by M S Murdock
Bored, Warch watched the befuddled, frightened professor. Though the president enjoyed this part of his job, he was sure Andresen’s case would hold no surprises, no fight or fury to make the weekly event of trying and humiliating a wayward professor the least bit unusual or exciting. Andresen was the typical spineless, absorbed research professor, and his crimes were clear cut; he would not be able to defend himself. And even lf he was innocent, none of the tenured professors seated on the tribunal would protect him; anyone with any spark of independence or courage had long ago been purged from the university by this same court. Worse still--or better, depending on one’s viewpoint-the professors seemed to revel in tribunals, like gapers at a horrendous, bloody explosion.
“Merrill Andresen,” Alwu intoned, “you stand accused by Dr. Glynn Georges.dos, and the council finds sufficient substance in his claim. Therefore, you are hereby formally charged with misusing RAM grant funds on an absurd research project, as demonstrated in your recent article in the Eastern Martian Journal of Science. As a result, you have embarrassed the university, its fellows, students, and faculty.”
Andresen sucked in air, and a shot of adrenaline quickened his pulse. He knew what he was here for. If there had been any doubt, he had only to see his rival, Glynn Georges.dos, to confirm his suspicions. His only defense was that every professor and teaching assistant strove to publish theories in the science journals of the Sol System; In fact, professors with tenure were required to publish, at least if they wanted to keep their tenure. Why had his article precipitated a professorial tribunal?
“Do you have anything to say on your behalf, before your peers pass judgment in this tribunal?” Warch asked abruptly. In his haste to be done, Warch skipped over the usual questioning of witnesses. He noticed a scowl of disapproval from the plaintiff, Glynn Georges .dos, who had been looking forward to cross-examining his rival, the self-absorbed Professor Andresen.
“This is no tribunal! This is a kangaroo court!” Andresen protested.
“I don’t remember you protesting while you were among the peerage at previous proceedings,” Warch Said pointedly.
Andresen’s face grew hot. It was true-attendance at tribunals was mandatory, and so he had come, but his face had always been buried in research material. Merrill Andresen was not willing to let his accusers off the hook so easily. He still had some rights in this procedure. “Which of my many published theories does the council claim to be invalid.” he asked simply.
Dr. Glynn Georges.dos jumped to his holographic feet and shook his fist angrily at Andresen. “You know damn well which one! You claim to have information that can pinpoint the location of the body of an astronaut whose mission dates from ADV-1995!”
Andresen waited until the laughter died down and the cathedral sound system was silent. “Which would, coincidentally, invalidate your recent claim to have found the oldest off-Earth remains, would it not.” he asked.
The fuzzy image of Georges.dos’s face burned red. “If you are suggesting that bias clouds my judgment, you are mistaken. I am not the one on trial here, Mr Andresen.”
Georges.dos let the veiled threat hang between them.
“I believe everyone here knows of my achievements. I have devoted my life to anthropological research.” He stopped to look at Andresen squarely. “Let me assure you, if there was even the vaguest possibility that an astronaut existed who could be resurrected after five hundred years, I would know about it!”
“Just as you knew of this finding from 1995?”
Georges.dos’s face burned again with anger. “What finding? There is no finding! You have no evidence, no substantiation! Only your published lies!”
“But you’re frightened to death that I’m right,” Andresen said to his rival.
Georges.dos looked as if he would like to strike the rumpled little scientist. Instead, lips pursed tightly, he looked out to address the crowd of professors. “I think we all know why we’re here. Dr. Andresen has let his professional jealousy cloud his professional judgment. Livid with humiliation over my recent substantiated and highly acclaimed findings, he has conceived his absurd story solely to divert the attention of the scientific community to himself. And after he has collected the professional and financial accolades, he will suddenly discover the error in his theory.”
“He‘ll make us all look like greedy academics!” someone shouted from the crowd, his voice vibrating over the sound system.
