Dover Beach (33 page)

"What's that?"

"He disappeared. He hasn't been seen since. Stimulates the curiosity, wouldn't you say?"

Arthur's good humor seemed to be fading. "Why would American readers be interested in a story like this?" he asked.

"Oh, lots of reasons. They might want to know how sincere our ally's commitment is to ridding itself of this kind of godless science, for example. Or they might wonder about who exactly got cloned, and why. What would England do with a bunch of brilliant young military leaders, for example?"

Arthur picked at a pimple on his neck. He hadn't shaved very well. It occurred to me that he was here because he was a loser. The sallow, supercilious bureaucrats were in more important ministries. "What specifically is it that you want from us, Walter?" he asked. His tone had become rather formal.

"I want to know about the clones, Arthur—where they are, who they are, what the government is doing with them. Can you help me?"

Arthur stared at the ceiling for a long moment. It was dirty and water-stained. "Supposing such information were available," he said, "it would certainly be secret, and we would therefore be unable to share it with you."

"Then I'll have to write the story as I see it," I replied self-righteously, "and let my readers draw their own conclusions. Of course, if the information clears the government of any—oh, how shall I put it?—impropriety, I would think you might want to share it with me, secret or not."

"How would it 'clear the government,' as you put it?"

"Well, what would you do if you came into power as a humane, antiscience government, and you found out you had inherited this bunch of young clones?"

"I'd put them up for adoption, I daresay."

"Of course you would. You'd try to give them as normal a life as possible and hope they'd forget about whatever happened at Bromford. Now maybe your government did that and maybe it didn't. Maybe Cornwall has an ax to grind with the government and is lying about everything. Maybe the government had nothing to do with his disappearance. I don't know, but I'm hoping someone will tell me."

Arthur sighed and stood up. He had not bargained on this when he came to work this morning. "Would you kindly wait here for a few moments, Walter?"

"Of course."

He left the office, and I leaned back in my chair. Could have been worse. Of course, I hadn't accomplished anything yet, just made a junior bureaucrat a little nervous. I picked up a press release from his desk. It was full of misspellings.

He was gone a long time. When he returned, it was with the brisk step of a junior bureaucrat who has been told what to do. "Sorry for the delay, Mr. Sands. I was wondering if I might examine your press credentials—purely a formality, of course. I should have done it to start with. An oversight on my part. Please excuse."

I smiled at him and noted that we were back on a last-name basis. "I haven't got any credentials, Mr. Finch-Thistle. We've lost some of those formalities back in the States."

Arthur smiled apologetically. "Well, I'm sure you can understand that we can't do anything without the proper credentials."

"I can understand. But that means I'll have to write the story as it stands. How shall I word it? 'A spokesman for the British government refused to comment on the allegations.' Does that sound about right?"

"Oh, now, Mr. Sands, surely you can understand the need for—"

"I can understand. But I've got a story to write, whether or not the British government wants to help."

Arthur pondered.
Oh, come on, give in.
"I suppose we could write to your newspaper," he suggested. "That would establish your
bona fides."

"I don't have time for that," I responded. "I'm leaving the country tomorrow. The
Globe
is influential, but it doesn't have a lot of money to send its reporters overseas. I'm way over budget as it stands."

"But surely, Mr. Sands, you didn't expect us to provide you with this kind of information immediately," Arthur objected. "Even if it exists, it strikes me as being quite obscure. And with the security issues to be dealt—"

Time to get mean. "Mr. Finch-Thistle, I don't expect anything. You will either help me today or you won't help me at all. The choice is yours. Either way, the story is going to get written."

Arthur tried to suppress a glare. He did not entirely succeed. "Would you excuse me again?" he asked, and he strode out of the room without waiting for a reply. He was away somewhat longer this time, and he returned looking decidedly harried. He didn't sit down. "We are attempting to locate the information you have requested, Mr. Sands," he announced. "This is certainly against our policies, but we have decided to make an exception. Even so, we cannot guarantee that we will find this information today. If you would like to call us, or leave a number where you can be reached, we will be happy to—"

"I'll wait, if that's okay with you." Arthur shook his head. "Perhaps you don't understand. This may take hours, or we may not even find it."

"I've got nothing better to do. I'll wait."

Arthur tried to suppress a look of total exasperation. He did not succeed. "Very well," he said. "You will have to wait downstairs, however. You'll be sent for when—if—we find what you are looking for."

"Terrific."

Arthur escorted me back down to the lobby, where I sat in the uncomfortable chair across from the cranky old receptionist. People came and went; the phone buzzed; morning turned into afternoon. I chatted with one of the bobbies. I listened to my stomach growl. I thought about the man who was waiting for me outside in the cold. Should I go out there and get it over with? No, this was more important.

I tried not to look as tense as I felt. Arthur Finch-Thistle approached. I stood up.

He looked embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "Only going to lunch. Be back shortly."

I sat down and waited.

He returned within an hour. His florid face was a little more florid than when he had left. Had his pint, probably, to help him make it through the afternoon. He nodded to me. "Working on it," he said.

"Waiting," I said.

He came downstairs again an hour later. "Mr. Sands, would you come with me, please?"

"Success?" I asked.

"I'm taking you to speak to the Deputy Minister."

We went to a different floor this time. The offices looked larger and less dingy. There were portraits of sallow, supercilious men on the walls. Arthur knocked on an oak door. The sign on it said simply: "D. Cahill."

"Come," a deep voice said. Arthur opened the door and ushered me in.

