Dover Beach (6 page)

I went into the main building. It wasn't warm, but there was heat coming from somewhere. I took off my cap. After a little searching I found the cafeteria. Students were moving in and out, lounging at tables, reading bulletin boards. I looked at them, searching for a familiar face.

None at the moment. I wouldn't have to wait long, I was sure.

The faces I saw seemed happy and full of adolescent high spirits. Strange. Perhaps they knew something I didn't. I bought a
Globe
from a blind guy huddled in a corner and sat at an empty table near the door. I read "Garrick Petitions South for Winter Fuel Aid" by Gwendolyn Phillips very carefully, and I skimmed the rest. After a while I heard someone call my name.

"Walter Sands! What are you doing here?"

I looked up. It was Cindy Tappen. She seemed a lot more, well,
mature
than I remembered—her body had filled out nicely, and the once scruffy hair was now short and curled. She had on tight, faded jeans, leg warmers, and an ancient leather jacket. She was even wearing lipstick. What was this younger generation coming to? "Hi, Cindy. Can I buy you some cider?"

"No, that's okay." She sat next to me and gave my arm a squeeze. "So how're you doing, Walter? When did you get back into town?"

"A couple of months ago."

"In the army, right? What were you up to?"

"Guarding the salvagers down in Washington."

"Oh, wow. I bet that was exciting."

"Pretty boring, actually. And depressing."

"Oh, well, sorry to hear it. Back with Gwen and those folks?"

I nodded. "I've been meaning to look you up, but—"

Cindy smiled. "Yeah, yeah. So now what? Thinking of school?"

"Not really. I've got some other, um, angles I'm working on."

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.