growth stages. A banana strain could be developed that would send the nylon and the tricot boys into panic, to say nothing of the fruit shippers.'
'Can you prove it?'
'Damn near did,I think. That's why I was thrown out by the foundation.'
'You were thrown out?'
'Quite unceremoniously. No sense hiding the fact; don't care to, really. They told me to stick to business. Can you imagine? You'll probably run across a few negatives about me, if you're interested.'
'I'm interested, Mr Ferguson.'
The interview with Charles Whitehall disturbed McAuliff. That was to say, the man disturbed him, not the quality of information received. Whitehall was a black cynic, a now-Londoner whose roots and expertise were in the West Indies but whose outlook was aggressively self-perpetuating. His appearance startled McAuliff. For a man who had written three volumes of Caribbean history, whose work was, in Ralston's words, 'the standard reference,' Charles Whitehall looked barely as old as James Ferguson.
'Don't let my appearance fool you, Mr McAuliff,' said Whitehall, upon entering the cubicle and extending his hand to Alex. 'My tropic hue covers the years better than paler skin. I'm forty-two years old.'
'You read my thoughts.'
'Not necessarily. I'm used to the reaction,' replied the black, sitting down, smoothing his expensive blazer, and crossing his legs, which were encased in flared pin-striped trousers.
'Since you don't waste words, Dr Whitehall, neither will I. Why are you interested in this survey? As I gather, you can make a great deal more money on the lecture circuit. A geophysical survey isn't the most lucrative employment.'
'Let's say the financial aspects are secondary; one of the few times in my life that they will be, perhaps.' Whitehall spoke while removing a silver cigarette case from his pocket. 'To tell you the truth, Mr McAuliff, there's a certain ego fulfillment in returning to one's country as an expert under the aegis of the Royal Historical Society. It's really as simple as that.'
Alex believed the man. For, as he read him, Whitehall was a scholar far more honoured abroad than at home. It seemed that Charles Whitehall wanted to achieve an acceptance commensurate with his scholarship that had been denied him in the intellectual - or was it social? - houses of Kingston.
'Are you familiar with the Cock Pit country?'
'As much as anyone who isn't a runner. Historically and culturally, much more so, of course.'
'What's a runner?'
'Runners are hill people. From the mountain communities. They hire out as guides... when you can find one. They're primitives, really. Who have you hired for the survey?'
'What?' Alex's thoughts were on runners.
'I asked who was going with you. On the survey team. I'd be interested.'
'Well... not all the posts have been filled. There's a couple named Jensen - ores and palaeo; a young botanist, Ferguson. An American friend of mine, a soil analyst, name of Sam Tucker.'
'I've heard of Jensen, I believe. I'm not sure, but I think so. I don't know the others.'
'Did you expect to?'
'Frankly, yes. Royal Society projects generally attract very high-calibre people.' Whitehall delicately tapped his cigarette on the rim of an ashtray.
'Such as yourself?' asked McAuliff, smiling.
'I'm not modest,' replied the black scholar, returning Alex's smile with an open grin. 'And I'm very much interested. I think I could be of service to you.'
So did McAuliff.
The second shale-bedrock analyst was listed as A. Gerrard Booth. Booth was a university applicant personally recommended by Ralston in the following manner:
'I promised Booth I'd bring these papers and articles to your attention. I do believe Booth would be a fine asset to the survey.'
Ralston had given McAuliff a folder filled with A. Gerrard Booth's studies of sheet strata in such diverse locations as Iran, Corsica, and southern Spain. Alex recalled having read several of the articles in the National Geologist, and remembered them as lucid and professional. Booth was good; Booth was better than good.
Booth was also a woman. A. Gerrard Booth was known to her colleagues as Alison Booth; no one bothered with the middle name.
She had one of the most genuine smiles McAuliff had ever seen. It was more a half laugh - one might even say masculine, but the word was loudly denied by her complete femininity. Her eyes were blue and alive and level - the eyes of a professional. Her handshake was firm, again professional. Her light brown hair was long and soft and slightly waved - brushed repeatedly, thought Alex, for the interview. Her age was anywhere from late twenties to middle thirties; there was no way to tell