Clone, p.2
Clone, page 2
‘I certainly do, Alvin. But let’s drop the “Doctor Somervell”, shall we? You know my name’s “Maureen”, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Doctor Somervell.’
Doctor Somervell chuckled tolerantly. ‘Well, perhaps one thing at a time, eh? Now what’s this old Norbert’s been telling me about you and some girl or other?’
’Oh, yes, Doctor Somervell!’ Alvin’s moon face became luminous with reminiscence.
‘Well, go on.’
Alvin clasped his hands in his lap and sighed. ‘She had green eyes, Doctor Somervell—the colour of duckweed—and peat brown hair—sort of short. She was looking down at me…and smiling. …’ His voice trailed away and his own lips beamed in reverie. He looked supremely idiotic and, at the same time, rather touching.
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘Oh no, Doctor Somervell. She didn’t need to.’
Doctor Somervell chewed her lower lip reflectively. ‘Whereabouts was she?’
Alvin frowned. ‘She didn’t seem to be anywhere in particular. I mean not here or in the lake or anything. But I think she was sort of bending over me…or something…’
‘Not in bed?’
‘No. I would have remembered that,’
‘Who do you think she was, Alvin?’
Alvin looked uncomfortable. ‘I—I don’t know, Doctor Somervell,’
‘Norbert said you’d suggested she might be from Before,’
Alvin coloured like a peony and began to scratch his head violently—a sure sign with him that he was being assailed by feelings of guilt. ’Oh, did I? I…I…/
‘You know that’s quite impossible, don’t you, Alvin?’
Alvin nodded miserably.
’Then why did you say it?’
‘Because I’m sinful?’ he suggested feebly, but with a note of hopeful pleading.
‘Not sinful, Alvin. Weak. Now tell me the truth. You made it all up, didn’t you?’
‘Did I, Doctor Somervell?’
’Of course you did. It’s an obvious, immature, sexual fantasy.’ ’Oh,’ said Alvin dismally.
‘You know what that is, don’t you, Alvin?’
Alvin shook his head.
’Oh, come now, Alvin. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about girls.’
Alvin blushed again.
Doctor Somervell slid herself along the couch till she appeared about to overwhelm him like some vast pink blancmange. With one hand she turned his face towards hers and gazed speculatively into his eyes. ‘You can tell me, Alvin,’ she murmured, and the fingers of her other hand seemed to stumble by happy accident on the thigh-tab of his zip.
Alvin swallowed manfully. ‘Girls?’ he gurgled.
Tes, girls, Alvin,’ she throbbed. ‘Women, Alvin. Us!’
Her face loomed up over his so that he seemed to be peering straight up her flared nostrils. Their proximity induced in him a curious sensation of helplessness. He opened his mouth to make some pertinent observation but, before the words could materialize, her lips had descended upon his and something, which for a wild moment he supposed to be her thumb, was frisking around inside his mouth like a chunk of india-rubber. Then a lot of rather unlikely things seemed to happen all at once. By the time he regained possession of his senses it was to find himself lying on his back on the couch with—incredibly!—Doctor Somervell squatting on top of him. What was going on beneath the voluminous folds of her pink negligee he could only guess at, but he was aware of a sense of insufferable, anguished yearning, of elation and despair and, all too soon, of rapidly impending crisis. ‘Oh, Doctor Somervell!’ he gasped. ‘Oh…Doctor …S-o-m-e-r-v-e-l-l!!’ At which moment the door opened and in strolled Doctor Pfizier.
Instead of turning on his heel and retreating he nodded to them, sauntered across the room, and having subsided into a prehensile loafer, crossed one leg over the other, picked up a video-viewer and began squinting through it.
Alvin gazed up at Doctor Somervell and wondered what would happen next. He was conscious of no feelings of guilt since he reasoned that whatever had happened (was, indeed, still happening!) had been at her express wish. He was therefore considerably surprised to hear her say: ‘You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Alvin. And I thought you were such a nice boy too!’
‘Been misbehaving himself, has he?’ enquired Doctor Pfizier, glancing up from his viewer. ‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, Alvin.’
Alvin’s blue eyes filled with tears. Censure from Doctor Pfizier was the unkindest cut of all.
‘What’s he been up to, Mo?’
