He shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not. I thought your uncle was dead. In fact, he has to be. If the will . . ."
"It's a delicate philosophical point," I said. "Legally, he's dead all right. But he had himself frozen and stored at Bide-A-Wee-one of those cryonic outfits. The proprietors proved somewhat less than scrupulous, however, and the authorities had him moved to a different establishment along with the other survivors."
"Survivors?"
"I suppose that's the best word. Bide-A-Wee had over five hundred customers on their books, but they actually only had around fifty on ice. Made a tremendous profit that way."
"I don't understand. What became of the others?"
"Their better components wound up in gray-market organ banks. That was another area where Bide-A-Wee turned a handsome profit."
"I do seem to remember hearing about it now. But what did they do with the. . . remains?"
"One of the partners also owned a funeral establishment. He just disposed of things in the course of that employment."
"Oh. Well . . . Wait a minute. What did they do if someone came around and wanted to view a frozen friend or relative?"
"They switched nameplates. One frozen body seen through a frosted panel looks pretty much like any other-sort of like a popsicle in cellophane. Anyway, Uncle Albert was one of the ones they kept for show. He always was lucky."
"How did they finally get tripped up?"
"Tax evasion. They got greedy."
"I see. Then your uncle actually could show up for an accounting one day?"
"There is always that possibility. Of course, there have been very few successful revivals."
"The possibility doesn't trouble you?"
"I deal with things as they arise. So far. Uncle Albert hasn't."
"Along with the university and your uncle's wishes, I feel obliged to point out that you are doing violence in another place as well."
I looked all around the room. Under my chair, even.
"I give up," I said.
"Yourself."
"Myself?"
"Yourself. By accepting the easy economic security of the situation, you are yielding to inertia. You are ruining your chances of ever really amounting to anything. You are growing in your dronehood."
"Dronehood?"
"Dronehood. Hanging around and not doing anything."
"So you are really acting in my best interests if you succeed in kicking me out, huh?"
"Precisely."
"I hate to tell you, but history is full of people like you. We tend to judge them harshly."
"History?"
"Not the department. The phenomenon."
He sighed and shook his head. He accepted my card, leaned back, puffed on his pipe, began to study what I had written.
I wondered whether he really believed he was doing me a favor by trying to destroy my way of life. Probably.
"Wait a minute," he said. "There's a mistake here."
"No mistake."
"The hours are wrong."
"No. I need twelve and there are twelve."
"I'm not disputing that, but-"
"Six hours, personal project, interdisciplinary, for art history credit, on site, Australia in my case."
"You know it should really be anthropology. But that would complete a major. But that's not what I'm-"
"Then three hours of comparative lit with that course on the troubadours. I'm still safe with that, and I can catch it on video-the same as with that one-hour currentevents thing for social-science credit. Safe there, and that's ten hours. Then two hours' credit for advanced basket weaving, and that's twelve. Home free."
"No, sir! You are not! That last one is a three-hour course, and that gives you a major in it!"
"Haven't seen Circular fifty-seven yet, have you?"
"What?"
"It's been changed."
"I don't believe you."
I glanced at his IN basket.
"Read your mail."
He snatched at the basket; he rifled it. Somewhere near the middle of things he found the paper. Clocking his expressions, I noted disbelief, rage and puzzlement within the first five seconds. I was hoping for despair, but you can't have everything all at once.
Frustration and bewilderment were what remained when he turned to me once again and said, "How did you do it?"
"Why must you look for the worst?"
"Because I've read your file. You got to the instructor some way, didn't you?"
"That's most ignoble of you. And I'd be a fool to admit it, wouldn't I?"
He sighed. "I suppose so."
He withdrew a pen, clicked it with unnecessary force and scrawled his name on the "Approved by" line at the bottom of the card.
Returning the card, he observed, "This is the closest you've come, you know. It was just under the wire this time. What are you going to do for an encore?"
"I understand that two new majors will be instituted next year. I suppose I should see the proper departmental adviser if I am interested in changing my area."
"You'll see me," he said, "and I will confer with the person involved."
"Everyone else has a departmental adviser."
"You are a special case requiring special handling. You are to report here again next time."
"All right," I said, filing the card in my hip pocket as I rose. "See you then."
As I headed for the door he said, "I'll find a way."
I paused on the threshold.
"You," I said pleasantly, "and the Flying Dutchman."
I closed the door gently behind me.
Incidents and fragments, bits-and-pieces time. Like-
"You're not joking?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I'd rather it looked like hell for the obvious reasons," she said, wide-eyed, backing toward the door we had just come through.
"Well, whatever happened, it's done. We'll just clean up and..."
She reopened the door, that long, lovely, wild hair dancing as she shook her head vigorously.
"You know, I'm going to think this over a little more," she said, stepping back into the hall.
"Aw, come on, Ginny. It's nothing serious."
"Like I said, I'll think about it."
She began closing the door.
"Should I call you later, then?"
"I don't think so."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tell you what, I'll call you."
Click.
Hell. She might as well have slammed it. End of Phase One in my search for a new roommate. Hal Sidmore, who had shared the apartment with me for some time, had gotten married a couple of months back. I missed him, as he had been a boon companion, good chess player and general heller about town, as well as an able explicator of multitudes of matters. I had decided to look for something a bit different in my next roommate, however. I thought I had spotted that indefinable quality in Ginny, late one night while climbing the radio tower behind the Pi Phi house, as she was about her end-of-day business in her third-floor room there. Things had gone swimmingly after that. I had met her at ground level, we had been doing things together for over a month and I had just about succeeded in persuading her to consider a change of residence for the coming semester. Then this.
"Damn!" I decided, kicking at a drawer that had been pulled from the desk, dumped and dropped to the floor. No sense in going after her right now. Clean up. Let her get over things. See her tomorrow.
