‘We should be investing more in nuclear power,’ I said. ‘And finding technological solutions.’

‘Such as?’ said Lydia.

‘Removing carbon from the atmosphere. Geoengineering. I’ve been reading about it. Incredibly interesting. Humans are poor at restraint but good at technology.’

‘Do you know how abhorrent I find that type of thinking?’ said Lydia. ‘Do whatever you like and hope that someone will come along and fix it. And get rich doing it. Are you going to save the tuna that way too?’

‘Of course! It’s highly possible we could genetically engineer the yellowfin tuna to taste like bluefin. Classic example of a technological solution to a problem created by humans. I would volunteer for the tasting panel.’

‘You do whatever you want. But I don’t want us, as a group, to order the tuna.’

It is incredible what complex ideas can be conveyed by a human facial expression. Although no guide was likely to include it, I believe I was correct in interpreting Isaac’s as For fuck’s sake, Don, don’t order the tuna. When our server arrived, I ordered the scallops with foie gras de canard.

Lydia began to stand up, then sat down again.

‘You’re actually not trying to upset me, are you?’ she said. ‘You’re really not. You’re just so insensitive you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Correct.’ It was easiest to tell the truth and I was relieved that Lydia did not consider me malicious. I saw no logical reason why a concern about sustainability should be a predictor of what I assumed was an objection to the treatment of farmed poultry. I consider it wrong to stereotype people, but it might have been useful in this situation.

‘I’ve met people like you,’ she said. ‘Professionally.’

‘You’re a geneticist?’

‘I’m a social worker.’

‘Lydia,’ said Judy, ‘this is getting too much like work. I’m going to order for the whole table, and we should all start again. I’ve been dying to hear about Seymour’s book. Seymour’s writing a book. Tell us about your book, Seymour.’

Seymour smiled. ‘It’s about growing meat in laboratories. So vegetarians can have a guilt-free burger.’

I began to respond to this unexpectedly interesting topic but Isaac interrupted.

‘I don’t think this is the right time for a joke, Seymour. Seymour’s book is about guilt, but not about burgers.’

‘Actually I do mention lab burgers. As an example of how complex these issues are and the way deeply rooted prejudices come into play. We need to be more open to thinking outside the box. That’s all Don’s been saying.’

This was essentially correct, but it started Lydia off again.

‘That’s not what I’m complaining about. He’s entitled to an opinion. I let the evolutionary psychology stuff go before, even though it’s crap. I’m talking about his insensitivity.’

‘We need truth-tellers,’ said Seymour. ‘We need technical people. If my plane’s going down, I want someone like Don at the controls.’

I would have assumed he would want an expert pilot rather than a geneticist flying the plane, but I guessed he was attempting to make a point about emotions interfering with rational behaviour. I noted it for future use as perhaps less confronting than the story about the crying baby and the gun.

‘You want some guy with Asperger’s flying your plane?’ said Lydia.

‘Better than someone who uses words they don’t understand,’ said Seymour.

Judy tried to interrupt, but Lydia and Seymour’s argument had acquired a momentum that excluded the rest of us, even though the topic of conversation was me. I had some familiarity with Asperger’s syndrome from preparing a lecture sixteen months earlier when Gene had been unable to meet the commitment due to a sexual opportunity. Consequently, I had helped to initiate a research project looking for genetic markers for the syndrome in high-achieving individuals. I had noted some of my own personality traits in the descriptions, but humans consistently over-recognise patterns and draw erroneous conclusions based on them. I had also, at various times, been labelled schizophrenic, bipolar, an OCD sufferer and a typical Gemini. Although I did not consider Asperger’s syndrome a negative, I did not need another label. But it was more interesting to listen than to argue.

‘Look who’s talking,’ said Lydia. ‘If anyone doesn’t understand Asperger’s, it’s psychiatrists. Autism, then. You want Rain Man flying your plane?’

The comparison made no more sense than it did later when Loud Woman drew it. I certainly would not have wanted Rain Man flying my plane, if I owned one, or a plane in which I was a passenger.

Lydia must have assumed that she was causing me distress. ‘Sorry, Don, this isn’t personal. I’m not calling you autistic. He is.’ She pointed to Seymour. ‘Because he and his buddies don’t know the difference between autism and Asperger’s. Rain Man and Einstein—it’s all the same to them.’

Seymour had not called me autistic. He had not used any labels, but had described me as honest and technical, essential attributes for a pilot and positive in general. Lydia was attempting to make Seymour look bad for some reason—and the complexities of the three-way interaction between us had now exceeded my ability to interpret them.

Seymour addressed me. ‘Judy tells me you’re married. I’ve got that right?’