Dover Beach Read online

She reached out and covered my hand with hers. "You should come to school, Walter. Honestly. A person with your brains—do it for your country."

  I shrugged. "That's what Stretch keeps saying. Tell you what I'll do for my country, Cindy—I'll help you make strong, smart babies. The country needs your babies more than it needs my brains."

  Cindy grinned. "Tell you what. You come to school, and I'll let you help me make babies."

  "This is blackmail. I won't hear of it."

  "Suit yourself. So what brings you to Northeastern, if you don't want an education?"

  "I'd like to ask a favor."

  "Okay. Watcha want?"

  I didn't particularly care to hear any more comments about my new profession, so I prevaricated. "I met this guy from down South in the army. His folks were separated, back in the old days. His father was a biology professor at MIT, and my friend never learned for sure what happened to him. So I promised to find out what I could."

  Cindy made a face. "Sounds like a waste of time, Walter. How can I help?"

  "Well, I was wondering if you knew of any professors from MIT that are still teaching here—someone who might have known this guy's father."

  Cindy removed her hand from mine and considered. "I don't know who taught where in the old days, Walter. But I could introduce you to the chairman of the bio department. I took a course from him last semester. He's sort of yucky, but he's old, so maybe he'd know something."

  "That sounds great, Cindy. I'd appreciate it."

  She stood up and held out her hand. "No time like the present. Let's go. Maybe he can talk you into coming to school."

  * * *

  Cindy led me through a maze of cinder-block corridors to a frosted-glass door. A hand-lettered sign had been taped to it:

  R. Costigan

  Chman. Bio. Dept.

  She opened the door and we walked inside.

  We were in a small reception area filled with cartons and broken-looking equipment. From the office to our right a man's voice was speaking, loudly: "Yes? Yes? I'm sorry, I can't—What?" We moved into the man's line of sight. He gestured for us to wait while he continued to talk into the phone. "I'm having difficulty.... Could you speak a little... What?" Finally he shook his head and replaced the receiver. "Not worth the effort," he muttered. He looked at Cindy. "Um, Sally, is it?"

  We moved into his office. It was as messy as the reception area. "Cindy. Cindy Tappen, Professor. I had you last semester."

  "Ah, yes. Cindy." He looked at me.

  "And this is my friend Walter Sands," she said.

  "Ah. How do you do." He stood up, and we shook hands. He was a tall man, with a shock of sandy hair and jug ears. He was wearing a tweed jacket, tattersall vest, dingy white shirt, and a stained woolen tie. The clothes hung limply on him. They were his own, I figured. He had held on to them a long time. He sat back down and folded his hands. "What can I, ah, do for you, then?"

  "Walter's looking for information about someone who used to teach at MIT," Cindy explained. "I thought maybe he could ask you. Is that okay?"

  "Certainly, certainly. Glad to help." He paused, and then smiled, as if he suddenly remembered that it was expected of him. There was a certain vagueness about the man that I found a little irritating; maybe I hadn't hung around professors enough.

  "Thanks, Professor," Cindy said. "Well, I've got a class, so I'll leave you two alone. Tell Walter how great Northeastern is, Professor. He needs an education."

  "I'll be happy to, Sal—uh, Cindy."

  Cindy squeezed my arm and left me alone with Professor Costigan.

  I smiled at him. He smiled back. I took a breath and launched into the story I had told Cindy. He nodded vaguely as I told it, as if he had heard it all before, or perhaps didn't understand a word of it. "...So you see, Professor, any information you could give me would be greatly appreciated."

  He nodded some more. "Indeed," he said. "Professor Cornwall is certainly not with us now, of course."

  "Have you ever heard of him?"

  "Well, no, not precisely."

  What did that mean? "Perhaps there are records around somewhere that might mention him."

  "Records? Oh, yes, there might be records." He paused, and then realized he was expected to look for said records, or at least give me more information about them. He stood up. "I have some documents from the early days in one of these cartons here. I think perhaps MIT is..." His voice trailed off as he wandered over to a carton and started poking around in it. After a while he gave that up and went to a battered green filing cabinet. "Cornwall... The name seems vaguely..."

