smile Only six weeks. Is that because they work so hard?

That's a good question. Well Uncle Toby tells me that each journey they visit up to six hundred flowers and they make about ten journeys a day.

Six thousand flowers a day! gasped Sylvester while Jessica looked at him quizzically. How could her brother know such things?

I wouldn't like to do all that work when I was that young, she said. What about their union boss? Daddy says his union boss makes sure he doesn't work too hard.

No union bosses, said Gramps. No overtime payments either. And no weekends - except for those who might have recently stung somebody (winking at Sylvester). I don't think they'd be able to survive by working time rules. Do you know how long bees have been around on this earth?

No, they said in unison, hanging on the answer.

I've heard it's about five million years, he said evenly.

Gramps! exclaimed Jessica, sucking in breath. That's older than you are!

V

Age and time - what a span there is. At one end of the scale, scientists in the books talk about the earth being 4600 million years old. They refer to the 'cosmic chronon', the time taken for a ray of light to transverse the estimated radius of the universe - in their fancy figuring, 10¹¹ years. At the other end of the scale, people who know these things talk about the 'atomic chronon' - the time taken for a photon to transverse the diameter of an electron. This is 10-24 seconds, a period of time so brief that it is impossible for most people to imagine, let alone use.

Interesting for them to think about and do research into these things, but he couldn't help feeling the solutions to world problems were much more urgent, and unlikely to be found out there in the cosmos or locked up in the depth of atoms. As well as looking way into the past, far into the future, and at such tiny fragments of time, how about finding ways to live day-by-day in sensible, practical ways without arguments and problems? The bees weren't preoccupied with either type of chronon.

=

A bee landed briefly on her brightly coloured dress, clambered around busily, and flew on. She was fascinated, Sylvester horrified.

Let's talk about that bee, said Gramps. The one that just said hello to you. Let's call her, say, Bzzt. Their eyes followed her path to the swarm. How big do you think her brain is?

"Very, very small," said Jessica seriously.

This big? queried Sylvester picking up a grain of sand.

Probably about right, said Gramps looking at the grain carefully. And how big is your brain Jessica? he asked, tapping her lightly on the head.

She held her hands out from her head. This big?

Well, not quite twice the size of your head, but you could probably fit a million Bzzt brains inside yours.

While she was pondering the fact, Sylvester asked Does that mean she's a million times smarter than Bzzt?

What do you think?

Not her, said the boy with emphasis.

Not you either, cried Jessica, pouting.

Well, Jessica, he said, comforting her. "Even though the bee's brain is so tiny, it works so well to meet the needs of its owner. It's made up of cells, which are smaller still, and they're made up of molecules, which you can't see, and they're made up of atoms - which they can only just see under the very best of microscopes."

V

Distance and space. Measurement. They can measure down to as small as 10¹⁵ inches - that's so damned small they must be extremely clever, especially as they can also measure up to 10²³ miles - the dimension of the explorable universe. It's a pity with all this cleverness measuring up and down the scale that they can't manage things better at the human scale, under our noses that is, to make a better life for us. Uneducated as he was, it was obvious that answers to man's problems had to be found in the human dimension of between one to eight inches, namely within the depths of the human brain.

=

Now you two, another question - bees can't speak, so do you know how Bzzt will tell the others if she finds a good new patch of pollen or a place for a new home?

No. How? they asked.

By dancing in a circle in a special way and wiggling her bottom.

Jessica giggled, and wiggled her bottom as he continued.

"I reckon if we all could put in as good a day's work as these little critters - if we could be 'as busy as bees' - well we could probably be both advanced and civilised. If our brains could work ounce for ounce as well as theirs we'd have a fantastic world. With all our grey matter (tapping his forehead as he smiled at Jessica), I ask you - why do we seem to have so much trouble in our lives while these tiny, primitive things work hard from dawn to dusk, are very good at what they do and co-operate nicely - without any trouble at all?"

V

Beats me, he thought in answer to his own question. Earlier he had looked up a definition of 'wisdom', thinking he might find some hint, some direction. 'Wisdom: experience and knowledge together with the power of applying them.' He had a little knowledge, and some experience, but absolutely no power. Some people he knew were very knowledgeable (know-alls?) but had no experience or power. Others had bits of one or the other attributes, but none had a high score on all three. Maybe the bees had enough of the three to meet their needs, humans certainly didn't.

There were exceptions. He read that Leonardo de Vinci's scientific investigations changed the way people looked at things, eventually leading to the Renaissance, the rise of science and, in due course, the Industrial Revolution. And Martin Luther, they said, was one of the greatest emancipators. These must be examples of what man could do, but how did they 'happen'?