Doctor Somervell rocked herself ruminatively backwards and forwards, thereby causing Alvin to bite his tongue. ‘He asked me to demonstrate the technique of buccal resuscitation, Dimitri. Something to do with his rescue service tests, he said,’
‘Crafty, crafty,’ nodded Doctor Pfizier, uncrossing his legs and scratching his groin. ‘And so?’
‘And so, of course, I showed him,’ She sounded so sincere that Alvin almost found himself believing her. ‘And before I knew what was happening he was taking advantage of me,’
‘Bad,’ grunted Doctor Pfizier. ‘Very underhand,’
’That’s just what it was, Dimitri. Underhand,’ Frowning abstractedly, Doctor Somervell slipped her own hand beneath her and gave Alvin a tweak that made his eyes pip like mushrooms.
‘Well, Alvin?’ said Doctor Pfizier, ‘what have you got to say for yourself? Come on, lad. Speak up!’
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ gulped Alvin. ‘I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I thought—’
‘You thought it was high time you found out whether Miss Somervell was as delectable a dish as I’ve always told you she was,’ said Doctor Pfizier smacking his lips. ‘Well, is she?’
‘I—I don’t know, sir. I mean—’
‘Haven’t you got anything to drink in this nunnery, Mo?’ demanded Doctor Pfizier, cutting him short. ‘I seem to recall—’
‘In the cabinet, Dimitri. You might fix me one too, while you’re at it.’
‘Sure thing, doll.’ Doctor Pfizier flung down the viewer and, clicking his fingers in a syncopated rhythm, skipped through into the adjoining room.
Doctor Somervell took advantage of his absence to prise herself free. ‘Do fasten up that zip, Alvin,’ she said. ‘It really does you no credit.’
Alvin struggled up into a sitting position and adjusted his dress. He looked dazed and dejected. ‘May I go now, Doctor Somervell?’ he enquired tearfully.
‘Do,’ she said, ‘and mind you close the door after you. There’s a terrible draught from somewhere.’
THREE
At 11.30 the following morning Alvin was summoned to Doctor Pfizier’s office. The Doctor, looking alert and purposeful, but a shade paler than when Alvin had last seen him, came straight to the point. ‘What’s this Mo’s been telling me about you and some girl or other, Alvin?’
Alvin told him.
‘Someone you’ve met around the lake, I suppose,’
‘Oh, no, sir.’
‘Well, we can’t have you ramping around taking advantage of any stray female you happen to meet, Alvin. They aren’t all as tolerant as Doctor Somervell, you know.’
‘But I’d never seen this girl before, sir.’
’Is that supposed to make sense?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Alvin sadly.
‘And that trick you pulled last night,’ said Doctor Pfizier, switching his line of attack. ‘Not very nice, was it?’
Alvin blinked. ‘Nice, sir?’ he queried vaguely.
‘Haven’t I always told you, Alvin? Once a lady always a lady! Toujours la politesse. Besides, Mo’s old enough to be your mother.’
‘Yes, sir,’
‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Sir?’
Doctor Pfizier took a thoughtful turn up and down the room. ‘According to our records you’re down as “null libido”, Alvin. Do you know what that means?’
‘No, sir,’
‘Girls aren’t supposed to interest you,’
Alvin’s eyes opened even wider.
‘That surprises you?’
‘Well, yes, sir—I mean, no, sir,’
‘Tell it to Doctor Somervell, eh?’
‘Sir?’
‘So the records are wrong. Which means there’s been a balls-up at the M.O.P. Not for the first time, I’d say.’
Alvin looked blank.
‘I’ve tried to do my best by you, boy. God knows it hasn’t been easy, but I’ve tried. Now I discover there’s a fundamental flaw in the matrix. All my hard work gone for nothing. It’s a bitter disappointment, I can tell you,’
Alvin began to weep silently.
‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’ muttered Doctor Pfizier. ‘As the twig is bent so is the tree inclined.’ He sighed hugely. ‘Well, there’s nothing else for it, I’m afraid. Back to square one.’
Alvin snuffled wetly and dragged his sleeve across his dripping nose.
’Oh, cheer up, lad,’ said Doctor Pfizier. ‘Your heart’s in the right place. Maybe they’ll send you back to us and we can start over again.’