“RAM will never maintain our grants under such pretenses!” another added.
“We cannot condone such ethics, nor expose our students to them!” The cathedral filled with the electronic hum of hundreds of buzzing monitors.
Suddenly an impassioned cry came from the balcony, distinctive, without amplification no one in the balcony was allowed to speak at these occasions, thus they did not have monitors.
“He’s not like that!” Andresen recognized the voice of his own loyal teaching assistant, Walter Dorning, as it echoed inside the cold crystal structure. “Dr. Andresen wouldn’t publish a theory without reliable facts! “Tell them, Dr. Andresen!”
On the floor of the chamber, Andresen sighed. He’d seen enough of these proceedings to know the outcome was settled long before the event. Walter was wasting his breath and jeopardizing himself in the process.
Andresen looked up and saw the pained expression on his teaching assistant’s face and felt shame at his own helplessness. “My findings are valid,” was all he could say in his own defense.
“Then I’ll tell them!” Walter shouted, windmilling his arms against the security guards who had appeared to escort the dissident from the proceedings. “His research was flawlessly brilliant! Accessing the data base of a recently discovered twentieth century weather satellite, Dr. Andresen analyzed the digitally stored cybernetic personality program of a twentieth century Soviet military man named Kark-” Walter’s testimony was cut short as security guards dragged him through a door at the back of the cathedral.
Merrill Andresen sighed with relief. Walter had not had time to reveal too much, at worst, RAM security would give him a memory wipe drug. He’d be OK. “Andresen must be punished!”
“Send him to Australia with the rest of RAM’& defects!”
Georges.dos’s hologram revealed no emotion at these outbursts, even though Andresen was sure the computer was delighted. “Now, let us not be rash,” he said. “I think we all agree that Mr.---er, Dr. Andresen should be denied tenure and that the student body must no longer be exposed to him. In addition, his RAM research grant should be terminated and assigned to a more deserving researcher. Further, he must be banned from using our academic facilities on this farce of a research project. These things will be punishment enough.”
The cathedral rang with cheers of approval.
President Warch blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and pushed his hairpiece back from where it had drooped forward. “Dr. Georges, I believe I still am the moderator of these proceedings.” That blackmailing toady was going to show some manners, or he would find himself disposed of, Warch thought. Caught up in the glow of victory, Georges.dos at least had the presence of mind to flush with embarrassment and return to his seat behind the slate bench.
“Bailiff Alwu will call for the vote from the rank and file,” Warch intoned, stifling a yawn and stealing a look at his watch.
“All in favor of stripping Dr. Merrill Andresen of his professorship and giving him a position as research assistant, say “aye.”
Again, the hall rang with approval.
“All opposed?”
Someone in the balcony cleared his throat.
Andresen closed his eyes slowly, disbelievingly. He stayed that way while Alwu removed the former professor’s academic robe, leaving him in his white lab coat and protective brown lab trousers. He opened his eyes only when two security guards took him by the arms to escort him from the chamber. Andresen looked around to see that in the space of fifteen seconds, the cathedral had emptied. That was h
ow much his trial had meant to his “peers.” He thought it odd that he had ever felt a part of the academic brotherhood. Andresen felt weak. He slumped forward, supported by his two guards. His mind felt as if something vital had fled, leaving him . . . without a purpose. His research was his life-his purpose for living. Now that had been taken from him.
Suddenly he heard a voice behind him. “You were lucky” It was Georges.dos.
“Lucky”
“To have lost only your research grant, and not your life.”
“My research was my life,” Andresen said, not looking at the hologram.
“I am disappointed,” Georges.dos said, sounding anything but. “I expected more fight from you.”
In the face of Georges.dos’s smug taunts, something inside the mild-mannered ex-professor snapped. He would not cave in to the liars and the cheats so easily. In that moment, Mr. Merrill Andresen adopted a new purpose. Vindication.