=

"I don't know Gramps. I thought we asked the questions and you gave us the answers," said Sylvester disarmingly as they walked to the park gate, stepping to one side as a large white car revved through the opening. It stopped at the edge of the car park and two men hurried into the bushes. I wonder what they're up to, thought Hank looking back.

V

Black clouds were building in the sky, punctuated by shafts of sunlight. A brooding sky to match his brooding thoughts. He was unsettled, and increasingly anxious that he wasn't doing anything useful for mankind, for Jessica and Sylvester. He didn't know what he might do, let alone how. He had tried tentatively on occasions but the response from persons he thought might have been interested and able to assist or guide him - the librarian, a teacher, his minister of religion, a businessman, a politician, someone in the army - were all negative. 'Wishful thinking', 'dreamer', 'get real', 'don't waste your time and mine', 'impractical', it's not that simple', 'you don't understand', 'come back later' - condescending, dismissive, knowing chuckles and condescending glances. After trying for more times than he thought any of his acquaintances would he stopped - frustrated and impotent.

As the sun burst from under a cloud he sensed another 'feeling'. Something, without in any way knowing what, may be imminent. And / or 'immanent' - another word he had looked up. 'Naturally present, inherent.' And immanence: '1 - a permanent abiding within, an indwelling. 2 - the doctrine that the ultimate principle of the universe is not to be distinguished from the universe itself, that God dwells in all things and permeates the spirit of man.'

He shivered at the thought, the unknown. In all things? In us? In the bees, in time and distance? How might I understand? Maybe something was about to happen? A chronotype perhaps? He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, on which he had scribbled: Chronotype: an arbitrary intersection of time and space - Michail Bakhtin, Russian theorist.

=

As they walked home he was brought half way back to reality by questions from his charges. What is going to happen this millennium, Gramps?, and "What will people be like 4600 million years from now?"

~

Meanwhile on the branch near the path Bzzt had commenced a communication dance, as best she could in the chaotic mass of bodies, to say she had found a good place to start a new home next morning.

At the same time a passer-by on the other side of the river may have been surprised to see two streams of urine, shining in the afternoon sun, appear from the bushes and perform their trajectories into the water.

Aah, that's better, breathed the taller of the two men, Andrew Buchanan, distinguished academic and Professor of Social Analysis at Pinnacle University.

Younger brother Kent was laughing, uncharacteristically for a serious mining magnate. You always could project further than me, old man. But only because you've got a height advantage.

Not so, was the rejoinder, with a suppressed giggle. It's all technique. Your decadent capitalist ways put you at a disadvantage in natural things.

Andy, I do believe you've had too much to drink, admonished Kent.

Listen, Kent,… little brother. 'Symposium' comes from the Greek word meaning 'party with wine'. Who am I to argue with such tradition?

Of course, I should have known. Anyway, let's get back to the car. That conference was a waste of time, but I've got something important to talk about. Last back to the car is a dirty mongrel!

Laughing and elbowing each other as they scrambled through the bushes, they were temporarily closer than they had been for years. Two contrasting people with similar upbringing but vastly different outcomes, their views at odds in most fields, from politics to economics, from government to social affairs. For the moment their differences were forgotten, two young brothers sporting again.

Andrew had always been 'gifted' as their mother put it. He sailed through school, college and university, graduating with honours. Conservative and quiet, friendly but reserved, he was highly regarded for his expertise in social and economic analysis and trend forecasting. The long hours he worked mirrored a strong social conscience.

He was cautious by nature and apprehensive of making mistakes. The problems of the world were evident to him and he despaired of the trends but could see no solutions. Although he knew that fear and greed were major determining factors it was his view that people ought to be able to change for the better - even though he didn't believe it would happen. He admitted to himself that he was successful only in his own narrow sphere, but resented Kent referring to him as an inept optimist, a theoretician who never did anything.

No, I'm a hopeful sceptic, whereas you're a cynical opportunist, which Kent took as a compliment. Aggressive and competitive, Kent had left school early, ill at ease, easily distracted. He was drawn to mining camps and through hard work, good fortune and not a little bastardy (Andrew's term) had accumulated serious wealth before the age of forty. He looked down on people who couldn't put in the hours or take the risks he did, and despised those who wouldn't try.

Kent had no respect for authority or size of organisation He searched out the weaknesses of companies and systems and used them to his advantage, just as he preyed on the personal shortcomings of opponents to gain benefits. What they termed ruthless he called focused, their domineering - decisiveness. He was active, dynamic and practical where others were tentative, apathetic and theoretical. He believed individual capacity to be paramount. He sought power, influence and riches. Although successful in areas he thought important, he was unfulfilled, incomplete, unhappy.

Only occasionally did he pause to wonder why wealth and influence were not enough. At such times he fumed that achievement didn't buy satisfaction, conquest didn't lead to contentment. Worse, he didn't know what would quench the yearnings that prickled within him.

