It was late Friday afternoon. The last students were funnelling out of the lecture hall, a mixture of solemn reflection and joyous abandon for the weekend ahead.
Gerry stood at the lectern, fidgety fingers scratching a fluster of wild grey hair as he tried to remember where he’d left his keys. It seemed such a trivial detail compared to the Newtonian equations he had been eulogising to a captive audience only moments ago. A detail so trivial in fact that Gerry had ignored it since the early morning lecture when he noticed they were not jangling against his creased trousers as he patrolled the platform. Yet now it mattered. Garry had somewhere to go, a deadline to meet and no other form of transport.
Gerry slapped his stubbled sunken cheeks. “Think!” he shouted to the empty hall. After a brief vacant pause, he began thrusting his hands into the pockets of his tweed suit. It was a well practiced routine, rummaging through used hankerchiefs, mint imperials and loose change, detecting shapes that didn’t belong.
Gerry’s right thumb and forefinger settled on a smooth metallic object in his trouser back pocket. He extracted it expectantly only to find it was a burnished red disk. Minute grooves formed concentric circles from centre to edge. Gerry flipped it over. The reverse was identical.
“How odd.” Gerry said, his focus beginning to sharpen.
The disk reminded Gerry of an impromptu encounter with a hotel housekeeper two years prior. As the housekeeper was passing, they had dropped a red disk exactly like this. Gerry had stooped to pick it up, inspected it briefly then hailed the housekeeper to return it. The housekeeper had claimed to have never seen the disk before but that it looked valuable and, snatching it from Gerry’s hand, had said they would hand it in at reception and thanked Gerry for bringing it to their attention.
Gerry thought no more of it that day, or any day since, until now.
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