He was a scientist. He didn't have time for speculation, for guesses. He worked with facts, to produce results, to change history. Nothing smaller would do. Nothing less.
When he was out to lunch with Helen, seated al fresco in the warm April sun, he explained this to her, the artist, the lover of the unknown. She'd listened patiently, smiling, fascinated by his determination to believe, to convince. Whom, it didn't matter. He was passionate, he was earnest, he was emphatic. She could see it on his exquisite face. She wanted to paint him, but she knew he would object. He didn't indulge her in frivolous fancies like that.
When he finished, she asked, "But what is science without hope? Hope is uncertain, but hope is possibility. What is science without possibility?"
He stared at her for a moment, then turned away to contemplate the sidewalk. He didn't have an answer. He was a scientist. Scientists always have answers.
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