D. Cahill was a large, silver-haired man wearing an expensive suit. His eyebrows were so bushy they looked as if birds could have nested in them. The dark eyes beneath the eyebrows stared at me curiously. "Mr. Sands," he said. It sounded like a statement, not a question or a greeting.

I nodded. He gestured to a seat. I sat. Arthur sat too. Cahill ignored him.

"I understand you are preparing to write some sort of exposé of the government for an American newspaper," Cahill said to me. He had a beautifully intimidating upper-crust accent. He made the phrase "American newspaper" sound faintly obscene.

"I'm just trying to write a story," I responded. "I've told Mr. Finch-Thistle the facts as I know them so far. If you have more facts, I'd love to know them too."

"Some facts are more newsworthy than others," Cahill observed. "In my experience, reporters tend to ignore the facts that aren't newsworthy."

"Facts are a lot easier to ignore if you don't know them," I observed in turn.

Cahill made the faintest of movements with his shoulders. It could have been a shrug. There was a terminal on his desk. He switched it on and typed something on the keyboard. "You are investigating Robert Cornwall's activities at Bromford, and what happened after Bromford was closed," he informed me unnecessarily. "You think it had to do with the cloning of human beings, and you think the experiments are continuing under the present government. I am now going to tell you the truth. It will be interesting to see if you believe it as readily as you believed a somewhat more sensational fiction."

I didn't argue. I took out Kathy's notebook and a pencil and smiled expectantly.

"In fact," Cahill went on, "Cornwall told you the truth about the cloning. That is what he was doing at Bromford. The previous government were interested in its potential for perpetuating useful genetic traits, especially in view of the somewhat doubtful future of the human race back then. This is precisely the kind of meddling with nature that our present government find reprehensible, of course.

"The other assertions that you claim he made to you are incorrect, however. When Bromford was closed, there was an attempt to continue Cornwall's study in some fashion. The new government put an end to that as soon as they learned of it. The children involved were placed in suitable homes and have not been bothered since. And I sincerely hope that this article of yours does not cause them to be bothered now. They are not freaks, Mr. Sands. They are human beings, and we have treated them that way."

I pretended to scribble a few notes. "Well, that's just terrific, sir. Believe me, I think it's eminently newsworthy. I wonder if you have any proof, though."

Cahill raised one of his immense eyebrows.

"Right now I have your assertion and Cornwall's assertion," I explained. "How am I to choose between them without proof?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "As I suggested to you might be the case, Mr. Sands, the relevant documents are secret."

"All right," I said. "I don't need copies of them. Just let me take a peek, to satisfy myself that they exist."

I stared at Cahill and tried to maintain an expression of detached journalistic interest. Wasn't easy. Cahill returned my stare, and then gave another one of his almost-shrugs. "I expected as much," he said, and he typed something else on the keyboard of his terminal. "This is only for purposes of verification," he added. "If you say that I showed this to you, I shall deny it."

He swiveled the screen halfway toward me. I leaned forward.

On the screen was the beginning of a memo dated nine years ago. I didn't recognize the name of its writer or recipient. Its title was "Disposition of Subjects in Research Program 014-6125." It was what I wanted.

It began by sketching in vague bureaucratic terms the background of the situation. The children were always "subjects," never "clones." The Ministry had determined that the research program was to be terminated and the subjects put up for adoption. The adoptive parents were informed in a general way about the research, but it was not felt necessary to go into detail. The Ministry was prepared to deal with the appropriate social welfare agencies if problems were to develop, but it was not expected that any would.

The list of adoptive parents follows:

I thought of the government office in Boston and the other list, slid across the desk to me for one magic moment. "May I page down?" I asked.

Cahill reached forward and pressed a key. A new page appeared. When he noticed that it showed the list, he quickly pressed the key again. "There's no need for you to see the names," he said. "I don't want you bothering any of those people."

Too late. "You're absolutely right," I said. "I've seen all I need to see." I stood up. "I want to thank you both for taking the time to provide me with this information. I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've caused. I can't imagine why Cornwall would have said the things he did."

"We'd appreciate a copy of the article when published," Cahill said gruffly.

"Of course, of course." I headed for the door. I didn't have time to waste on pleasantries.

Arthur followed me, clearly delighted that everything had turned out all right. "So glad we could help, Walter. We do try to oblige, you see. The Deputy Minister is a crusty sort, but he—"

I didn't listen. I had to think. "Pay phone?" I interrupted.

"Oh, well, you could use my phone."

"Thanks. I need privacy, though."

"Of course."

We returned to his office. He showed me how to make an outside call, and then tactfully departed. I dialed long distance directory inquiries and got a number. I dialed it. No answer. I cursed and hung up. I thought for a moment, then got the number for BritRail information and called it. The person who answered told me what I needed to know. Finally, I dialed Kathy's number, hoping she'd be home from rehearsal.

She was.

"Hi, Kathy, it's me."

"Hello, Walter. Did you—were you successful?"

"Yeah. I saw the list. I'm sorry, Kathy. I was right. The kids in East Norton and Castle Frome were on it. The other kid didn't have an address in Shrewsbury, but the list was old and his family could've moved there."

She was silent for a moment. I looked at Arthur's grimy ceiling. This couldn't be easy for her. "What do you want me to do, Walter?" she asked in a whisper.

"Well, the obvious next candidate on the list lives in Bath. I got the phone number from directory inquiries and called, but there's no answer. I'm going to Bath—it's only an hour and a quarter from Paddington. Do you want to come?"