She heard a knock on her office door and, when she opened it, was greeted by a man who fit the description of tall, dark, and handsome stranger.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Dr. Addams," he said, "that's exactly what I'm here to ask you. I'm Professor Davis. Ethan. Dean of cultural studies."
He bowed slightly at the waist and offered his hand, which she took. It was firm, and very cool. "Good to meet you," she said.
"Are you settled in your rooms, and are they adequate? It's an old building, but it has a certain charm, and the advantage of being right on campus."
"My rooms are fine," she said. "Thank you for checking," she added, remembering her manners.
"Oh, it's nothing. We feel privileged to have you here. Your thesis on ritual space in the Mertec tradition was—well, seminal."
Jaguar found her face moving into a wry grin. "I'm not sure that's the word I'd use," she said, "since it concerned women's chant ceremonies."
He blinked his wide gray eyes at her, frowned slightly, then turned up one side of his mouth. "Ah," he said. "I see. How very male of me. Perhaps I should say your dissertation was ovulatory?"
The grin grew. "Don't bother. There isn't a word in your language to cover it."
He sighed, and held his hands palm up in a gesture of resignation. "If I can't get it right, I might as well make it worse."
Jaguar startled at hearing her own expression spoken from a man's mouth. "Pardon me?" she asked.
"Your dissertation was very female. Brilliant and cryptic and mysterious as the moon."
"Oh. Thank you, I think. Except I can't remember being cryptic anywhere."
"Page 78," he said, "the second paragraph. 'The practice of chant-shaping is too powerful to be contained within a worldview that limits itself to intellectual pursuits. It needs, by nature of its being, a circle of strength that allows for the physical manifestation of energy within the dynamic system of the spiritual world.' You go on from there to quote Paula Gunn Allen on the concept of the World of Power, and Lale Davidson on the importance of hiddenness in magic. Am I correct?"
"You have a good memory, Dean," she said "My memory is photographic, Dr. Addams. A gift. Like chant-shaping capacities. I'd like to find out what evening you're available for dinner so I can get you acquainted with the other members of the department."
She studied his face. Definitely an alpha male, showing off just a little. Alpha males always forgot that cats recognized no hierarchical structure. But he was certainly handsome. Dark hair and eyes that seemed gray in this light, though they might change under the influence of sky or woods. His face was narrow and alight with the curiosity that signaled intelligence, and his broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, indicating someone who took good care of his appearance. He wore no gold band, which could mean nothing, but she would lay bets on him being single. Determinedly single. She had not missed the way his eyes strolled her body with the ease of someone who had experience in assessing the female form.
"I've got an intro class Tuesday and Thursday evenings, but the rest of my nights are free," she said.
"Then I'll see what I can arrange for later next week.
Perhaps Friday? I know a marvelous Indian restaurant, if you like that sort of food."
"Yes," she said, "as long as you don't make any bad puns about currying favor."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he said. "And in the meantime do you have any procedural questions? Need to know where anything is? I can show you all the important places on campus—where to get the worst coffee, where students go to smoke pot."
"Do they still do that? I thought they only did cyberdrugs these days."
"My understanding is that pot is so cheap now, they actually prefer it. Especially since the cyber police are cracking down."
"Is it a problem on this campus?"
"Not too bad. Every semester we get our share of students snared by the Web, but it's gotten to be old hat with them. They're all off looking for whatever the next thrill might be. It's not that different from the problems we have with students drinking, or whatever else they choose to lose their minds with. If you want the low-down on it, you can check our Web site." He grinned at her. "Ironic, isn't it? But I don't mean to keep you here chatting the day away. Let me be helpful or get out of your way."
"Well,"—Jaguar placed a hand on the control board of her computer and called up her University memos, scanned them briefly—"it seems I have to go to the registrar's office and pick up my RKN numbers. Do you have any idea what that means?"
"That's for your undergraduate students who haven't registered, but want to get into your class anyway. I'm headed toward the registrar's myself, so I can guide you if you're free."
Jaguar said she was, and picked up her coat, which he held for her while she put it on. Courteous, she thought. Old world. Alpha male, but interesting.
They chatted easily about the architecture of the building and its history as they walked down halls that were plastered with posters announcing conferences, lectures, fraternity rushes. They took the stairs to the lowest level of the building, and Ethan led her down another hall that looked exactly like all the others except for the graffiti, which she supposed was how students knew where they were. He stopped at a black metal door labeled in large print: tunnels locked at 10 pm.
He turned to her.
"I'm taking you through the tunnels, Dr. Addams. I hope you're not claustrophobic."
She shook her head. "Not at all. But—"
"It's quite safe. Just a shortcut. You'll find it useful in the winter."
He opened the door and waved her ahead. She stepped over the doorsill and looked around.
Great twisting water pipes and heat ducts snaked along gray walls, and the cement walk rolled ahead of them, curving downhill and back up toward an unseen corridor, creating the illusion of infinity. Recycling Dumpsters, piles of broken desks, laboratory animal cages in various states of disrepair, and drums of enigmatic liquids lined the way ahead.