‘B-back, sir?’ gulped Alvin.
Doctor Pfizier nodded optimistically. ‘I don’t see why not. Shouldn’t be too difficult to sponge the slate clean. I’d take you along myself only I can’t spare the time. I wonder who’s due for a spot of furlough?’ He skipped across the room and questioned a video cabinet. Three numbers appeared on the screen. Against one of them a point of light winked saucily. ’Twenty seven,’ said Doctor Pfizier. ‘Let’s see now, that’s Norbert, isn’t it?’
‘A thoroughly sound chimp our Norbert. You couldn’t be in better hands. I’ll call up the M.O.P. and let them know you’re coming,’
Alvin sniffed deferentially. ‘What is the M.O.P., sir?’
‘Ministry of Procreation,’ said Doctor Pfizier. ‘Professor Poynter knows all about you,’
‘Do I have to go, sir? Can’t I have another chance?’
Doctor Pfizier stepped forward and put his arm round Alvin’s quivering shoulders. ‘But that’s just what we’re giving you, son. A few little adjustments and you’ll be back here again in a couple of weeks as bright as a button. We can pick things up again right where we left off. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
’Oh, yes, sir,’ breathed Alvin fervently.
‘Well then, you trot along and pack your grip while I put Norbert in the picture. You can catch the shuttle from Aylesbury and be down in Croydon before dark. Might even have a chance to see a bit of the big city. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Would I, sir?’
‘My goodness, yes!’ enthused Doctor Pfizier. ’There’s nothing like it! That’s what civilization’s all about, Alvin! Where it’s all happening! Tremendously exciting!’
Alvin’s face brightened a little. ‘I wish you were coming too, sir.’
‘So do I, Alvin. So do I. Maybe some other time. Now you’ll want a bit of ready cash, I daresay. Are you due any wages?’
’Two months, sir.’
’Two months, eh? Well, collect it from Jefferson before you go. I’ll have him make you out a travel warrant, too. And you’ll need your identity card. You won’t get far without that.’ Doctor Pfizier slapped him on the shoulder and grinned encouragingly. ‘You’ll be all right, son. There’s lots of good material in you. And just between the two of us, I daresay Mo wasn’t altogether as innocent as she makes out. But we can’t afford to take risks, can we? It’s better this way. Scrap and start again. Profit from our mistakes, eh? That way we’ll all be proud of you yet, Alvin. I’m convinced of it.’
But Alvin wasn’t really listening. He was seeing the girl with green eyes again. She was smiling at him.
Doctor Pfizier, observing his expression of entranced imbecility, sighed and propelled him gently from the room.
FOUR
Although both Alvin and Doctor Pfizier were wholly ignorant of the matter, the boy was in fact the brainchild (along with three identical brothers) of the aforementioned Professor Miriam Poynter, O.B.E., D.Sc., F.R.S., P.L.S., F.Z.S., etc. She it was who, with her own two lips, had pipetted the long frozen sperm and introduced it to the chosen egg. She, and she alone, had observed with bated breath as it lashed its frenetic way into the zona pellucida and came at last to rest, all passion spent, with its weary little head flat on the surface of the vitellus. Forty-eight hours later, when the zygote was already busily dividing, hers was the finger which, at the critical moment, had touched the switch and administered one minute electric shock to the blastocyst which caused it to have second thoughts and induced the inner cell mass to split into two identical halves. Twelve hours later a second shock had induced a second division. Within a matter of days Alvin, Bruce, Colin and Desmond, as yet sexless and anonymous, were at last free to grow their separate ways, having been transferred, one by one, into four placentas which had once belonged to four large Berkshire sows. There in the cosy, uterine darkness, laved by synthetic placental fluids, the genes which carried the peculiar inheritance of Alvin’s progenitors were able at last to transmit their mysterious messages unimpeded to their embryonic cells.
The reason why Sir Gordon Loveridge—Professor Poynter’s immediate superior—had allowed her to embark on her genetic alchemy at a time when any form of artificially induced multiple conception was virtually a capital offence, lay in the unique qualities of the man and the woman who had produced the gametes. Both were eidetic freaks, blessed (or cursed) with the ability to remember everything that had ever impressed itself upon their insatiable neurones.