  He tried another cabinet, a desk drawer, a mound of computer printouts in a bookcase. It became clear soon enough that he had no idea where to find the records he was muttering about, and that he was going to keep searching until I told him to stop. "That's okay, sir. Really."

  "What? Oh, well, I can't seem to..." He sat back down and smiled uncertainly.

  How have you survived? I wanted to ask him next. But I forced myself to stick to the issue. "Perhaps you might know of someone else who might remember him—someone who taught at MIT, for example."

  "Ah." He brightened. "George Hemphill, of course." He extracted a slim notebook from the inner pocket of his tweed jacket and began perusing it.

  "Who is George Hemphill, sir?"

  Costigan looked up. "Oh. He's in my department. Used to be at MIT in the old days. Quite good, but a bit, um, you know." He made an indecipherable gesture. "He teaches a seminar for our advanced students, but we can't seem to persuade him to..." His gaze returned to the notebook. "Ah. Here he is. I remember now, he lives out in Cambridge for some reason. Three-sixty Fenton Avenue. Perhaps you'd want to wait until he comes back here. He only comes in on Tuesdays, I think, and today is—what? Thursday? Friday?"

  "I don't mind going to Cambridge," I said. There. That hadn't been hard. Was it worth trying for anything more? Nothing to lose. "My friend told me his father was a specialist in cloning. Would you know anything about that?"

  "Cloning? Oh, of course." He smiled.

  "Well, perhaps you could tell me something about it. For example, could they clone human beings, back in the old days?"

  "Ah. Interesting question." He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. "It was not my particular area of expertise—Hemphill might know more—but I was fairly au courant. Cloning a human being was—is—certainly possible theoretically. However, I doubt that it actually took place. Mammalian cloning took place, but the techniques..."

  He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. His eyes took on a faraway look. He was happy. "You would have to get the eggs—a laparoscopy, of course, would do the trick. And Pergonal would help increase egg production. You could use a laser to enucleate the egg. Then, of course, you'd have to get the donor nucleus. In vitro fertilization, I suppose. Then use the Sendai virus for cell fusion, perhaps, or do it manually with micropipettes, if you're skillful enough. Of course, you'd have to synchronize the cell division—"

  "Well, you certainly sound like an expert to me, sir," I said, having heard enough.

  He smiled condescendingly. "Just general knowledge. But you see my point. If human cloning wasn't done, it was because there was little scientific benefit from doing it, or no funding for it, or because someone thought it was immoral. Not because it couldn't be done."

  "Yes, I see. Fascinating."

  "Nowadays, of course—" He gestured vaguely—toward the broken equipment in the reception area, I imagined—and his expression became glum. "Perhaps Professor Cornwall is better off if—oh, well."

  He fell silent. How had he survived? By luck, probably, if you wanted to call it luck. In the old days, he undoubtedly had a nice little academic life somewhere, with his frogs and his viruses. And then: Welcome to the new world, Professor Costigan. No more lasers, no more micropipettes, no more white shirts.

  I stood up. "I want to thank you for your time, Professor Costigan. You've been a great help."
/>   "Not at all, not at all. Happy to be of service."

  We shook hands, and I headed for the door.

  "Of course," Professor Costigan said, "Cornwall could be in England."

  I turned around. "England?" I inquired.

  "Well, yes."

  I came back. "What makes you say that?"

  "Well, you know, the British might have taken him, back when they were, uh, in charge, as it were."

  "They took American scientists?"

  "I believe so. I don't know how many, or what happened to them all. Things were very confused back then, of course."

  "Why did they take them?"

  "I suppose it was an opportunity on both sides," Costigan said. "It also happened with the Germans after World War Two, I believe. The British get the scientists, and the scientists get a place to carry on their work."

  "Did the British ask you to go?"

  He looked uncomfortable. Not the most tactful question I could have asked. "I was not in the immediate area at the time so, no, I wasn't asked. As I say, things were confused, and no one seems to know how many they took. Perhaps none of it is true. There are all sorts of rumors about what happened back then."

