Dover Beach (18 page)

I tried to concentrate on Cornwall, but I couldn't find any mention of him. I came across references to other scientists in Mr. J. T. Carstairs's list, but Cornwall remained elusive. Winfield's luck was no better. By the time the Reading Room closed I was hungry and my head ached and we had made no progress.

Winfield was not happy. We sat in a tea shop and had sandwiches while he fumed. "This is a waste of time," he said. "We've got to come up with a different approach."

"But we haven't exhausted the possibilities of this one yet," I pointed out.

"It's boring. He's here—somewhere in this country—and we're just sitting around reading old newspapers."

"Well, what do you suggest, then?"

He bit into his sandwich and didn't reply. When he had finished eating, he threw his money on the table and stomped out.

I followed, faithful retainer that I was. I wasn't particularly happy about the current arrangement, however. The trouble was, he had all the money, and that meant there wasn't much I could do except hang around with him. The prospect of spending the evening with Winfield in some pub was pretty depressing. I may have done stupider things than leaving all my money behind in Boston to convince people I was coming back, but at the moment I couldn't think of one.

"Listen," I said as we took the Tube back to the hotel. "This is crazy, me having to tag along with you everywhere. Why don't you give me a per diem, and that way I can get my own meals and stuff and not bother you?"

Winfield stared at me.

"Most private eyes get a per diem, you know," I said, a little desperately. "I'm not asking for pay, just meal money."

He considered, then took out his wallet and handed me a five-pound note. "That's for everything until tomorrow night," he said. "I don't care if you spend the night at the hotel or not, but you better be ready to get back to work tomorrow, or I'll find you the same way I'm going to find Cornwall."

I pocketed the money. It was a fortune in America, almost a joke here. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm not going far on this."

We stared at each other for a moment, then Winfield turned away. He got off at Leicester Square, looking for a pub. I got off at Charing Cross, looking for bookstores. Art's guide was right again. When I came up from the station, I was in the midst of more bookstores than I had ever seen in my life. I went into the nearest one.

It had new books. I opened one reverently, feeling the spine crack a little, smelling the fresh inky smell. Art would have been in heaven here.
Think of all those writers,
I could hear him say,
even as we speak, staring at their blank sheets of paper, imagining the words we will one day read.
I smiled.

I had to buy a new book. I couldn't afford a hardcover, so I studied the paperbacks. There were no private-eye stories, but I found a mystery complete with an inspector from Scotland Yard and a corpse in the vicarage. I bought it and a postcard. Then I stood by the door and wrote a cheery message to America.

Dear All,

Arrived safely in the Promised Land. Drank Coke, took a hot bath, bought a book. Haven't cracked the case yet, but making progress. I'll keep you posted. Miss everyone already.

Walter

P.S. We're at the Guilford Hotel, Russell Square, if you want to write.

I stuck the card into my pocket until I could find a stamp, and I walked out into the London night.

I wandered through the city. Wandering didn't cost any money, and was excellent entertainment—better, certainly, than sitting in some pub watching Winfield get drunk. I wandered down to Trafalgar Square, over to the Thames, along the Strand, through Covent Garden, feeling as though a lifetime of reading was finally coming alive for me, and a lifetime of desire was finally being satisfied. This was it. I had done it.

I stood outside a movie theater for a long time, fingering my remaining money. It had been a mistake buying the book, I thought. I had read books before; I had never been to a movie.

But then I remembered that, with a little luck, I was here to stay. There would be other days, there would be more money. Eventually I would do everything I wanted.

My hand moved from the money to the postcard.
Miss everyone already.
I turned away from the theater. Maybe it was time to take another bath. I returned to the hotel.

The desk clerk had stamps. I bought one and mailed the postcard, then went upstairs to our room. Winfield hadn't returned. I read my book while I bathed.

It wasn't a very good book. Were people not writing as well as in the old days? Maybe. Or maybe the problem was that the author was trying to make believe it was still the old days, and hadn't got it quite right. People had accused me of not getting the old days quite right, too, I realized. But there was a difference. Wasn't there?

The book was almost finished, and I was extremely wrinkled, by the time Winfield staggered into the room. I got out of the tub and dried myself. Winfield was spread out on his bed when I came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my skinny frame. He looked at me, and apparently didn't like what he saw.

"This world sucks," he said, by way of opening the conversation. "Sands, do you realize how sick we are? Leukemia, melanoma, liver cancer, typhus, genetic defects, cataracts. Chrissake, even the healthy people are a mess by the old standards."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. I put on a pair of underpants and sat down.

Winfield pushed himself up on his bed. "Sands, can you imagine how—how
frustrating
it is to be a genius in times like these?"

"It must be torture for you," I murmured sympathetically. He glanced at me, searching for sarcasm, and then evidently decided any sarcasm from me wasn't worth worrying about. He suddenly smiled. "But you know what makes it better? Knowing that I have a clone. Maybe his life, here, is better than mine."

"But Cornwall isn't you," I pointed out, "even if he is your clone. He didn't grow up in postwar Florida, and you didn't teach at MIT."

Winfield waved his hand, dismissing his life. "Trivial. All that matters is those strands of DNA, spiraling around and around, spinning out our destiny. And that DNA is the same for Cornwall and me. When we find him, you'll see. There'll be a meeting of the minds, Sands, so intense, so complete, that it will leave you awestruck."

"I can hardly wait," I said.

Winfield shut his eyes. "Tomorrow, Sands. Tomorrow we make progress."

"Yes, boss."