The careers of the brothers kept them mostly apart. On the occasions they met they revelled in animated discussion, each vigorously pushing his philosophy of life and attacking the other. They agreed to disagree on many things.

There was no disagreement regarding the state of the world - it was woeful and getting worse. Crime, wars, overpopulation, underemployment, pollution, health and welfare problems were rife and entrenched. Society, in spite of its advanced technology and 'civilisation', was becoming increasingly dysfunctional.

Andrew felt deep yearnings to right wrongs, to clear up 'muddles' as he called them and to rectify undeserved injustices. Kent took it all in his stride; he wasn't responsible for it being that way and didn't feel any compunction to clear up other people's mess. Besides, the troubles and difficulties of others presented opportunities for him to make money.

~

In sharp contrast to people problems, the bees' world continued unabated. They achieved much with little, against harsh nature and predators. Primitive yet orderly, as opposed to humanity being advanced but increasingly disorderly, the contrast was marked, the paradox evident. They had the basis to continue for millions more years, except for one serious danger - humans. Pollution and insecticides were threatening their food chains, their fertility, and their very existence on a long-term basis. If unchecked, humanity might not only wipe itself from the face of the earth but take bees and countless other species with them.

But by chance (or was it something more than that?) the bees' age-old and successful fight for survival was about to change all that. None of the participants of that Saturday - not Williams or his grandchildren, not the brothers and certainly not the bees - would have thought history was about to change and that by nightfall one of the small 'uncivilised' insects (a Y2K bug?) would trigger a protracted string of events that would culminate in momentous changes for mankind, of magnitude and impact unforeseen by man or beast. The seeds had been there a long time; all they needed was the right conditions to germinate. The first of what in later years came to be known as a 'concatenation of chronotypes' was imminent. A new and very different millennium was about to be constructed.

CHAPTER 2 Dark clouds

Earlier that week, Dr Cameron Dench had sat pensively in his laboratory, surrounded by extensive and expensive equipment.

Why do science and medicine make such slow progress? There is so much to be discovered, the possibilities are endless. Yet petty administration and even pettier politics bog down researchers. Opportunities for advancement of knowledge and science are enormous but grown men are handicapped by infantile attitudes and emasculating emotions - and administration, damn it.

As the Doctor laboriously filled out forms he worried on several fronts, which was not unusual as he always worried about something. Creative and resourceful, a brilliant researcher, his habitual angst was exceeded only by his ambition to rise to the uppermost ranks of his field.

The subject of suspended animation had fascinated him since he was nine years old. On a visit to India his parents had taken him to see an ascetic put in a box and buried alive. He was upset to think the old man couldn't breathe, and had vivid nightmares of a voice calling to him from under the ground. The next day he begged to be taken back, and watched wide-eyed as the earth was casually removed. Hurry, please hurry, he remembered saying under his breath, as if his thoughts would speed the dark-skinned workers who wielded their implements as if the old man had already died.

When the box was lifted from the hole and the lid removed, he burst into tears at the sight of the still body. Then the dark eyes blinked. The man stirred, rose slowly and stepped from the box. He looked around with an air of calm and total assurance. He walked straight to the transfixed boy. Placing his hand lightly on the young head he said Do not cry my son, the Almighty is with us all. Those images stayed with him through medical school and influenced his choice of speciality Did their bodies slow down? Perhaps time slowed down - for them or by them.

He had been outstandingly successful in his research and was on the point of major breakthroughs. His patients were in various states of comatose - from strokes, drug overdose, auto accidents, near drowning, suffocation by strangling or general oxygen deficiency, or brain injury due to brutal assault. A gamut of tragedy. Radical procedures he had developed had brought three patients back to near-normal health from comas of up to three months duration. In other cases he had been able to improve significantly the health of patients in comas extending into years, although he hadn't yet been able to revive them to consciousness.

In his hands was an object that filled him great pride. It was a handsome plaque with an inscription 'Best Young Researcher Of The Year - 2018'. He gazed at it lovingly before placing it on a shelf, between imaginary and much grander awards.

One of his worries was the difficulty in getting funding for his research and in finding suitable patients. Why were the authorities so insensitive to new possibilities for patient recovery and why were relatives so sensitive to possible risks when the chances for recovery without his intervention were zero?

Cameron Dench's way of thinking and approach to medical research was 'different'. He was able to look behind the obvious facts and problems, between the lines of received wisdom. Established conventions were secondary to him and he let it be known. So it wasn't surprising his superiors didn't really appreciate or were envious of his work, they didn't give it sufficient support, and they stole much of the credit when it was successful.

He was thankful for Andrew Buchanan's support in advising and assisting where he could, encouraging when the going was difficult. His family had been close