  "Would Hemphill know?"

  He grimaced. "Yes, I imagine Hemphill would know. Perhaps you should ask him."

  Costigan stared at me a little belligerently. In England they had micropipettes. And he hadn't been asked. I wanted to apologize, but it wouldn't have done any good. Besides, I was too eager to go visit George Hemphill. "Thanks again, Professor. I've learned a lot."

  This time he said nothing in return; he simply stared down at the frayed cuffs of his shirt as I left his office.

  I raced through the corridors and out to my bicycle. No time to think about Costigan's problems; we all have problems. I flipped the old guard another penny, and I pedaled off to Cambridge.

  Chapter 6

  I picked up Mass. Ave. off Huntington and took it straight across the Charles into Cambridge. The bridge wasn't safe, but it was no more dangerous than any of the others, and I had to get across the river somehow. You take your chances. The only traffic I encountered was a guy in a horse-drawn wagon—probably from the communal farm over on the old Harvard athletic fields. He tipped his hat to me, but made sure I saw his shotgun.

  I slowed down as I passed MIT. A couple of mangy dogs barked at me from the steps of a gutted building. I fingered my Smith and Wesson, but they were evidently too sick to give chase. Cornwall had probably climbed those steps. Maybe he was better off dead, as Professor Costigan had implied—bulldozed into some pit with all the other nameless corpses. That was the only way he could escape the pain of looking at those steps, and remembering.

  On the other hand, Professor Hemphill probably passed those steps every time he came into Boston. And Bobby Gallagher had his memories of MIT too, evidently. The two of them managed to keep on living; why not Cornwall? Everyone said it was easier to have been born afterward, to have been spared all the memories—that was why the kids at Northeastern looked so happy, I suppose. But people carried on in any case. It must be in the genes or something.

  I pedaled through Cambridge.

  Once upon a time the suburbs were the safe place to live, I am told—insulated from the dangers of city life and the rigors of country life. Times have changed. If you live in the country, you live behind barbed wire, like Mr. Fitch; or, at least, you can see strangers coming and prepare your defenses, if you think you need them. In the city, you have the rudiments of civilization once more—police and fire departments, neighbors who will look out for your property, businesses with security guards to protect themselves and you. But the suburbs are too built up to allow you the kind of protection Mr. Fitch has, and too spread out to allow you the kind of protection the folks in Louisburg Square have. They are a no-man's-land, inhabited only by the brave and the stupid.

  And, of course, the sentimental, who are a little of both. It was hardly surprising that someone like Professor Hemphill would live in suburban Cambridge—he probably lived in the same house he had always lived in, and couldn't bear the thought of moving. The only surprise was that he was still alive. Of course, it was surprising that any of us were still alive.

  I kept my hand on my gun as I looked for his house. His street had once been beautiful, I am sure. Now a couple of the houses were rubble. One had a side caved in; it looked as if it had been kicked by some enormous foot. Number 360 was a brick Colonial with shutters that had long ago lost their paint. It was surrounded, of course, by barbed wire.

  I got off my bicycle and went up to the front gate, which was, of course, locked. I gave a shout. "Hullo! Professor Hemphill!"

  A dog started barking. After a few moments a gun came poking out through a crack in the front door. All very straightforward and predictable, like a conversation about the weather. I raised my hands. "Hi, there," I called out. "Nice to see you. My name is Walter Sands. Professor Costigan at Northeastern gave me your name and address. He said you might be able to tell me something about a man named Robert Cornwall."

  The door opened wide. A bald-headed man in a blue turtleneck sweater came out, leading the obligatory Doberman on a leash. Neither looked pleased to see me. I smiled my most endearing smile. Eventually the man came to the gate and unlocked it. I waited for him to jerk the dog to a sitting position, and then I entered. "You can't be too careful nowadays," I said.

  "Come inside," Professor Hemphill replied.

  I followed him and the dog inside. Hemphill was short, and looked shorter because he slouched as he walked, as if he had a bad back, or maybe felt the weight of the world. His skin was the translucent kind that always seems ready to blush, and his features were the thin, nervous kind that always seems ready to twitch. He looked as if he hadn't shaved in a couple of days, and hadn't smiled in several years.

