The Mystery of Wandering Caveman - M. V. Carey [1]
Jupiter wondered what the foundation might be, but he didn’t ask. Aunt Mathilda announced that they must all have a good strong cup of tea. She took the girl by the arm and propelled her out of the waiting room and down a corridor to the hospital coffee shop.
For a while they sat without talking and drank their tea, but finally the girl spoke.
“He was very nice,” she said. She went on in a low voice, staring down at her rough hands with their jagged, bitten nails. The dead man was Dr. Karl Birkensteen, a famous geneticist. He had been working at the Spicer Foundation, studying various animals for the effects his experiments had on their intelligence — and that of their offspring. The girl worked there, too, helping to care for the animals.
“I’ve heard of the Spicer Foundation,” said Jupe. “It’s down the coast, isn’t it?
Near San Diego?”
She nodded. “It’s in a little town in the hills there, on the road that goes over to the desert.”
“The town is called Citrus Grove,” said Jupe.
For the first time the girl smiled. “Yes. That’s nice. I mean, not many people know about Citrus Grove. Even if they’ve heard of the foundation, they don’t know the name of the town.”
“Jupiter reads a great deal,” said Aunt Mathilda, “and he remembers most of what he reads. However, I don’t know about the town, or the foundation either. What is it?”
“It’s an institution that fosters independent scientific research,” said Jupiter.
Suddenly he sounded like a college professor discoursing on some little-known subject. It was a way he had when he explained subjects in which he was well versed.
Aunt Mathilda was accustomed to it, and she did not seem to notice, but the blonde girl stared at him curiously.
“Abraham Spicer was a manufacturer of plastics,” said Jupe. “His company produced such items as dish drainers and food containers. He made millions in his lifetime. However, he never achieved his real ambition, which was to be a physicist.
He therefore instructed that when he died, his money was to go into a trust fund. The income from the fund was to support a foundation where scientists could do original, and perhaps revolutionary, research in their special fields.”
“Do you always talk like that?” asked the girl.
Aunt Mathilda smiled. “Too frequently he does. It may have something to do with all that reading.”
“Oh,” said the girl. “Okay. I mean, that’s nice, I guess. I didn’t tell you my name, did I? It’s Hess. Eleanor Hess. Not that it matters.”
“Of course it matters,” said Aunt Mathilda.
“Well, what I mean is, it’s not as if I were really anybody. I’m not famous or anything.”
“Which is not to say that you’re nobody,” said Aunt Mathilda firmly. “I’m pleased to meet you, Eleanor Hess. I am Mrs. Titus Jones, and this is my nephew, Jupiter Jones.”
Eleanor Hess smiled. Then she looked away quickly, as if she were afraid of revealing too much of herself.
“Tell us more about your work at this Spicer Foundation,” said Aunt Mathilda.
“You said you take care of animals. What kind of animals?”
“They’re experimental animals,” said Eleanor. “White rats and chimpanzees and a horse.”
“A horse?” echoed Aunt Mathilda. “They keep a horse in a laboratory?”
“Oh, no. Blaze lives in the stable. But she’s an experimental animal just the same.
Dr. Birkensteen used isotopes or something on her mother. Her dam is what you’d say, I guess. Anyway, that did something to her chromosomes. I don’t understand it, but she’s really smart for a horse. She does arithmetic.” Aunt Mathilda and Jupe both stared. “Oh, nothing complicated,” said Eleanor hastily. “If you put two apples in front of her, and then three apples, she knows it’s five apples. She stamps five times. I
… I suppose that isn’t really so — great, but horses don’t come awfully smart. Their heads are the wrong shape. Dr. Birkensteen’s chimps are the clever ones. They talk in sign language. They can say some complicated things.”
“I see,” said Aunt Mathilda. “And what did Dr. Birkensteen plan to do with these animals, once he had