The father, a civil engineer, had succumbed to acute melancholia and passed away in the spring of 1983 at the age of 42. His ultimate mnemonic triumph had been to recall successfully the names of the individual members—together with those of the substitutes, the referee and the resulting score—of every team in every Association football match that had ever been played in the United Kingdom since 1887.
The mother, after working for fifty dull years in the Records Division of the Department of Inland Revenue, had now in the Indian Summer of her days found fame and fortune as the Resident Human Encyclopaedia of a Double-Your-Money Sonar-Visonic Quiz Show. Such were her phenomenal powers of recall that she seemed certain to retain her crown until the day she cackled out her last useless fact and dropped dead under the studio lights.
The one fact of which she was totally unaware was that she had become mater in absentio of Alvin and his three brothers. When she had undergone a hysterectomy at the age of 34 it had not occurred to her that her extracted ovaries, tagged ‘Eidetic Alpha (?) ’, would be dropped into the deep freezer vault at the Ministry of Procreation. There they had languished until, some twenty years later, Professor Poynter had re discovered them and had been inspired to thaw them back to life, extract a ripe egg and unite it in unholy matrimony with the posthumous ejaculate of Frederick Arthur Watkins ’Eidetic Alpha (?)
The experiment was a triumphant success. Alvin and his brothers came to full term, were delivered and, on March 3rd, 2054, drew their first outraged breaths in the experimental wing of the Croydon incubator unit. Due to the extremely delicate nature of the population crisis their advent had to be kept a closely guarded secret. As soon as it was practicable they were separated and handed over to four pairs of carefully selected foster parents, none of whom was informed that the infant they were cherishing was in fact a quadruplet.
By the time they reached the age of five it was becoming plain, at least to the initiated, that they had all inherited their parents’ extraordinary gift. A series of tests, surreptitiously administered by Professor Poynter in the guise of a peripatetic Health Visitor, proved beyond doubt that Alvin, Bruce, Colin and Desmond were all equally incapable of forgetting absolutely anything whatsoever.
Apart from this there was nothing about them to distinguish them from a million other little boys. They were neither outstandingly bright nor remarkably dim, just average, and since neither of their parents had been blessed with exceptional good looks they did not earn the envy or enmity of their playfellows on that score. They were, however, virtually precluded from playing various childish games such as Telmanism’ and ‘I remember: I remember’ on the grounds that they didn’t play fair. These accusations caused them a certain amount of puzzled heart-searching until they realized that it was almost as easy to pretend to forget as it was to remember. From that moment on they had no further social problems.
Professor Poynter maintained her contact with her brood and kept an up-to-date file on each one. They were all so extraordinarily alike that she sometimes found difficulty in remembering which was which and on more than one occasion she had earned herself a puzzled stare by addressing Desmond as Bruce, or Bruce as Colin—or was it Alvin? She had no very clear idea of where her research was leading her, or indeed, how her four clones might prove useful to society other than as perambulating memory banks, but she persuaded herself that something significant would emerge eventually. As it happened she was proved right, though hardly in a way which she could have foreseen.
Shortly after their fifteenth birthday Miriam Poynter entered the expressavator which whisked her up to Stratum 402 of the Crystal Palace Tower. She was keeping her biannual appointment with Bruce who lived in Module 115 with his foster parents the Robinsons and their elder daughter Fiona.
After having interviewed the clone to her satisfaction and reassured herself that the onset of puberty had deprived him of none of his eidetic powers, Professor Poynter was just preparing to take her leave when the lad peered over her shoulder and announced solemnly: They’re cutting open your belly and taking your tubes out, Miss Poynter.’
‘Why, Bruce, what a very strange thing to say!’
‘Well, they are, Miss,’ he averred. ‘And the man who’s doing it’s got red hair.’
‘Red hair?’ chuckled Professor Poynter. ‘Well, well. Whatever next?’ And with that she bade the Robinsons adieu and descended the two thirds of a mile to the ground.
Two days later she made a similar journey, this time to Stratum 344 of the Barbican Monument. Here she called upon young Colin who occupied Module 278 with his foster parents the MacDonalds and their sixteen-year-old son Robert. Professor Poynter noted for her record that, like Bruce, Colin’s eidetic gift was unimpaired by his sexual development. She was, nevertheless, considerably taken aback when, at the end of the interview, the clone said: ‘What are they operating on you for, Miss Poynter?’