  His house was lovely; he had guarded it well. The hall was dominated by a large grandfather clock, ticking away as solemnly as it must have thirty years ago. The stairway's oak banister and newel post looked freshly polished. The gilt on the mirror sparkled; the parquet floor gleamed.

  Hemphill led me into a sitting room; more parquet, a Queen Anne sofa, somewhat faded, and a small marble fireplace from the days when they hadn't really needed fires. I stopped in front of the painting hung above the mantel. "Sargent," I said.

  "Very good," Hemphill replied. "It's my wife's grandmother. How in the world do you know about Sargent?"

  "A friend of mine named Bobby Gallagher deals in stuff like this. He'd pay you a lot for it."

  "Not for sale," Hemphill said curtly. "Now please hand me your gun."

  I did as I was told, and I sat down on the sofa when Hemphill gestured to it. He sat in an armchair by the fireplace, leaving both our weapons on a sidetable next to the chair. His hands were trembling a little. He didn't seem to be the type to thrive in this kind of world; but here he was, and I was sure if I tried to get my gun back, either he or his dog would manage to kill me.

  "Robert Cornwall, Mr. Sands. Why do you want to know about him?"

  "I met his son in the service," I said, repeating my lie. "He never knew his father, and he asked me to find out what happened to him."

  Hemphill stared at me then, until I began to think his social skills had gone to hell out here in the suburbs. "I knew Robert Cornwall," he said. "I believe he's dead."

  His tone was quiet and final, and my heart sank. This was not what Dr. Winfield wanted to hear. I felt obliged to press on with the interview, however. "You say you believe he's dead. Do you know for sure?"

  Hemphill blushed. "Why do you ask that? Do you think I'd lie to you?"

  "Not at all. Maybe you just assume he's dead, which I suppose is a good assumption. But did you see him die? Can you tell me anything about the circumstances of his death?"

  "Well, I mean, he's not around here. What else could have happened to him?"

  "He could have gone to England," I suggested.

  Hemphill
stared at me some more. "No, that's not possible," he said finally.

  "Why? I was told the British took scientists back with them. Didn't that happen?"

  "Yes. Certainly. In fact, they asked me to go."

  "And you turned them down? Why?"

  Hemphill shrugged. "I wanted to stay here. My—my wife was missing, and I had some hopes of finding her."

  "But Cornwall could've gone, right? Do you know for sure that he didn't?"

  "We don't live in total scientific isolation here, Mr. Sands," he pointed out. "We still receive the journals that are put out in England and other places that have more resources than we do. If the British took Cornwall, he would be doing science over there, and we would know about it. We certainly know about a lot of other American scientists in Britain. I haven't seen anything by him, so I assume he wasn't taken. You can have Costigan show you the back issues of Nature and the like at Northeastern, if you don't believe me."

  "I believe you," I said. But something was out of focus; somehow I wasn't getting the picture I had hoped this man could provide me. "Tell me about Cornwall," I said. "How well did you know him?"

  Hemphill's stare slowly turned into the misty far-off look of someone remembering the old days. I had seen that look often enough in my life: on Bobby Gallagher's face, on the faces of toothless old women dying in alleyways, on the faces of hard-boiled army officers. On my father's face. Hemphill's hands were still shaking.

  The look disappeared finally, to be replaced by the mask of civilization. What Hemphill gave me when he spoke was an edited, emotionless summary. He could have been lecturing on invertebrate anatomy, or reciting an obituary.

  "Cornwall and I were both assistant professors in the biology department at MIT," he said. "We collaborated on a couple of projects, and we saw each other socially as well. He was a superb scientist, I believe, and he was certainly aware of his talent. He received his Ph.D. from the University of Chicago. And, Mr. Sands, he was not married. He had no children."

  "Ah." The Sandman's first mistake. I couldn't believe my stupidity. There was nothing to do but plunge ahead, however. "Did Cornwall work on cloning?"