The Jensens—Peter Jensen and Ruth Wells—were delightful surprises, singly and together. They were in their early fifties, bright, confident, and good-natured. A childless couple, they were financially secure and genuinely interested both in each other and in their work. His expertise was ore minerals; hers, the sister science of paleontology—fossils. His had direct application, hers was removed but academically justifiable.
«Might I ask you some questions, Dr. McAuliff?» Peter packed his pipe, his voice pleasant.
«By all means.»
«Can’t say that I know much about Jamaica, but this seems like a damned curious trip. I’m not sure I understand. What’s the point?»
Alex was grateful for the opportunity to recite the explanation created by Dunstone, Limited. He watched the ore man closely as he spoke, relieved to see the light of recognition in the geologist’s eyes. When he finished, he paused and added, «I don’t know if that clears up anything.»
«Oh my word, it certainly does, chap. Burke’s Peerage strikes again!» Peter Jensen chuckled, glancing at his wife. «The royal H has been hard pressed to find something to do. Its members at Lords simply provided it. Good show. I trust the university will make a pound or two.»
«I’m afraid the budget’s not that loose.»
«Really?» Peter Jensen held his pipe as he looked at McAuliff. «Then perhaps I don’t understand. You’ll forgive me, but you’re not known in the field as a particularly inexpensive director … quite rightfully, let me add. Your reputation precedes you.»
«From the Balkans to Australia,» added Ruth Wells Jensen, her expression showing minor irritation with her husband. «And if you have a separate arrangement, it’s none of Peter’s bloody business.»
Alex laughed softly. «You’re kind, both of you. But there’s nothing special. I got caught, it’s as simple as that. I’ve worked for companies on the island; I hope to again. Often. All geophysical certificates are issued by Kingston, and Kingston asked for me. Let’s call it an investment.»
Again McAuliff watched Peter Jensen closely; he had rehearsed the answer. The Britisher looked once more at his wife. Briefly. Then he chuckled, as he had done seconds before.
«I’d do the same, chap. But God help the survey I was director on.»
«It’s one I’d avoid like a May Day in Trafalgar,» said Ruth, matching her husband’s quiet laugh. «Who have you set, if it’s proper to ask? Anyone we might know?»
«Nobody yet. I’ve really just started—»
«Well,» interrupted Peter Jensen, his eyes alive with humor, «since you suffer from inadequate freight charges, I should tell you we’d rather not be separated. Somewhat used to each other by now. If you’re interested in one of us, the other would take half till to straggle along.»
Whatever doubts remained for Alex were dispelled by Ruth Wells Jensen’s words. She mimicked her husband’s professorial tones with good-natured accuracy. «Half till, old chap, can be negotiated. Our flat’s damned cold this time of year.»
The Jensens would be hired.
The third nonuniversity name, James Ferguson, had been accurately described by Ralston as outspoken and opinionated. These traits, however, were the results of energy and impatience, it seemed to McAuliff. Ferguson was young—twenty-six—and was not the sort to survive, much less thrive, in an academic environment. Alex recognized in Ferguson much of his younger self: consummate interest in his subject, intolerance of the research world in which it was studied. A contradiction, if not a conflict of objectives. Ferguson freelanced for agro-industry companies, and his best recommendation was that he rarely was out of work in a market not famous for excessive employment. James Ferguson was one of the best vegetation specialists around.
«I’d love to get back to Jamaica,» said the young man within seconds 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 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 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.»