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“Gametes being… eggs and sperm, right?”
“Yes.”
“So how does AI help selection?”
“We use static images and time-lapse videos to identify early markers of quality. With eggs, that includes things like follicle size; with sperm, we look at morphology, concentration, and motility.”
“What does that mean?”
“The ability to move efficiently.”
“So… basically whether a guy’s got good swimmers?”
He grins. “Yeah. We’re hoping that AI will eventually compute the optimal sperm–egg combination in order to achieve the highest success rate.”
“It’s fascinating stuff.”
“I think so.”
“Alan is obviously serious about the research if he wants to invest that kind of money into it.”
“Yes. He also said he’s determined to convince me to stay, so I’m expecting him to be relentless. Businessmen like that usually are. Although to be fair, I’ve spoken to him on Zoom, and he’s been nothing but pleasant.”
We chat a bit more about his research as he takes the slip road off the motorway, and heads east into the countryside. The hedges rise around us, the roads narrow, and when we crest a hill, the view opens up, the fields forming a patchwork quilt of greens, browns, and yellows.
“Wow,” Titus says, slowing as he approaches a large pair of iron gates. “I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but this certainly wasn’t it.”
“It looks like something out of Downton Abbey.” I watch Titus lower his window and press the buzzer on the box to the side of the gate.
“Hello?” he says. “Yes, it’s Lawrence Oates. Thank you.”
The gates begin to open, and he raises his window, then eases the Range Rover into the grounds of the house.
“Do you think that’s it?” Titus asks as a stone-built cottage appears on our left.
“I doubt it,” I reply. “That’s a gatekeeper’s lodge. Like a Kiwi sleepout. Beautiful isn’t it? Keep going.”
He continues up the gravel drive, which is lined on either side by tall, straight, Lombardy Poplar trees. Then, all of a sudden, the trees end, the drive opens up, and…
“Holy fuck,” Titus says, at the same time that I say, “Shiiiiit.”
In front of us is an enormous Edwardian country house, built from pink granite with a clay tiled roof. It has two floors, a round turret on the left-hand corner, several tall chimneys, and a large wooden front door.
A river glimmers through the trees to the left of the house. Behind the building, wildflower meadows give way to the purple and green of the moors like a bruise beneath the light-blue sky.
Titus pulls up out the front and turns off the engine. Then he looks at me, and we both start laughing.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if anyone’s in.”
As we get out of the car, the front door opens, and out comes a guy in his late-fifties, slender, about six foot tall, with short gray hair. He’s wearing a light-blue polo shirt and navy trousers.
“Titus,” he says, beaming as he holds out his hand.
“Alan.” Titus goes forward, and the two of them shake hands, with Alan putting his other hand on top of Titus’s.
“So glad you could make it,” Alan says.
“It’s good to be here.” Titus turns and beckons me forward. “This is my friend, Heidi. Her initials are HRH, so feel free to call her Your Royal Highness.”