‘Yes, Doctor Somervell.’
Doctor Somervell chuckled tolerantly. ‘Well, perhaps one thing at a time, eh? Now what’s this old Norbert’s been telling me about you and some girl or other?’
’Oh, yes, Doctor Somervell!’ Alvin’s moon face became luminous with reminiscence.
‘Well, go on.’
Alvin clasped his hands in his lap and sighed. ‘She had green eyes, Doctor Somervell—the colour of duckweed—and peat brown hair—sort of short. She was looking down at me…and smiling. …’ His voice trailed away and his own lips beamed in reverie. He looked supremely idiotic and, at the same time, rather touching.
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘Oh no, Doctor Somervell. She didn’t need to.’
Doctor Somervell chewed her lower lip reflectively. ‘Whereabouts was she?’
Alvin frowned. ‘She didn’t seem to be anywhere in particular. I mean not here or in the lake or anything. But I think she was sort of bending over me…or something…’
‘Not in bed?’
‘No. I would have remembered that,’
‘Who do you think she was, Alvin?’
Alvin looked uncomfortable. ‘I—I don’t know, Doctor Somervell,’
‘Norbert said you’d suggested she might be from Before,’
Alvin coloured like a peony and began to scratch his head violently—a sure sign with him that he was being assailed by feelings of guilt. ’Oh, did I? I…I…/
‘You know that’s quite impossible, don’t you, Alvin?’
Alvin nodded miserably.
’Then why did you say it?’
‘Because I’m sinful?’ he suggested feebly, but with a note of hopeful pleading.
‘Not sinful, Alvin. Weak. Now tell me the truth. You made it all up, didn’t you?’
‘Did I, Doctor Somervell?’
’Of course you did. It’s an obvious, immature, sexual fantasy.’ ’Oh,’ said Alvin dismally.
‘You know what that is, don’t you, Alvin?’
Alvin shook his head.
’Oh, come now, Alvin. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about girls.’
Alvin blushed again.
Doctor Somervell slid herself along the couch till she appeared about to overwhelm him like some vast pink blancmange. With one hand she turned his face towards hers and gazed speculatively into his eyes. ‘You can tell me, Alvin,’ she murmured, and the fingers of her other hand seemed to stumble by happy accident on the thigh-tab of his zip.
Alvin swallowed manfully. ‘Girls?’ he gurgled.
Tes, girls, Alvin,’ she throbbed. ‘Women, Alvin. Us!’
Her face loomed up over his so that he seemed to be peering straight up her flared nostrils. Their proximity induced in him a curious sensation of helplessness. He opened his mouth to make some pertinent observation but, before the words could materialize, her lips had descended upon his and something, which for a wild moment he supposed to be her thumb, was frisking around inside his mouth like a chunk of india-rubber. Then a lot of rather unlikely things seemed to happen all at once. By the time he regained possession of his senses it was to find himself lying on his back on the couch with—incredibly!—Doctor Somervell squatting on top of him. What was going on beneath the voluminous folds of her pink negligee he could only guess at, but he was aware of a sense of insufferable, anguished yearning, of elation and despair and, all too soon, of rapidly impending crisis. ‘Oh, Doctor Somervell!’ he gasped. ‘Oh…Doctor …S-o-m-e-r-v-e-l-l!!’ At which moment the door opened and in strolled Doctor Pfizier.
Instead of turning on his heel and retreating he nodded to them, sauntered across the room, and having subsided into a prehensile loafer, crossed one leg over the other, picked up a video-viewer and began squinting through it.
Alvin gazed up at Doctor Somervell and wondered what would happen next. He was conscious of no feelings of guilt since he reasoned that whatever had happened (was, indeed, still happening!) had been at her express wish. He was therefore considerably surprised to hear her say: ‘You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, Alvin. And I thought you were such a nice boy too!’
‘Been misbehaving himself, has he?’ enquired Doctor Pfizier, glancing up from his viewer. ‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, Alvin.’
Alvin’s blue eyes filled with tears. Censure from Doctor Pfizier was the unkindest cut of all.
‘What’s he been up to, Mo?’
