“It won’t take much of your time,” he said, “and it’s a great honor: Parkinson’s are one of the most distinguished firms in England, established over two hundred years ago. And it’s the first time they’ve ever taken a director from outside the family—let alone a foreigner.”

“Ha! I suppose they need more capital.”

“Of course. But it’s to your mutual interest—and they really respect you. You know what you’ve done to the glass business, worldwide.”

“Will I have to wear a top hat and—what do they call them—spats?”

“Only if you want to be presented at court, which they could easily arrange.”

To his considerable surprise, Roy Emerson had found the experience not only enjoyable, but stimulating. Until he joined the board of Parkinson’s and attended its bimonthly meetings in the City of London, he thought he knew something about glass. He very quickly discovered his mistake.

Even ordinary plate glass, which he had taken for granted all his life—and which contributed to most of his fortune—had a history which astonished him. Emerson had never asked himself how it was made, assuming that it was squeezed out of the molten raw material between giant rollers.

So indeed it had been, until the middle of the twentieth century—and the resulting rough sheets had required hours of expensive polishing. Then a crazy Englishman had said: Why not let gravity and surface tension do all the work? Let the glass float on a river of molten metal: that will automatically give a perfectly smooth surface…