"He did nothing at all. My God, woman, you want equality and equal pay and freedom from childbearing — and you have all these things. So you can't very well complain if you throw a man out of your bed, and he goes to someone else."
"What do you mean?" she gasped, shocked.
"I'm sorry. It's not my place to talk like this. I became angry. You're an adult; you'll have to make your own decisions about your marriage."
"No. You can't leave it like that. You said something, and you're going to tell me exactly what you meant."
Livermore was still angry. He dropped into a chair and ordered his thoughts before he spoke again.
"I'm an old-fashioned M.D., so perhaps I had better talk from a doctor's point of view. You're a young woman in good health in the prime of your life. If you came to me for marriage counseling I would tell you that your marriage appears to be in trouble and you are probably the cause, the original cause, that is. Though it has gone far enough now so that you both have a good deal to be responsible for. It appears that in your involvement in your work, your major interests outside your marriage, you have lost your sexuality. You have no time for it. And I am not talking about sex now but all the things that make a woman feminine. The way you dress, apply makeup, carry yourself, think about yourself. Your work has come to occupy the central portion of your life, and your husband has to take second best. You must realize that some of the freedom women gained deprived the men of certain things. A married man now has no children or a mother for his children. He has no one who is primarily interested in him and his needs. I don't insist that all marriages must exist on a master-and-slave relationship, but there should be a deal more give and take in a marriage than yours appears to offer. Just ask yourself — what does your husband get out of this marriage other than sexual frustration? If it's just a sometime companion, he would be far better off with a male roommate, an engineer he could talk shop with."
The silence lengthened, and Livermore finally coughed and cleared his throat and stood. "If I have interfered unreasonably, I'm sorry." He went out and saw Blalock stamping determinedly down the hall. After scowling at the man's receding back for a moment he entered the laboratory to check the bottle installations.
The FBI man let himself into Catherine Ruffin's office without knocking. She looked up at him, her face cold, then back at her work.
"I'm busy now, and I don't wish to talk to you."
"I've come to you for some help."
"Me?" Her laugh had no humor in it. "You accused me of breaking those bottles, so how can you ask for aid?"
"You are the only one who can supply the information I need. If you are as innocent as you insist, you should be pleased to help."
It was an argument that appealed to her ordered mind. She had no good reason — other than the fact that she disliked him — for refusing the man. And he was the agent officially sent here to investigate the sabotage.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Help me to uncover a motive for the crimes."
"I have no suspicions, no information that you don't have."
"Yes, you do. You have access to all the records and to the computer — and you know how to program it. I want you to get all the data you can on the contents of those bottles. I have been looking at the records of losses, and there seems to be a pattern, but not one that is necessarily obvious. The fact that certain bottles were broken, three out of five, or that all the bottles in a certain rank on a certain day had their contents destroyed. There must be a key to this information in the records."
"This will not be a small job."
"I can get you all the authorization you need."
"Then I will do it. I can make the comparisons and checks and program the computer to look for relevant information. But I cannot promise you that there will be the answer you seek. The destruction could be random, and if it is, this will be of no help."
"I have my own reasons for thinking that it is not random. Do this and call me as soon as you have the results."
It took two days of concentrated effort. Catherine Ruffin was very satisfied with the job that she had done. Not with the results themselves; she could see no clues to any form of organization in any of the figures. But the federal agent might. She put in a call to him, then went through the results again until he arrived.
"I can see nothing indicative," she said, passing over the computer readouts.
"That's for me to decide. Can you explain these to me?"
"This is a list of the destroyed or damaged bottles." She handed him the top sheet. "Code number in the first column, then identification by name."
"What does that mean?"
"Surname of the donors, an easy way to remember and identify certain strains. Here, for instance, Wilson-Smith; sperm Wilson, ovum Smith. The remaining columns are details about the selections, which traits were selected and information of that kind. Instead of the index numbers, I have used the names of the strains for identification in the processing. These are the remaining sheets which are the results of various attempts to extract meaningful relationships. I could find none. The names themselves convey more."
He looked up from the figures. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing at all. A foolish habit of my own. I am by birth a Boer, and I grew up on one of the white reservations in South Africa after the revolution. Until we emigrated here, when I was eleven, I spoke only Afrikaans. So I have an emotional tie to the people — the ethnic group, you would call it — in which I was born. It was a small group, and it is very rare to meet a Boer in this country. So I look at lists of names, an old habit, to see if I recognize any Boers among them. I have met a few people that way in my lifetime. For some talk about the old days behind barbed wire. That is what I meant."
"How does that apply to these lists?"
"There are no Boers among them."
Blalock shrugged and turned his attention back to the paper. Catherine Ruffin, born Katerina Bekink, held the list of names before her and pursed her lips over it.
"No Afrikaaners at all. All of them Anglo-Irish names, if anything."
Blalock looked up sharply. "Please repeat that," he said.
She was correct. He went through the list of names twice and found only sternly Anglo-Saxon or Irish surnames. It appeared to make no sense, nor did the fact, uncovered by Catherine Ruffin with the name relationship as a clue, that there were no Negroes either.
"It makes no sense, no sense at all," Blalock said, shaking the papers angrily. "What possible reason could there be for this kind of deliberate action?"
"Perhaps you ask the wrong question. Instead of asking why certain names appear to be eliminated, perhaps you should ask why others do not appear on the list. Afrikaaners, for instance."
"Are there Afrikaans names on any of the bottle lists?"
"Of course. Italian names, German names, that kind of thing."
"Yes, let us ask that question," Blalock said, bending over the lists again.
It was the right question to ask.
The emergency meeting of the Genetic Guidance Council was called for 2300 hours. As always, Livermore was late. An extra chair had been placed at the foot of the big marble table, and Blalock was sitting there with the computer printouts arranged neatly before him. Catherine Ruffin switched on the recorder and called the meeting to order when Livermore arrived. Sturtevant coughed, then grubbed out his vegetable cigarette and immediately lit another one.
"Those burning compost heaps will kill you yet," Livermore said.
Catherine Ruffin interrupted the traditional disagreement before it could get under way.
"This meeting has been called at the request of Mr. Blalock, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who is here investigating the bottle failures and apparent sabotage. He is now ready to make a report."