Warfield ran a Dunstone check on Sam Tucker and agreed there was nothing prejudicial beyond certain minor idiosyncrasies. But Sam was to be no different from any other member; none was to be informed of Dunstone’s interests. Obviously.
None would be. Alex meant it. More than Warfield realized. If there was any truth to R. C. Hammond’s astonishing pronouncements. Everyone on the survey would be told the same story. Given a set of facts engineered by Dunstone, Limited. Even the organizations involved accepted the facts as truth; there was no reason not to. Financial grants were not questioned; they were academic holy writ. Coveted, revered, never debated.
The geological survey had been made possible through a grant from the Royal Historical Society, encouraged by the Commonwealth Activities Committee, House of Lords. The expedition was to be a joint endeavor of the University of London and the Jamaican Ministry of Education. All salaries, expenses, disbursements of any kind were to be made through the bursar’s office at the university. The Royal Society would establish lines of bank credit, and the university was to draw on those funds.
The reason for the survey was compatible with endeavors of the Commonwealth Committee at Lords, whose members peopled and paid for most royal societies. It was another not-to-be-forgotten link with Britannia. A study which would be acknowledged in textbooks for years to come. For, according to Jamaican ministry, there were no records of this particular territory having been subjected to a geophysical survey of any dimensions.
Obviously.
And if there was, certainly no one was going to bring them up.
Academic holy writ.
The university rip-off. One did not question.
The selection of Alexander McAuliff for the post of survey director was acknowledged to be an embarrassment to both the society and the university. But the American was the Jamaican ministry’s choice. One suffered such insults from the former colonies.
One took the money; one did not debate.
Holy writ.
Everything was just complicated enough to be academically viable, thought McAuliff. Julian Warfield understood the environs through which he maneuvered.
As did R. C. Hammond of British Intelligence.
And Alex began to realize that he would have to catch up. Both Dunstone, Limited, and M.I.5 were committed to specific objectives. He could get lost in those commitments. In some ways, he had lost already. But choosing the team was his immediate concern.
McAuliff’s personnel approach was one he had used often enough to know it worked. He would not interview anyone whose work he had not read thoroughly; anyone he did interview had already proven himself on paper. Beyond the specific areas of expertise, he cared about adaptability to the physical and climatic requirements, and to the give-and-take of close-quarters association.
He had done his work. He was ready.
«My secretary said you wanted to see me, Dr. McAuliff.» The speaker at the door was the chairman of the Geophysics Department, a bespectacled, gaunt academician who tried not to betray his resentment of Alex. It was obvious that the man felt cheated by both the Royal Society and Kingston for not having been chosen for McAuliff’s job. He had recently completed an excellent survey in Anguilla; there were too many similarities between that assignment and the Jamaican grant for comfort.
«Good Lord,» said Alex. «I expected to come to your office.» He crossed to his desk and smiled awkwardly. He had been standing by the single window, looking out over a miniature quadrangle, watching students carrying books, thankful that he was no longer part of that world. «I think I’ll be ready to start the interviews this afternoon.»
«So soon?»
«Thanks mainly to you, Professor Ralston. Your recommendations were excellent.» McAuliff wasn’t being polite; the academician’s candidates were good—on paper. Of the ten final prospects, exactly half were from Ralston; the remaining five were freelancers highly thought of by two London survey firms. «I’m inclined just to take your people without seeing any others,» continued Alex, now being polite. «But the Kingston ministry is adamant that I interview these.» McAuliff handed Ralston a sheet of paper with the five nonuniversity names.
«Oh, yes. I recognize several,» said Ralston, his voice now pleasantly acknowledging Alex’s compliment. «A couple here are … a couple, you know.»
«What?»
«Man-and-wife team. The Jensens.»
«There’s one Jensen. Who’s the woman?»
«R. L. Wells. That’s Ruth Wells, Jensen’s wife.»
«I didn’t realize … I can’t say that fact is in their favor.»
«Why not?»
«I’m not sure,» answered Alex sincerely. «I’ve never had a married couple on a survey. Silly reaction, isn’t it? Do you know anybody else there?»
«One fellow. I’d rather not comment.»
«Then I wish you would.»
«Ferguson. James Ferguson. He was a student of mine. Very outspoken chap. Quite opinionated, if you know what I mean.»
«But he’s a botanist, a plant specialist, not a geology man.»
«Survey training; geophysics was his curriculum secondary. Of course, it was a number of years ago.»
McAuliff sorted out some papers of the desk. «It couldn’t have been too many. He’s only been on three tours, all in the past four years.»
«It wasn’t, actually. And you should see him. He’s considered quite good, I’m told.»
«Here are your people,» said Alex, offering a second page to Ralston. «I chose five out of the eight you submitted. Any more surprises there? Incidentally, I hope you approve.»
Ralston read the list, adjusting his spectacles and pursing his lips as he did so. «Yes, I thought you’d select these. You realize, of course, that this Whitehall chap is not one of us. He was recommended by the West Indies Studies. Brilliant fellow, according to the chairs. Never met him myself. Makes quite a lot of money on the lecture circuits.»
«He’s black, isn’t he?»
«Oh, certainly. He knows every tongue, every dialect, every cultural normality and aberration in the Antilles. His doctoral thesis traced no fewer than twenty-seven African tribes to the islands. From the Bushwadie to the Coromantees. His research of Indian-African integration is the standard reference. He’s quite a dandy, too, I believe.»
«Anyone else you want to talk about?»
«No, not actually. You’ll have a difficult time deciding between your shale-bedrock experts. You’ve two very decent ones here. Unless your … immediate reactions take precedence. One way or the other.»
«I don’t understand.»
Ralston smiled. «It would be presumptuous of me to comment further.» And then the professor added quickly, «Shall I have someone set up the appointments?»
«Thanks, I’d appreciate it. If schedules can be organized with all ten, I’d like an hour apiece over the next few days; whatever order is convenient for everyone.»
«An hour …»
«I’ll call back those I want to talk with further. No sense in wasting everyone’s time.»
«Yes, of course.»
One applicant disqualified himself the moment he walked into McAuliff’s cubicle. The fact that he was more drunk than sober at one o’clock in the afternoon might have been explained, but instead was used as the excuse to eliminate him for a larger problem: he was crippled in his right leg and unlikely to withstand the rigors of the expedition. Three men were crossed off for identical conditions: each was obviously hostile to West Indians—a spreading English virus, Britain’s parallel to Americus Redneckus.