Stephen propped himself up in bed and thought. And then he thought a little more. The birds outside his window hadn't started their chirping, and Basil was silent, so he could safely assume that they were either all dead or he still had a few hours until the sun rose.
Everything was maths.
Who knew that better than him. A decade of mathematical models to simulate the world and now he needed to make one more. How hard could it be?
Interior designing his own house. Essentially all he needed to do was to optimize space, but he knew that wouldn't win him the bet. He needed to work with colours, the annoying little triviality that seemed to dominate most of humanity - from the new fashion excesses to the shades of our skin. He knew he was white because he had been told so, and because he had an odd Irish accent and he knew the Raj was brown, because he had an Indian accent. He knew that as a man with white skin, people of his colour had played a role in enslaving people with skin of the colour black.
His mind lept towards a wonderful tangential thought of color and race, an orgy of thoughts and ideas that connected his abstract notion of colour with a far more rigid and real idea of race.
Could he use this to his advantage? There has to be a pattern of colours that appeal to each race. And if only he could ...........
So what race was Mark? Scottish, with a tingle of French, and did he once tell me that his grand-parents fled Germany? So maybe some Jewish ancestry too ....
In the distance, the birds had started their chirping.