Liam Perrin

He preferred to think about things apophatically – to assert what isn’t true rather than what is: It’s not a bad idea; She’s not a terrible oboist; I’m not having that for lunch.

It allowed him to participate in group decision-making without having to shoulder the burden of actually making decisions.

But that was just a bonus. He had a way of getting to the heart of a thing by treating the truth like a cat. If you wanted it to befriend you, he would say, it was important not to come straight at it. If you quietly cordoned off its escape then calmly ignored it, the evasive truth had a habit of planting itself on the desk in front of you and insisting it be paid attention.

He wouldn’t have said he was the best interrogator in the department, but he would confidently agree he wasn’t the worst.

“Some notes,” he said unfolding a scrap of paper, “on the neuroscience of free will.”

He unfolded another, dropping more. “Hypothetical explanations for the Fermi paradox.”

He continued, “Moser’s worm, the moving sofa, Hilbert’s ninth, Molyneux…” He frowned. “No. I think we’ve answered that one.”

She squinted. He noticed.

“It’s going to happen – the spontaneous temporary savant event,” he said.

“Like… an epiphany.”

He snorted. “No. An epiphany is just your consciousness catching up. Drink some coffee. No an STSE is different. You get one in your lifetime. You’re sleeping. You’re playing Sudoku.” He flourished the scraps. “I’ll be ready.”

“I see,” she said with the pleasantness of someone interested in a change of subject. “Where do you want to go to lunch?”

He suddenly knew with absolute clarity the perfect place.

And then the moment was gone.