Doctor Somervell rocked herself ruminatively backwards and forwards, thereby causing Alvin to bite his tongue. ‘He asked me to demonstrate the technique of buccal resuscitation, Dimitri. Something to do with his rescue service tests, he said,’
‘Crafty, crafty,’ nodded Doctor Pfizier, uncrossing his legs and scratching his groin. ‘And so?’
‘And so, of course, I showed him,’ She sounded so sincere that Alvin almost found himself believing her. ‘And before I knew what was happening he was taking advantage of me,’
‘Bad,’ grunted Doctor Pfizier. ‘Very underhand,’
’That’s just what it was, Dimitri. Underhand,’ Frowning abstractedly, Doctor Somervell slipped her own hand beneath her and gave Alvin a tweak that made his eyes pip like mushrooms.
‘Well, Alvin?’ said Doctor Pfizier, ‘what have you got to say for yourself? Come on, lad. Speak up!’
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ gulped Alvin. ‘I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I thought—’
‘You thought it was high time you found out whether Miss Somervell was as delectable a dish as I’ve always told you she was,’ said Doctor Pfizier smacking his lips. ‘Well, is she?’
‘I—I don’t know, sir. I mean—’
‘Haven’t you got anything to drink in this nunnery, Mo?’ demanded Doctor Pfizier, cutting him short. ‘I seem to recall—’
‘In the cabinet, Dimitri. You might fix me one too, while you’re at it.’
‘Sure thing, doll.’ Doctor Pfizier flung down the viewer and, clicking his fingers in a syncopated rhythm, skipped through into the adjoining room.
Doctor Somervell took advantage of his absence to prise herself free. ‘Do fasten up that zip, Alvin,’ she said. ‘It really does you no credit.’
Alvin struggled up into a sitting position and adjusted his dress. He looked dazed and dejected. ‘May I go now, Doctor Somervell?’ he enquired tearfully.
‘Do,’ she said, ‘and mind you close the door after you. There’s a terrible draught from somewhere.’
THREE
At 11.30 the following morning Alvin was summoned to Doctor Pfizier’s office. The Doctor, looking alert and purposeful, but a shade paler than when Alvin had last seen him, came straight to the point. ‘What’s this Mo’s been telling me about you and some girl or other, Alvin?’
Alvin told him.
‘Someone you’ve met around the lake, I suppose,’
‘Oh, no, sir.’
‘Well, we can’t have you ramping around taking advantage of any stray female you happen to meet, Alvin. They aren’t all as tolerant as Doctor Somervell, you know.’
‘But I’d never seen this girl before, sir.’
’Is that supposed to make sense?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Alvin sadly.
‘And that trick you pulled last night,’ said Doctor Pfizier, switching his line of attack. ‘Not very nice, was it?’
Alvin blinked. ‘Nice, sir?’ he queried vaguely.
‘Haven’t I always told you, Alvin? Once a lady always a lady! Toujours la politesse. Besides, Mo’s old enough to be your mother.’
‘Yes, sir,’
‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Sir?’
Doctor Pfizier took a thoughtful turn up and down the room. ‘According to our records you’re down as “null libido”, Alvin. Do you know what that means?’
‘No, sir,’
‘Girls aren’t supposed to interest you,’
Alvin’s eyes opened even wider.
‘That surprises you?’
‘Well, yes, sir—I mean, no, sir,’
‘Tell it to Doctor Somervell, eh?’
‘Sir?’
‘So the records are wrong. Which means there’s been a balls-up at the M.O.P. Not for the first time, I’d say.’
Alvin looked blank.
‘I’ve tried to do my best by you, boy. God knows it hasn’t been easy, but I’ve tried. Now I discover there’s a fundamental flaw in the matrix. All my hard work gone for nothing. It’s a bitter disappointment, I can tell you,’
Alvin began to weep silently.
‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’ muttered Doctor Pfizier. ‘As the twig is bent so is the tree inclined.’ He sighed hugely. ‘Well, there’s nothing else for it, I’m afraid. Back to square one.’
Alvin snuffled wetly and dragged his sleeve across his dripping nose.
’Oh, cheer up, lad,’ said Doctor Pfizier. ‘Your heart’s in the right place. Maybe they’ll send you back to us and we can start over again.’
‘B-back, sir?’ gulped Alvin.