Somebody had really torn the place apart, had gone through everything. The furniture had even been moved about and the covers pulled off the cushions. I sighed as I regarded it. Worse than the aftermath of the wildest of parties. What a rotten time for breaking and entering and breaking. It wasn't the best of neighborhoods, but it was hardly the worst. This sort of thing had never happened to me before. Now, when it did, it had to happen at precisely the wrong time, frightening away my warm and lissome companion. On top of this, something of course had to be missing.
I kept some cash and a few semivaluables in the top drawer of the bureau in my bedroom. I kept more cash tacked in the toe of an old boot on a rack in the corner. I hoped that the vandal had been satisfied with the top drawer. That was the uninspired idea behind the arrangement.
I went to see.
My bedroom was in better order than the living room, though it too had suffered some depredation. The bed clothing had been pulled off and the mattress was askew. Two of the bureau drawers were open but undumped. I crossed the room, opened the top drawer and looked inside.
Everything was still in place, even the money. I moved to the rack, checked my boot. The roll of bills was still where I had left it.
"There's a good fellow. Now toss it here" came a familiar voice that I could not quite place in that context.
Turning, I saw that Paul Byler, Professor of Geology, had just emerged from my closet. His hands were empty, not that he needed a weapon to back up any threat. While short, he was powerfully built, and I had always been impressed by the quantity of scar tissue on those knuckles. An Australian, he had started out as a mining engineer in some pretty raw places, only later picking up his graduate work in geology and physics and getting into teaching.
But I had always been on excellent terms with the man, even after I had departed my geology major. I had known him socially for several years. Hadn't seen him for the past couple of weeks, though, as he had taken some leave. I had thought he was out of town.
So: "Paul, what's the matter?" I said. "Don't tell me you did all this messing?"
"The boot, Fred. Just pass me the boot."
"If you're short on cash, I'll be glad to lend you-"
"The boot!"
I took it to him. I stood there and watched as he plunged his hand inside, felt about, withdrew my roll of bills. He snorted then and thrust the boot and the money back at me, hard. I dropped both, because he had caught me in the abdomen.
Before I even completed a brief curse, he had seized me by the shoulders, spun me about and shoved me into the armchair beside the open window where the curtains fluttered lightly in the breeze.
"I don't want your money, Fred," he said, glaring at me. "I just want something you have that belongs to me. Now you had better give me an honest answer. Do you know what I'm talking about or don't you?"
"I haven't the foggiest," I said. "I don't have anything of yours. You could have just called me and asked me that. You didn't have to come busting in here and-"
He slapped me. Not especially hard. Just enough to jolt me and leave me silent.
"Fred," he said, "shut up. Just shut up and listen. Answer when I ask you a question. That's all. Keep the comments for another day. I'm in a hurry. Now I know you are lying because I've already seen your ex-roommate Hal. He says you have it, because he left it here when he moved out. What I am referring to is one of my models of the star-stone, which he picked up after a poker party in my lab. Remember?"
"Yes," I said. "If you had just called me and ask-"
He slapped me again. "Where is it?"
I shook my head, partly to clear it and partly in negation.
"I . . . I don't know," I said.
He raised his hand.
"Wait! I'll explain! He had that thing you gave him out on the desk, in the front room, was using it for a paperweight. I'm sure he took it with him-along with all his other stuff-when he moved out. I haven't seen it for a couple of months. I'm sure of that."
"Well, one of you is lying," he said, "and you're the one I've got."
He swung again, but this time I was ready for him. I ducked and kicked him in the groin.
It was spectacular. Almost worth staying to watch, as I had never kicked anyone in the groin before. The cold, rational thing to do next would be to go for the back of his neck while he was doubled over that way, preferably spiking him with my elbow. However, I was not in a cold, rational mood just then. To be honest about it, I was afraid of the man, scared to get too close to him. Having had small experience with groin-kicked persons, I had no idea how long it might be before he straightened up and came at me.
Which is why I took to my own element rather than stay there and face him.
I was over the arm of the chair, had the window the rest of the way up and was out it in an instant. There was a narrow ledge along which I moved until I had hold of the drainpipe, off about eight feet to the right.
I could continue on around it, go up or down. But I decided to remain where I was. I felt secure.
Not too much later his head emerged from the window, turned my way. He studied the ledge and cursed me. I lit a cigarette and smiled.
"What are you waiting for?" I said when he paused for breath. "Come on out. You may be a lot tougher than I am, Paul, but if you come out here only one of us is going back in again. That's concrete down there. Come on. Talk is cheap. Show me."
He took a deep breath and his grip tightened on the sill. For a moment I actually thought he was going to try it. He looked downward, though, and he looked back at me.
"All right, Fred," he said, getting control of his lecture voice. "I'm not that big a fool. You win. But listen, please. What I've said is true. I've got to have that thing back. I would not have acted as I did if it were not very important. Please tell me, if you will, whether you were telling me the truth."
I was still smarting from those slaps. I did not feel like being a nice guy. On the other hand, it must have meant a lot to him to make him behave as he had, and I had nothing to gain by not telling him. So: "It was the truth," I said.
"And you have no idea where it might be?"
"None."
"Could someone have picked it up?"
"Easily."
"Who?"
"Anybody. You know those parties we had. Thirty, forty people in there."
He nodded and gnashed his teeth.
"All right," he said then. "I believe you. Try and think, though. Can you recall anything-anything at all-that might give me a lead?"
I shook my head. "Sorry."
He sighed. He sagged. He looked away.
"Okay," he said finally. "I'm going now. I suppose you plan on calling the police?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm in no position to ask favors, or to threaten you, at the moment. But this is both a request and a warning of whatever future reprisal I might be able to manage. Don't call them. I've troubles enough without having to worry about them, too."