A group of students in shorts and T-shirts jogged by. The white of their shirts absorbed the green-toned lighting, casting a slight phosphorescence around them. A young man slinging a backpack ignored the "No Rollerblading" signs and whizzed past, the sound of his wheels echoing off the walls.
Ethan, watching her, laughed.
"Surreal," he said, "but convenient. And once you understand that it's just a circular path under the buildings, with cross paths between, very easy to find your way around. Of course, it was meant for maintenance, not students or faculty, but the students figured it out right away—experts at the easy path that they are. Here"—he pointed toward a black door, "is actually a way to get from campus to your own building without emerging topside. Unfortunately, it's locked."
He gestured ahead of them, toward the upslope of the path, and spoke sotto voce. "It's said that the on-campus faculty houses all have access from their basements, so they can rendevous with each other at night."
Jaguar arched an eyebrow at him. "Romantic liaisons?"
"Nonsense. They roam the tunnels arguing about Nietszche."
She smiled. "And the ghosts—of course, there are ghosts."
"The souls of students who never managed to graduate. They linger here and torture first-years."
"What about faculty who didn't receive tenure?" she asked.
"Naturally. And part-time faculty, starved to death. But if you're afraid, you can take my arm."
Jaguar grinned. "I have ways of dealing with ghosts," she said, but she hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow, which he held out to her.
"Careful," he said. "Talk like mat, and people will think you're some kind of empath."
Her arm jerked involuntarily, and she subdued it. Settle down, she told herself. He's teasing you. He turned to her and tilted his head. She kept her face smooth and smiling.
"You were warned of our campus ruckus, weren't you?" he asked. "Try not to worry about it. These fires have a way of dryi
ng up and blowing away if we don't pour gasoline on them. Though right now I wouldn't mind being an empath, if it would tell me what you're thinking. You have a way of keeping your face very neutral—or is it forward of me to notice that?"
"Probably," she said. "But forward is one of my favorite directions. I never was any good in reverse."
Dean Davis laughed, and gestured ahead. "Then let's proceed," he said.
Planetoid Three, Toronto Replica
Alex cast his line out once. Twice. Three times. The lake was silver, streaked with the bleeding colors of the setting sun. He heard the slap of a hand on skin.
"Whaddaya wanna do this for, Alex?" a voice asked. "Jesus—there's bugs everywhere. You'd think that if we made our own Planetoid, we could make it without bugs."
He turned and saw Paul Dinardo standing unsteadily in good shoes on wet sand, his hand moving frantically to ward off a whirling circle of blackflies.
"They're part of the ecosystem, Paul. You want real life, you gotta have bugs," Alex said, turning back to his line. "Though a few more lake trout might balance them out nicely."
"Yeah," Paul said, "But what'd get rid of all this sand?"
Alex laughed. "Seven maids with seven mops?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind. What brings you here, Paul?"
"Actually, I went to your office, and they said you took the week off. Said you planned on taking a couple more. To go fishing."
Alex drew his arm back and let the line in, then flung it far out into the lake. "Not fishing, Paul. Just practicing my cast."
Paul dug a toe in the sand, then pulled it out when a wave lapped too close to his foot. He took a step back. "Yeah, well, I appreciate the need for R and R, Dzarny, but unfortunately, you'll have to wait for it. We got some University people coming our way, and it's your job to make sure they get what they need without getting in anyone's way."
Alex continued to play with the feel of line and water as they pulled against each other. He took a step closer to the water's edge, then another. A boat sailed by in the distance, and he admired it, silently. He rarely took time off. Paul had no right to complain. Besides, he was feeling a little distracted, out of sorts.
"Look, you got some of these bugs up your ass by any chance?" Paul asked.
Alex said nothing.
"Maybe you got a bug up your ass about Dr. Addams's assignment?" Paul suggested.
"I have nothing to say about Dr. Addams. I don't have anything to do with her anymore."
"What?"
"Someone sent her away on mandatory home leave. I can't imagine who would do that without consulting her Supervisor, but somebody did. And therefore, she's not working for me anymore."
"Is that it? For Chrissake. With her reputation, it'll be safer for her that way. We list her as research, someone gets into her files, they get nervous about what she's researching. But it doesn't mean anything. You know that. It's not like—are you listening to me?" Paul asked.
"No," Alex said. "I'm not at work, so I don't have to."
Paul made a noise like snorting. Alex didn't turn around to see which orifice he made it with.
He wanted time off, dammit. Time away from his office. There was something of the scent of mint around his desk, and he didn't like it. He needed to get away from it and think, without that feeling of always waiting for something. Without those great gaps in his day, when nobody showed up to swing a pair of discourteous heels onto his desk and spout imaginative profanities about people like—like Paul.
"Say something, dammit," Paul barked at him. "These bugs are eating me."
"That's what wild things do, Paul," Alex said. "They eat you. My advice—go home now while you still have some flesh left to call your own."
"Jesus, what is it with you?"
"You took one of my people and put her on mandatory leave without even letting me know. Isn't that enough for one day?"