Doctor Pfizier nodded optimistically. ‘I don’t see why not. Shouldn’t be too difficult to sponge the slate clean. I’d take you along myself only I can’t spare the time. I wonder who’s due for a spot of furlough?’ He skipped across the room and questioned a video cabinet. Three numbers appeared on the screen. Against one of them a point of light winked saucily. ’Twenty seven,’ said Doctor Pfizier. ‘Let’s see now, that’s Norbert, isn’t it?’
‘A thoroughly sound chimp our Norbert. You couldn’t be in better hands. I’ll call up the M.O.P. and let them know you’re coming,’
Alvin sniffed deferentially. ‘What is the M.O.P., sir?’
‘Ministry of Procreation,’ said Doctor Pfizier. ‘Professor Poynter knows all about you,’
‘Do I have to go, sir? Can’t I have another chance?’
Doctor Pfizier stepped forward and put his arm round Alvin’s quivering shoulders. ‘But that’s just what we’re giving you, son. A few little adjustments and you’ll be back here again in a couple of weeks as bright as a button. We can pick things up again right where we left off. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
’Oh, yes, sir,’ breathed Alvin fervently.
‘Well then, you trot along and pack your grip while I put Norbert in the picture. You can catch the shuttle from Aylesbury and be down in Croydon before dark. Might even have a chance to see a bit of the big city. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Would I, sir?’
‘My goodness, yes!’ enthused Doctor Pfizier. ’There’s nothing like it! That’s what civilization’s all about, Alvin! Where it’s all happening! Tremendously exciting!’
Alvin’s face brightened a little. ‘I wish you were coming too, sir.’
‘So do I, Alvin. So do I. Maybe some other time. Now you’ll want a bit of ready cash, I daresay. Are you due any wages?’
’Two months, sir.’
’Two months, eh? Well, collect it from Jefferson before you go. I’ll have him make you out a travel warrant, too. And you’ll need your identity card. You won’t get far without that.’ Doctor Pfizier slapped him on the shoulder and grinned encouragingly. ‘You’ll be all right, son. There’s lots of good material in you. And just between the two of us, I daresay Mo wasn’t altogether as innocent as she makes out. But we can’t afford to take risks, can we? It’s better this way. Scrap and start again. Profit from our mistakes, eh? That way we’ll all be proud of you yet, Alvin. I’m convinced of it.’
But Alvin wasn’t really listening. He was seeing the girl with green eyes again. She was smiling at him.
Doctor Pfizier, observing his expression of entranced imbecility, sighed and propelled him gently from the room.
FOUR
Although both Alvin and Doctor Pfizier were wholly ignorant of the matter, the boy was in fact the brainchild (along with three identical brothers) of the aforementioned Professor Miriam Poynter, O.B.E., D.Sc., F.R.S., P.L.S., F.Z.S., etc. She it was who, with her own two lips, had pipetted the long frozen sperm and introduced it to the chosen egg. She, and she alone, had observed with bated breath as it lashed its frenetic way into the zona pellucida and came at last to rest, all passion spent, with its weary little head flat on the surface of the vitellus. Forty-eight hours later, when the zygote was already busily dividing, hers was the finger which, at the critical moment, had touched the switch and administered one minute electric shock to the blastocyst which caused it to have second thoughts and induced the inner cell mass to split into two identical halves. Twelve hours later a second shock had induced a second division. Within a matter of days Alvin, Bruce, Colin and Desmond, as yet sexless and anonymous, were at last free to grow their separate ways, having been transferred, one by one, into four placentas which had once belonged to four large Berkshire sows. There in the cosy, uterine darkness, laved by synthetic placental fluids, the genes which carried the peculiar inheritance of Alvin’s progenitors were able at last to transmit their mysterious messages unimpeded to their embryonic cells.
The reason why Sir Gordon Loveridge—Professor Poynter’s immediate superior—had allowed her to embark on her genetic alchemy at a time when any form of artificially induced multiple conception was virtually a capital offence, lay in the unique qualities of the man and the woman who had produced the gametes. Both were eidetic freaks, blessed (or cursed) with the ability to remember everything that had ever impressed itself upon their insatiable neurones.