“I only fight when I have a chance to win, and no one ever wins against a professorial tribunal,” he said. “I think you know that our battle is not over, Georges.” His tone was light, but the threat was unmistakable. “You can take away my research grant and my tenure, but you can’t stop me from continuing my research through other means. By the time you manage to blackmail someone at RAM into having me arrested on some other trumped-up charge-don’t flinch, Glynn, I know your techniques-I’ll have my astronaut.”
The guards pulled Andresen away before Dr. Glynn Georges.dos could respond. But, looking over his shoulder, Andresen saw-for just an instant-a look of panic cross his rival‘s face.
Ill: Rescue
Andresen tossed the empty Salisbury steak container into the disposer and flushed as the memories of the dread event continued. . . .
He‘d clung to Georges.dos’s look of fear alter the guards had escorted him by the elbows from the cathedral. From there they took him to the mover that meandered through the tall, old buildings of Martian University and to the farthest perimeter of campus. He was forbidden to return to his office, even to collect his belongings. All his research concerning the twentieth century astronaut was there.
At least they had left him near the transport terminal he needed, to get to his living quarters on the seventh level of the Pavonis Space Elevator. They were only that: living quarters. His home had been the field when he was on a dig, or his office when he was doing research. He kept his clothes at his quarters, and that was about it.
Andresen stepped off the mover as he neared Gate 12 in the transport station. Normally the ninety-minute trip back to his apartment gave him a good opportunity to review papers and his professional journals. That's all over now, he thought. The electronic gate spit his Res} dent’s Transport Pass back into his hand, and Andresen stepped into the narrow passenger pod. He selected his customary aisle seat and strapped himself in.
The pod lurched several times as it began its ascent up the miles-long cable to the Pavonis Elevator Residential Rings. Andresen felt the gradual increase in pressure; it would subside again soon enough. He’ll learned to sleep through the gravity adjustments, but today he stared wide-eyed at the back of the seat ahead of him.
He started abruptly when the recorded message he’d heard hundreds of times before blasted in his ears. “Pod 12 is now arriving at Pavonis Elevator Residential Ring, Level 7. Please check to be sure you remove all canyon luggage when you leave. Thank you.”
Andresen walked the two short sectors to his housing complex, a long, low white structure of the newest and cheapest design. He punched his code into the number pad just off the entryway. Two more codes and he would be into the unfamiliar but private surroundings of his quarters. He wanted only to sit down, have a drink-many drinks-and determine his next course of action.
Stepping into the last white corridor, he stopped before the second door on the right, inserted his security card into the slot, and waited.
“Good evening, Mr. Andresen,” the computer’s female voice purred.
Andresen flinched. RAM certainly worked fast. Already the security computer in his complex knew he’d been stripped of his tenure.
“Just let me in my quarters,” he said more harshly than he’d meant to. The computer ran a voice check on his words, and the door slid open.
“Sorry, Mr. Andresen,” the computer said as he stepped beyond its range into his place.
There, in the harsh fluorescent light of his cramped apartment, Mr. Merrill Andresen bent and opened the small cabinet in which he stored his liquor. His life was shattered, and the pieces fell about him like broken glass. He hoped to anesthetize himself so that he would feel no pain when the shards sliced through him. He moved slowly to his bed, sat, and quickly drained one half-full bottle of skitch, then returned to the cabinet and opened another. . . .
Andresen awoke to a series of sharp raps on his door, which echoed and amplified in his swollen, hungover head. He sat up, but felt the room immediately sway beneath him, and decided to stay where he was. The noise at the door was relentless. He shuddered and grabbed his aching head.
“Stop that pounding! Who is it?” he yelled, the subsequent pain making him sorry for doing so. Who got through security to pound on my door, anyway? he wondered. Whoever it was would need a security card to get that far, then request admittance from the computer. Andresen was now curious. He called again to the stranger, but the only response was the sound of something dropping on the floor outside his door, then whoever it was scurried away.”