His head slumped to one side. The genius had passed out. I went back into the bathroom for my book and read on until I found out who done it.

Progress finally arrived late the next afternoon. Winfield motioned me over to his carrel and pointed to the terminal. On the screen was an article from a ten-year-old London
Times:

MINISTER QUESTIONED ON BROMFORD EXPERIMENTS

The Ministry of Science was accused in the Commons of "grotesque improprieties" in experiments taking place at a government research establishment near Bromford.
Mr Charles Allenby,
Minister of State for Science, responded that, while the exact nature of the Bromford research was classified, he could assure the Commons that there were no improprieties.

Mr Edward Hounslow
(Warpington, Lab) asked if children were involved in these experiments.

Mr Allenby
said that he was unaware of the details of the research.

Mr Hounslow
:
Is it not true that women have been hired to bear children that are not their own?

Mr Allenby
:
I cannot say one way or the other. I can say that the research at Bromford is vital to our national security.

Mr Hounslow
:
Are these children aware that they are vital to our national security? This is but one more example of the moral bankruptcy of the policies of the ruling party. Have they not evidence enough of the evils unrestrained science can wreak upon the world?

Mr Allenby:
I can assure you that nothing untoward has taken place at Bromford.

End of story. "Well, that sounds interesting," I said. "Let's see if there's a follow-up." There was nothing for a week, and then a brief article:

ALLENBY ANNOUNCES CLOSING OF BROMFORD CENTER

Mr Charles Allenby, Minister of State for Science, yesterday announced the cessation of research programs being carried out at the government's Bromford Research Center. He denied that the decision was influenced by Labour MP Mr Edward Hounslow's charge that Bromford was the site of 'horrific genetic experiments.'

'Some of the experiments involved an attempt to improve the treatment of genetic mutations induced by radiation,' Mr Allenby said. 'Surely this is an appropriate goal of modern science. Unfortunately, budget reductions have made it impossible to carry forward these lines of research, and we have decided to shut down our Bromford establishment.' He stated that some staff would be made redundant, and others would be transferred to the Ministry's Uxbridge center.

When asked for details of the Bromford experiments, Mr Allenby declined comment, citing national security.

Mr Hounslow, the Labour MP from Warpington whose questions on the floor of the Commons brought the Bromford establishment to the public's attention, charged that the Minister's decision was a blatant attempt to cover up evidence of wrongdoing at Bromford. While applauding the decision to end the experiments, Mr Hounslow warned that he would continue to press for complete disclosure of what took place in them. 'I have not finished with this issue yet,' the MP stated.

If Mr. Hounslow hadn't finished with the issue, the London
Times
apparently had, as well as every other newspaper and periodical we checked. We scoured the next few months' worth of issues, but there wasn't a word about Bromford.

"A conspiracy of silence?" I asked provocatively. Winfield looked at me as if I were finally catching on. We had made no further progress by the time the library closed, but the two articles were enough to get Winfield excited.

"We've got to find out more," he said on our way back to the hotel.

"Any objections to calling this guy Hounslow?" I asked. "He's not likely to be the one who's trying to kill you."

"I suppose it's worth a try," he replied. I borrowed the phone book for the letter 'H' from the desk clerk when we reached the hotel. No Hounslow. "Would you have the book for Warpington?" I asked the clerk.

He smiled a knowing smile. "We have no such book," he said. "You might call directory inquiries, however."

"Oh. How do you do that?"

He did it for us, and then passed the receiver to me. The person at the other end of the line gave me the number with hardly any delay. It all seemed vaguely miraculous. I thanked the clerk, and Winfield and I went up to our room to make the call.

Winfield was in a state by this time. "You wanna call?" I asked him.

He picked up the phone, but his hand was shaking as he tried to dial. "You do it," he said. "But don't screw it up."

"Yes, boss." I dialed the number. Clicks and screeches. That was more familiar. I hung up and tried again. A distant, rhythmic buzzing, and then success. "Yes?" a scratchy old man's voice said.

"Mr. Hounslow?"

"That is correct."

"The Member of Parliament?"

"The former MP, yes. To whom am I speaking, please?"

"My name is Walter Sands, sir. I'm a reporter from the United States, and I'm investigating what happened to American scientists who came to England after the war."

"Reporter? I didn't think they had much of that going on anymore."

"Oh, you'd be surprised, sir. At any rate, my research indicates that one of these scientists—a Professor Robert Cornwall—may have been involved in research taking place at the government's Bromford Center before it closed. Apparently you had some knowledge of what went on there, and I was hoping you might recall something about this man Cornwall."

"Oh, my word. Bromford. I certainly remember Bromford. But I'm afraid I never learned the names of any of the scientists there. Terribly sorry."

I shook my head at Winfield. He looked disgusted, and then motioned for me to press ahead. "Well, perhaps you could tell me what you know about Bromford, then. It might help me determine if Cornwall was there. My research indicates that you had a run-in with the government about Bromford ten years ago."

"Oh, yes, there was quite a row for a day or two. See no harm in talking about it now. I was one of the early ones, you see—antiscience, after the war. What good has science done us, after all? Just sheer luck we didn't end up like you chaps in America. At any rate, by the time the Bromford business came up, the movement was more than respectable—in fact, we had found our leader in Hatton and we were on our way to power. Well, it started when a woman came to see me—not well educated, you know, but articulate and quite trustworthy. And she told me what had happened to her at Bromford several years before. They put a baby into her that wasn't her own. They made her a—Oh, what's the term?"

"Surrogate mother?" I suggested. That perked Winfield up.