The father, a civil engineer, had succumbed to acute melancholia and passed away in the spring of 1983 at the age of 42. His ultimate mnemonic triumph had been to recall successfully the names of the individual members—together with those of the substitutes, the referee and the resulting score—of every team in every Association football match that had ever been played in the United Kingdom since 1887.
The mother, after working for fifty dull years in the Records Division of the Department of Inland Revenue, had now in the Indian Summer of her days found fame and fortune as the Resident Human Encyclopaedia of a Double-Your-Money Sonar-Visonic Quiz Show. Such were her phenomenal powers of recall that she seemed certain to retain her crown until the day she cackled out her last useless fact and dropped dead under the studio lights.
The one fact of which she was totally unaware was that she had become mater in absentio of Alvin and his three brothers. When she had undergone a hysterectomy at the age of 34 it had not occurred to her that her extracted ovaries, tagged ‘Eidetic Alpha (?) ’, would be dropped into the deep freezer vault at the Ministry of Procreation. There they had languished until, some twenty years later, Professor Poynter had re discovered them and had been inspired to thaw them back to life, extract a ripe egg and unite it in unholy matrimony with the posthumous ejaculate of Frederick Arthur Watkins ’Eidetic Alpha (?)
The experiment was a triumphant success. Alvin and his brothers came to full term, were delivered and, on March 3rd, 2054, drew their first outraged breaths in the experimental wing of the Croydon incubator unit. Due to the extremely delicate nature of the population crisis their advent had to be kept a closely guarded secret. As soon as it was practicable they were separated and handed over to four pairs of carefully selected foster parents, none of whom was informed that the infant they were cherishing was in fact a quadruplet.
By the time they reached the age of five it was becoming plain, at least to the initiated, that they had all inherited their parents’ extraordinary gift. A series of tests, surreptitiously administered by Professor Poynter in the guise of a peripatetic Health Visitor, proved beyond doubt that Alvin, Bruce, Colin and Desmond were all equally incapable of forgetting absolutely anything whatsoever.
Apart from this there was nothing about them to distinguish them from a million other little boys. They were neither outstandingly bright nor remarkably dim, just average, and since neither of their parents had been blessed with exceptional good looks they did not earn the envy or enmity of their playfellows on that score. They were, however, virtually precluded from playing various childish games such as Telmanism’ and ‘I remember: I remember’ on the grounds that they didn’t play fair. These accusations caused them a certain amount of puzzled heart-searching until they realized that it was almost as easy to pretend to forget as it was to remember. From that moment on they had no further social problems.
Professor Poynter maintained her contact with her brood and kept an up-to-date file on each one. They were all so extraordinarily alike that she sometimes found difficulty in remembering which was which and on more than one occasion she had earned herself a puzzled stare by addressing Desmond as Bruce, or Bruce as Colin—or was it Alvin? She had no very clear idea of where her research was leading her, or indeed, how her four clones might prove useful to society other than as perambulating memory banks, but she persuaded herself that something significant would emerge eventually. As it happened she was proved right, though hardly in a way which she could have foreseen.
Shortly after their fifteenth birthday Miriam Poynter entered the expressavator which whisked her up to Stratum 402 of the Crystal Palace Tower. She was keeping her biannual appointment with Bruce who lived in Module 115 with his foster parents the Robinsons and their elder daughter Fiona.
After having interviewed the clone to her satisfaction and reassured herself that the onset of puberty had deprived him of none of his eidetic powers, Professor Poynter was just preparing to take her leave when the lad peered over her shoulder and announced solemnly: They’re cutting open your belly and taking your tubes out, Miss Poynter.’
‘Why, Bruce, what a very strange thing to say!’
‘Well, they are, Miss,’ he averred. ‘And the man who’s doing it’s got red hair.’
‘Red hair?’ chuckled Professor Poynter. ‘Well, well. Whatever next?’ And with that she bade the Robinsons adieu and descended the two thirds of a mile to the ground.
Two days later she made a similar journey, this time to Stratum 344 of the Barbican Monument. Here she called upon young Colin who occupied Module 278 with his foster parents the MacDonalds and their sixteen-year-old son Robert. Professor Poynter noted for her record that, like Bruce, Colin’s eidetic gift was unimpaired by his sexual development. She was, nevertheless, considerably taken aback when, at the end of the interview, the clone said: ‘What are they operating on you for, Miss Poynter?’
