Magdalena Mountain. Robert Michael Pyle
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slog in the freezing slush.
Christmas came cold. Mead spent Christmas Eve lonely in his lab and Christmas Day with the Winchesters, his only invitation. He decided after the break to move into New Haven. At first he had thought his fellowship enormous. He soon found that the high tuition and East Coast prices—no free coffee refills at Dunkin’ Donuts, even—eroded his checking account like dust in a downpour. He couldn’t afford the cheapest apartment. He was bewailing the fact one afternoon to Francie, who was finishing up that semester. “Maybe you should take my studio,” she said. “I’ll be moving out soon.” Mead had heard that Francie used a room in the building as a printmaking studio. “Come on,” she said, leading him down the hall and up a fold-down ladder, and gave him a tour. When his eyes adjusted, Mead beheld a tiny, high-ceilinged round room in one of the twin castellated towers of Osborn Lab. He moved in a week later. This was not strictly legal, but generations of ecology students had camped here or used it as Francie had, as an auxiliary space for their activities. The hexagonal stone walls were still hung with her wonderful silk-screened prints of Rocky Mountain wildflowers and scenes.
The tower seemed romantic, warmer than Mead’s beach cottage, and convenient to both his lab and the museum. Plus, the price was right. By waiting late to scale the steep steel ladder to the turret, he could keep his occupancy discreet. And the move soon prompted an additional boon. Early in the new year, Winchester called Mead into his office. “James,” he said, “are you still curious about the mild scent emanating from the room down the hall?” Mead didn’t consider the stink mild, but he had grown accustomed to it. “Come along,” Winchester continued, “and let me introduce you to some truly remarkable and amenable creatures. It’s time to broaden your responsibilities, in any case. This little ceremony should be put off no longer.”
Mead kept up with Winchester as well as he could as the professor ate the long hall with his stride, opened one outer door, then one inner one on which were posted dire warnings in his hand: DO NOT INTERFERE WITH THE LIGHTS IN THIS ROOM UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. As soon as they entered the lab, a great shuffling arose as the occupants of dozens of cages scattered in alarm or expectation. The odor was stronger here—not bad, just strong, sweet, feral. “What are they?” Mead asked.
“Blaberus giganteus, the giant cave roach. Surely you recognize them from anatomy lab? And a few other species of blattids.” Then Winchester opened one of the cages and Mead beheld a score or so of the most massive roaches he had ever seen. True, he had dissected roaches nearly as large in an entomology lab, but he’d never seen one alive. His gaze must have betrayed his wonderment.
“We’ve worked on many aspects of these animals’ biology,” Winchester replied to Mead’s unspoken question. “But their behavior is poorly known. They are relatively easy to keep and breed, and they offer an experimental animal that is both evolutionarily basal and ecologically sophisticated.” Pleased to note that Mead appeared fascinated rather than revolted, always a toss-up with new students, he held up a grand roach that 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?”