The former professor slowly went to the door, opened it, and saw on the carpeted floor just outside the doorway a small envelope. He thought it odd that he should receive mail in such an old-fashioned way, but as he bent to retrieve it his head began to throb. He picked up i the package and threw it on the couch, then made for his kitchen-bar for some coffee and painkiller.
Throwing the vile-smelling, empty skitch bottles into the disposer, he soothed his head, then microwaved a cup of black coffee for himself. Closing his eyes, he sat lightly, quietly, on the sofa and sipped the hot, stimulating drink. Gulping the last inch in his mug, his foggy brain remembered the package. Opening his eyes, he spotted it beside him. Inside was a small blue micro disk, the type he used in his own computer.
'Tapping the disk thoughtfully, he lifted his small, portable computer from the coffee table, placed it on his lap, and popped the strange disk in the drive. Calling up a directory, he retrieved the only file on the disk. The text read:
Meet me at the central entrance to Ralton Space port, Level 14, at eight o’clock tonight. Bring field equipment.
W.
W? Walter? His teaching assistant? Andresen didn’t understand what was going on, but Walter was not one for jokes. Andresen looked at his watch. It was almost half past six-in the evening!
Amazing! he thought. I’ve slept away an entire day! I knew skitch was strong, but . . . No. It must have been a combined effect of the alcohol and my exhaustion over the past few days. His peers could take away his degree, but they could never take away his inquiring mind. Andresen looked again at the time: he had just enough to collect his gear and get to Level 14 by eight o’clock.
Sweaty and out of breath, he met his former teaching assistant near the wire-mesh gates of the spaceport. “Walter, what is this all about?” Andresen asked the young, dark -haired man. “You shouldn’t be seen with me. It could ruin your academic career!”
“You think I want to be a part of that-” he tossed his head defiantly “-after what they did to you?”
“But becoming a professor is your goal, your dream!”
Walter gave him a bittersweet smile. “Working with you was my dream-a goal I reached. Now there’s a way for me to pay you back for all you’ve taught me.” He pressed a heavy rectangular card into Andresen’s palm. “What’s this?” Andresen asked, holding it up to the light.
“A security pass for an asterover,” Walter said simply, smiling. “My brother works at the spaceport here, and I just helped myself
to one of his car.”
Andresen looked puzzled. “But why do I need this? I’m not going to run away from the likes of Glynn Georges.dos.”
“Go find Buck Rogers, Merrill,” Walter said softly, using both names for the first time.
“That’s why you told me to bring field gear!” Andresen looked at his student with pride. Suddenly his face clouded with concern. “You could get in a great deal of trouble for this, Walter. I can’t let you do it.” He held the card out to him.
But Walter shook his head vigorously and pushed it away. “They can’t easily trace it to me. And my brother can simply blame the theft on a coworker-for a while, anyway.” He looked into Andresen’s tired old eyes, pleading with him. “Merrill, this is all I can do to support you . . . without sacrificing everything. And I hate that!” He lowered his voice. “Please don’t deny me this chance to do something for you. You know you want to go, too.”
Andresen gave a sly smile. “An asterover, hmm? You couldn’t have gotten something a little more luxurious?”
Walter grinned in relief. “She’s stocked for at least two weeks.” Suddenly he frowned. “Say, do you even know how to fly an asterover?”
Andresen smirked. “A bit late in the game to be asking such a crucial question, isn’t it? Didn’t I teach you better than that?” He laughed reassuringly. “I learned in my undergraduate days-athletic requirement. I don’t suppose they’ve changed that much since then.”
Student and mentor hugged each other awkwardly before Walter slipped away into the darkness. Through sheer bravado-wand the security card-Andresen secured the asterover and made his way out of the spaceport. Though he had not flown an asterover since his undergraduate days, they were small, uncomplicated, and, as he’d predicted, had not changed much.
Experimentation and near-collisions had quickly refreshed his memory.