This morning, I awoke at six, from a dream in which Francis Crick was talking to me about worms. The odd thing was that I was interviewing him in bed. He wasn’t in bed: he was sitting on the next bed in the room, dressed in dark clothes, and looking like a dolicephalic Berthold Brecht.
I am aware the real Crick looks nothing like that, and never has done. But as this one talked to me (we were leaving a conference), I took off all my clothes, and scrambled around under a downie, trying to stay modest while digging the little tape recorder out of my black laptop bag.
But I never found the tape recorder, and I can’t remember what he said, except that there was something mildly disobliging about Christof Koch.