after the preliminary interview began. “I was in Port Maria for the
Craft Foundation two years ago. It’s my judgment the whole bloody
island is a gold mine if the fruit and synthetic industries would allow
development.”
“What’s the gold?” asked McAuliff.
“The baracoa fibers. In the second 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
selfperpetuating. 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 Whitehall, sitting
down, smoothing his expensive blazer, and crossing his legs, which were
encased in pinstriped 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 honored 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 paleo; 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-caliber 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.”
Professor Ralston had given McAuliff a folder filled with A. Gerrard
Booth’s studies of sheet strata in such diverse locations as Turkey,
Corsica, Zaire, and Australia. Alex recalling having read several of
the articles in 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; 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
contradicted 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
by observation, except that there were laugh lines at the corners of her
eyes.
Alison Booth was not only good and a woman; she was also, at least on
first meeting, a very attractive, outgoing person. The term
“professional” kept recurring to McAuliff as they spoke.
“I made Rolly-Dr. Ralston-promise to omit the fact that I was a woman.
Don’t hold him responsible.”
“Were you so convinced I was antifeminist?”
She raised her hand and brushed her long, soft hair away from the side
of her lovely face. “No preformed hostility, Dr. McAuliff. I just
understand the practical obstacles. It’s part of my job to convince you
I’m qualified.” And then, as if she were aware of the possible double
entendre, Alison Booth stopped smiling and smoothed her skirt …
professionally.
“In fieldwork and the laboratory, I’m sure you are qualified.”
“Any other considerations would be extraneous, I should think,” said the
woman, with a slight trace of English aloofness.
“Not necessarily. There are environmental problems, degrees of physical
discomfort, if not hardship.”
“I can’t conceive of Jamaica being in that league with Zaire or the
Aussie Outback. I’ve surveyed in those places.”
“I know-”
“Rolly told me,” interrupted Alison Booth, “that you would not accept
tour references until you had interviewed us.”
“Group isolation tends to create fallible judgments.
Insupportable relationships. I’ve lost good men in the past because
other good men reacted negatively to them for the wrong reasons.”
“What about women?”
“I used the term inclusively, not exclusively.”
I have very good references, Dr. McAuliff. For the right reasons.”
:’I’ll request them.”
” I have them with me.” Alison unbuckled the large leather purse on her
lap, extracted two business envelopes, and placed them on the edge of
McAuliff s desk. “My references, Dr. McAuliff.”
Alex laughed as he reached for the envelopes. He looked over at the
woman; her eyes locked with his. There was both a good-humored
challenge and a degree of supplication in her expression. “Why is this
survey so important to you, Miss Booth?”
“Because I’m good and I can do the job,” she answered simply.
“You’re employed by the university, aren’t you?”
“On a part-time basis, lecture and laboratory. I’m not permanent … by
choice, incidentally.”
“Then it’s not money.” McAuliff made a statement.
“I could use it; I’m not desperate, however.”
“I can’t imagine your being desperate anywhere,” he said, with a partial
smile. And then Alex saw-or thought he saw-a trace of a cloud across
her eyes, an instant of concern that left as rapidly as it had come. He
instinctively pressed further. “But why this tour? With your
qualifications, I’m sure there are others. Probably more interesting,
certainly more money.”
“The timing is propitious,” she replied softly, with precise hesitation.
“For personal reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with my
qualifications.”
“Are there reasons why you want to spend a prolonged period in Jamaica?”
“Jamaica has nothing to do with it. You could be surveying Outer
Mongolia for all that it matters.”
“I see.” Alex replaced the two envelopes on the desk. He intentionally
conveyed a trace of indifference. She reacted.
“Very well, Dr. McAuliff. It’s no secret among my friends.” The woman
held her purse on her lap. She did not grip it; there was no intensity
about her whatsoever. When she spoke, her voice was steady, as were her
eyes. She was the total professional again. “You called me Miss Booth;
that’s incorrect. Booth is my married name. I regret to say the
marriage was not successful; it was terminated recently.
The solicitousness of well-meaning people during such times can be
boring. I’d prefer to be out of touch.”
McAuliff returned her steady gaze, trying to evoke something beyond her
words. There was something, but she would not allow his prying further;
her expression told him that … professionally “It’s not relevant. I
apologize. But I appreciate your telling me.”
“Is your … responsibility satisfied?”
“Well, my curiosity, at any rate.” Alex leaned forward, elbows on the
desk, his hands folded under his chin.
“Beyond that, and I hope that it’s not improper, you’ve made it possible