"Alex, she can't be in there on research. The president nixed it. She said the students'd be on it like flies on shit. Like—" He slapped at his arm. "Like bugs in flesh. If they get wind of what she's there for, she's screwed, and we don't look too good either."
"She shouldn't be there at all."
"Why didn't you say that earlier? And why're you in such a twist about it now? I mean, I know people been sayin' for years that you're crazy about her, but—"
"Fuck you," Alex said.
Paul stopped cold. Alex cast his line out and said nothing more.
"Christ," Paul said. "Take your lousy time off and pout, but it won't change anything. She's still on the home planet, and you're still in charge of the University people here. Make sure they stay in bounds. I don't want 'em walking outside their own turf, and I'm counting on you to provide the leash. You wanna know why—because it's your job."
Alex drew his line in, cast it out.
"I'll put a memo to that effect on your desk. When you're" at work, you can read it and remind yourself that you never heard a word I said."
The crunch of feet on sand told him Paul had walked away.
He reeled in his line and called it a day.
3
JAGUAR SCANNED THE THIRTY-THREE FACES IN front of her. A variety of shades of skin color. A variety of hairstyles. A variety of dress styles. A variety of genetic encodings reflected in round faces, angular faces, eyes that turned up or down, wide mouths, and thin mouths. An abundance of variety, except for one thing.
From the front row to the back, and from left to right, each set of eyes was both guarded and indifferent. She wondered if what they were guarding was their indifference. She pulled in breath, and let it out slowly. She'd taken attendance, made sure all the registration forms were in order, and given out syllabi. She'd have to make a start with them.
"Any questions about the syllabus?" she asked. Dull eyes stared at her. Disengaged. Every one of them. She sighed.
"Okay," she said, moving around to the front of the desk and pulling herself up to sit on it, swinging her legs, leaning back on her hands. "So someone tell me what you think the purpose of religion is."
Nobody moved.
"This is not a trick question," she reassured them. "You can't get it wrong."
Everyone continued not to move.
She pointed to a young blond woman whose curly hair framed a vacuously pretty face. "You there," she said. "Grade. Just tell me what you think."
The young woman pointed to herself, then turned her head this way and that.
"That's right," Jaguar said. "You. What's religion for?"
"My name's not Gracie," the blonde said, her voice high and petulant.
The rest of the class snickered.
"Got your attention, didn't it?" Jaguar said.
The students murmured among themselves. A young woman with a broad and smoothly quiet face, dark hair and eyes, raised her hand. Jaguar nodded at her.
"Religion teaches people how to connect to the spirit world, and provides a basis for moral and ethical decisions," she said, her voice, like her face, quiet and smooth. The young man sitting next to her nodded in approval.
"Your name?" Jaguar asked.
"Katia," she said.
"That's a good answer. Basic and true. Where'd you get it?"
"I read a little in the text."
"Do you agree with it?"
The girl's face creased into a question and her shoulders went up and down a fraction of an inch. "I don't know what you mean."
"Is that what religion is for you?"
Jaguar turned the question toward the class as a whole, and saw Katia relax into relief at having the burden shifted from her. The young man sitting next to her put a hand on her arm.
"Anyone else?" Jaguar asked.
"Far as I can tell," a young man with spiked hair said, appearing to mumble the words to some point inside his own chest, "religion's supposed to keep people bored."
Giggles roved around the back of the class.
Jaguar tilted her head. "Bored?"
> " 'S like school," he said. "You sit and listen a lot to stuff you don't understand and don't care about so you know how to put up with the boring job you're gonna have. And everyone's too scared to say anything about it, because God might get 'em when they die."
More giggles. Some murmurs of assent. Jaguar looked around at the lethargic faces.
"Is this a required course for you?" she asked.
They turned to each other, as if asking permission to speak, and heads began to nod.
"I see. Okay. Let's try this, then. Do what I do."
She picked up her syllabus and held it in front of her. They all did the same. Slowly, starting at the center, she began to tear it in half, taking the two halves and putting them together, then tearing it again and again, then tossing the pieces into the air in front of her.
The students muttered to each other and passed glances to their buddies.
"Well," Jaguar said. "Go ahead. It's your turn."
A young man in the rear of the room said what the hell and ripped with gusto. Others around him followed suit. Then they all tore joyously—except for Katia, whose motions were tentative, and the young man next to her, who sat still as a stone.
There was always one, she thought. No matter what you did. She smiled at him. He was an attractive young man, with sandy hair and a face that had the shadow of childhood freckles.
"Got a problem with this?" she asked.
The young man looked at Katia and shook his head at her rather than at Jaguar. "It's nothing, Katia," he said in response to the concern in her eyes. Then he smiled at Jaguar. "I just like to play by the rules, and if I tear this up, I won't know what they are."
"Good point," she said. "Since we've disregarded this particular set of rules, we'll have to come up with some new ones. Your name is...?"
" Steven," he said. " Steven Haigue."
"Okay, Steven. What rules do you want?"
A black woman at the back shouted out, "Everybody gets A's." Hoots and cheers followed.
Jaguar held her hands out. "Yes? Is that the class rule?"
"No," Steven said firmly. People groaned.
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