was nearly three inches long and asked, “How do you like them?”
“Very much,” said Mead. “Their movement is a little creepy, but cockroaches have never bothered me the way they do most people.”
“Well, these are not cockroaches. Cockroach refers to the Oriental, German, or American species: Blatta orientalis, Blattella germanica, or Periplaneta americana, all of which have become adept urban anthrophiles—or, as some would have it, pests. Anyway, the popular reaction to roaches—or rather, their unpopularity—has more to do with bad press than any actual threat they represent. The insecticides that people spray in their kitchens in an attempt to discourage them are far more dangerous than the insects themselves. Besides,” he asked with mock incredulity, “how could anyone be repelled by such gentle and handsome animals?”
Mead, duly enchanted, simply nodded.
“Good. Then I’d like you to take over the feeding and basic monitoring of the colony for a term. You may then find some aspect of the roach program that interests you—if not for a thesis project, then perhaps for independent study. And your assistantship pay will increase a bit. At any rate, such an arrangement should quell Dr. Griffin’s carping about you going into the lab. Here, let me show you the routine.”
Mead adopted the roaches as if they were his own puppies (they did eat dog food), and their odor became all but imperceptible as he spent more and more time in their gentle, rustling presence.
The first committee meeting of the new year came and went. No problems attended the review of Mead’s studies, except that Dr. Griffin demanded to know the usefulness of Runic Literature to a biologist. Mead extemporized: “The process of written language development is an evolutionary one. Runes can be thought of as occupying a linguistic position roughly analogous to life in the Paleozoic. From there, the phylogeny of language offers a useful logical paradigm for organic evolution.” Phelps winked at Scotland, unseen by Griffin, who grunted and asked for no further elaboration. But when the discussion moved on to research, he let loose.
“Assuming your studies are adequate,” he led, “what about your lab experience?”
“I’ve taken over management of the giant roach colony, Professor.” Mead noticed how Griffin winced at that. “As you know, it has provided grist for several of Yale’s best biochemical and physiological papers. I find I am particularly intrigued by their nocturnal behavior, which hasn’t been much investigated, as it turns out.”
“Behavior!” Griffin grunted again. “I allow that once they have been dispatched, ground, or sectioned and placed beneath the scope, those disgusting vermin have yielded some useful material. But I cannot begin to imagine that they exhibit any ethological traits worth wasting time or money on. Besides, what you suggest, Mr. Mead, sounds merely descriptive. Do you plan to try to make something of this cockroach caper for your thesis project? And if so, where are the experimental guts of it?”
Mead began to speak, but Winchester suggested that the question was a bit premature. Then Professor Phelps butted in to remind everyone of a departmental seminar about to begin. That got Mead off the hook, and he didn’t object. Nor did Frank Griffin, eager to get off the subject of roaches.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” George said as they all rose. “Six weeks, then? And Frank,” he added, “they are not cockroaches, you know . . .” But Griffin was already out the door and down the hall, holding his nose as he passed the loathsome chamber. “Oh, well,” Winchester continued. “He just doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
The rest shared a laugh, and Scotland complimented Mead on his “masterful B.S.” regarding the runes.
“But he meant every word!” replied Winchester on Mead’s behalf, with a grave face and smiling eyes that James never did learn to interpret.
Later Mead asked the roaches, “Did he mean it or not?” but they wouldn’t let on.
Living on campus meant two more hours per day in which to study, read, sleep, or socialize. In practice, Mead seemed to socialize mostly with the forgiving blattids. He began to conduct nocturnal vigils among the great insects to see how they spent their time. He would cook some sort of a dinner substitute over a Bunsen burner in his lab while fending off the small, feral relatives of his captive subjects; then he’d spend much of the night in the colony, noting their activity before turning in for a morning’s sleep in his tower cell. This odd schedule suited him: he could rise, wash, and make a class in fifteen minutes flat. All in all, coming into town and the tower seemed a good move.
Mead had maintained his resolution to ignore October Carson’s journals since he’d transferred his work from the museum to the roach room, but his curiosity remained. At last he decided to ask Winchester about Carson. As they were about to wrap up one of their regular weekly meetings, Mead said, “Professor, there’s one other thing. Just who is, or was, October Carson? And why does the museum have his field journals?”
Winchester looked surprised, almost shocked. “Where?”
“What?”
“The journals—where are they?”
“I found them by accident in the Petrunkevitch Alcove, stacked on a deep shelf behind some works on amber spiders. I couldn’t help looking them over.” Then, afraid he might have trespassed where he ought not to have been, he said, “Gosh! I hope—”
“No. No, it’s all right. They’re no secret. I’m just relieved to know they are intact. I haven’t seen them in a couple of years, and I was worried that they’d been discarded while I was on sabbatical at Oxford. My collections manager must have been short on space, tucked the journals back there, and promptly forgot about them. I’ve been unable to locate them, despite intensive searching. I’m delighted that you turned them up.”
“Just a fluke,” Mead said. “Who is he, and why are his journals important?”
“In the opposite order,” Winchester replied. “The journals contain original field notes on many western butterflies by an excellent self-taught naturalist and very careful observer. Also, if I recall, they give something of an intimate look at a fascinating man.”
“He seems to be,” said Mead.
“Because of Carson’s unusual habit of mixing field notes with personalia in his diaries, one cannot mine the former without eavesdropping on the latter.”
“So I’ve noticed. Although some entries are more skeletal, others go on and on. I wonder when he slept! But then, I gather he often didn’t sleep, stranded by the roadside and such. But who is this guy? And how did you get the books?”
Winchester leaned back in his swivel chair, his big hands behind his fuscous hair, and considered for a moment before replying. “I don’t actually know very much about him.” He became pensive, as if trying to recall the name of a boyhood pet. “I’ve never met him, and our correspondence was slender. But he supplied the museum with much good material, in superb condition, always meticulously labeled, and eventually he sent me his field books as well.”
“So he was a professional collector?”
“Yes, among other things. What used to be called, in Alfred Russell Wallace’s day, a ‘flycatcher,’
