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?"
&nb
sp; "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.
"Yes, that's it. They kept her there until she bore the child, then they took it away from her and said cheerio. She never saw the child—or the inside of Bromford—again. Totally disgusting."
"Why did she wait so long before telling anyone?"
"She had become a convert to our movement, you see, and she realized the evil of what had taken place—what was still taking place—at Bromford."
"Her child—the child she bore—was still there?"
"I don't know for sure, but something was still going on at Bromford. I simply couldn't find out what."
"The government simply closed the place when you started questioning them."
"Precisely."
"It sounded as if you wanted to make more of a fuss about it at the time, but nothing seemed to come of it. Why was that?"
"Two reasons, really. My witness suddenly disappeared—she emigrated to Australia, I later found out. Apparently she wasn't quite as strong a convert as I had hoped, and the government were able to buy her off. More important, Charles Hatton told me to drop the whole thing."
Hounslow sounded bitter. "Why would Hatton want you to drop it?" I asked. Across the room, Winfield looked quite interested by that question. "Wasn't it a good issue?"
"I thought so," Hounslow replied, still sounding bitter. "But Hatton was beginning to believe he could become Prime Minister, and he was becoming cautious. He was afraid the issue might turn against us. What if the government were curing babies of genetic defects at Bromford? We couldn't be against healthy babies. So I was forbidden to mention Bromford again. The strategy was correct, I'm sure, since we won the election. But I must say it continues to bother me. What happened to the child that woman bore? What really went on there? I don't know."
"But wait a minute. Couldn't you find out once you came to power?"
"It wasn't I who came to power," Hounslow said, and the bitterness was stronger now. "It was Hatton; I remained a backbencher. And Hatton, once he became Prime Minister, seemed more interested in staying in power than in uncovering old horrors. Forgive my cynicism. I'm an old man who has lived through a great deal."
"I understand. Would you know, sir, if anyone else might be able to give us information about this man Cornwall or what went on at Bromford?"
Hounslow paused to consider. "I'm sure the records are there somewhere at the Ministry of Science," he said finally. "Now whether the Ministry will let you look at them—I'm afraid I just can't say. It's all passed me by, you see. I prefer pottering about in my garden now to worrying about our government."
"I can understand that, sir. Thank you for your time. You've been extremely helpful."
"Happy to oblige. Glad to see you Americans getting back on your feet. It's been a long time."
"It certainly has."
I hung up, and summarized for Winfield what he hadn't been able to make out from my side of the conversation. He paced the small room, too excited to sit still. "It all fits, then," he said. "Cornwall was cloning at Bromford. Hounslow made a stink, and they had to shut Bromford down. But obviously Hatton liked what Cornwall was doing, and he probably had Cornwall start it up again somewhere when he became Prime Minister."
"That's quite a leap of reasoning," I said. "From what I've read of the Hatton government—"
"I don't care what you've read," Winfield said. "What you've read failed to take into account the fact that someone doesn't want me to find Cornwall. Jesus, the government would probably fall if this became public knowledge. Let's go to Bromford."
That seemed a bit sudden to me. "Even assuming that it was Cornwall there," I said, "—and I admit that's a pretty good assumption now—the trail's going to be pretty cold at Bromford."
"Well, what do you suggest, then? Shutting ourselves up in the goddamn library for another day?"
"Today was reasonably productive," I pointed out. "And we have a better idea of things to look for now."
"Then look for them yourself. I've got other things to do."
I shrugged. He could go back to America, for all I cared. "Fine with me," I said. "Can I have my per diem now?"
He tossed me five pounds, and then called down to the desk clerk to find out how to get to Bromford.
* * *
Winfield left on a train early the next morning. He was vague about exactly what he was going to do in Bromford, and I had no investigative tips for him. But it made him happy to be on the move, and it left me on my own for the day, so there was no reason to complain.
I was conscientious enough to go to the library and do my research, but without Winfield in the next carrel there was considerably less urgency to the task. I studied up on Bromford and Charles Hatton and the Ministry of Science, but I didn't find out anything exciting; my mind started to wander, and eventually my body followed.
I took the Tube back to Russell Square and revisited the British Museum. It's a big place; but then, there's a lot of history, a lot of the products of human genius, to cram into it. The place was actually rather depressing, in a way: all that history, all that genius, leading to this. And what was next? I looked at the Elgin Marbles, battered by war—saved to be, inevitably, destroyed in another war. They had escaped this one, but they wouldn't escape forever.
I came across a display on Shakespeare; it included a specimen of his signature on some contract. We shall not see his like again. I thought of Mr. Fitch, back in New Hampshire. Wouldn't this give him a thrill?
And that brought me back further, to my time in Washington, which I mostly spent shooting dogs and making sure the salvagers didn't shoot each other. One day I was with a sergeant who had seen me squirreling away books to read off-duty. He waved at a pile of rubble across the street from us. "Folger Library," he said. "Biggest collection of Shakespearean stuff in the world in the old days. Mighty impressive now, eh, Private?"
We poked around it for a while. If there was anything left, it wasn't going to be easy to find, and the government hadn't the time, the manpower, or the inclination to look for it. The country needed copper wire more than it needed rotting volumes about a long-dead writer. We walked away, and I shot a lot of dogs the next couple of days.
And now I wondered: if Shakespeare had been born twenty-two years ago, would his genius have flowered? Probably not. Like that other genius, Dr. Charles Winfield, he would have been frustrated; he would have spent too much time in pubs; maybe he, too, would have looked for some way out, even if it was only the dream of some other life that would—and would not—be his.
When I finally returned to the hotel, I was not as happy as I should have been. Here I was in the Promised Land, free, with a heated room and a bathtub awaiting me. But it wasn't enough, or why was I stomping through the British Museum, brooding about the vanity of human wishes?
It was Gwen's problem in the fallout shelter, of course. Get what you want, and you want a little more. This was my first case, damn it, and I wasn't making much progress. And that bothered me, even in the Promised Land.
There was no message from Winfield when I arrived at the hotel. The Indian desk clerk smiled apologetically. I bought a newspaper and went up to my room.
London newspapers were better printed than the Globe, but none of their reporters was as good as Gwen, it seemed to me. Anyway, I was more interested in the movie listings than in the news. The previous night, after everything had been settled about the trip to Bromford, Winfield and I had split up, as usual, and I had attended my first movie. I had been a little disappointed—it was a prewar comedy, and I didn't get the jokes. I had felt like a hick, straining to understand why everyone was laughing, and just not being able to figure it out. Maybe I could find something that was more to my taste, something that would chase away my depression.
Sure enough—a Humphrey Bogart festival was starting at Notting Hill Gate. Humphrey, patron saint of private eyes. Going to one of his movies would be like going to church. Maybe if I prayed to him at the theater he would help me crack the case.
Unfortunately, I didn't have enough money left to go—never mind eat supper. Where was Winfield? I needed my per diem.
He called while I was taking a bath. I sloshed back into the bedroom and answered. His voice was tinny and distant but unmistakable.
Dover Beach Page 12