PROFESSOR HAROLD AND THE TRUSTEES
Christopher Stasheff
They were meeting in the conference room just off the President's office. It was a stalwart old room, panelled in walnut and lighted by tall lamps in the corners. Beneath them were low bookcases and one tall one, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked as though they'd never been opened. The chairs were upholstered in burgundy plush, and the Trustee's were upholstered in pin-striped suits.
"It's rather difficult for me to answer any of your questions, gentlemen," Shea temporized. "I'm only a junior member of the staff."
"Yes, we're aware of that," said Trustee Incise. He was the lean, ferret-faced publisher of the local newspaper, and wrote editorials that were carried by papers in St. Louis, Chicago, and Cincinnati.
"Since three of the tour members of the Institute's professional staff have taken leave of absence, you can understand our concern," said Archangle, the Chairman of the Board of Trustees. He was in his sixties, still affecting a pince-nez with a long black ribbon connecting it to his lapel. He had bulldog jowls and a few strands of hair arrowing back from the center of his forehead to the grizzled fringe, neatly trimmed, looking very much the banker that he was.
Trustee Windholm rumbled agreement. He was tall and wide, with pale skin and paler eyes, a wisp of a mouth, and wispy hair. He rarely spoke, but often made meaningful sounds.
Athanael pressed on, undeterred. "Being part of Curling Stone University, the Institute is supposed to serve not only as a mental hospital, but also as a teaching laboratory; we do have graduate students studying the patients as advanced work in psychology. But the Institute's founders and patrons were also hoping for some fame accruing to the University, through the research efforts of its staff." He turned to Shea. "If your colleagues are developing results that will be publishable, Dr. Shea, we would scarcely want to discourage them. A revolutionary idea in psychology, soundly buttressed by valid data, would definitely enhance the reputation of the college."
"Well, perhaps if it's genuinely earth-shaking," Trustee Lockjaw said impatiently. He was a square-chinned, hard-eyed lawyer with a Roman nose.
Athanael turned to Shea. "Precisely what is the nature of the research that has required all three of them to leave campus for the year?'
Shea took a deep breath. This was going to require some fancy footwork, since the plain truth of the matter was that he and Chalmers had both gone a-wandering to escape the suffocating life of academia, not to augment it—and though Bayard and Polacek had gone off as much out of curiosity as anything else, that curiosity had scarcely been academic.
Anyway, plain truth was not what college trustees wanted to hear.
"We began by studying the logic patterns of Garaden patients," Shea said, "then moved farther afield to engage in other case studies. We discovered that delusional patients seem to be living half in worlds of their own invention, and half in the world that is real. Dr. Chalmers, Dr. Bayard, Mr. Polacek, and myself, are hoping that, by charting the principles underlying such delusional worlds, we'll be able to find ways to bring the patients into correspondence with the principles of the real world, then into identity with it, thus curing them."
"A fascinating notion, and it does clarify the rather lengthy explanation in your briefing," Archangle harrumphed. "I can understand why some of you needed to continue the field work—but why send you back? Why didn't you stay?"
Because I brought back what really muttered—Belphebe. Shea couldn't say that aloud, of course; instead, he merely shrugged. "I'm the youngest member with a doctorate."
"And you're sure that there really is a need for further field studies?" Incise snapped.
"Oh, I think that's quite clear." Turning back to Incise, Athanael said, "I think you can see, though, that if the project is successful, it could produce a revolution in therapy, and redound greatly to the credit of the University."
"Oh, yes, no question about it." Windholm's rumbling finally turned into words. "If they can make it work, it might even give us a counter-argument for the notion that movies and radio plays are leading people into fantasy lives."
Shea remembered that Windholm owned three radio stations, and that one of them had started a Western that had become so popular, a national network had picked it up.
"It could offer a valuable yardstick in legal insanity cases," Lockjaw said thoughtfully.
"Then we're agreed." Archangle didn't sound happy about it. "We'll let the current situation continue through the spring semester—but by midsummer, Dr. Shea, we really do need to see some preliminary results."
"We should stipulate, however, that the research of Doctors Chalmers and Bayard be published under the Institute's auspices," Lockjaw pointed out, "and frankly, gentlemen, I must question whether Dr. Shea has enough experience to coordinate such a group effort by himself. No offense intended, of course. Doctor."
"None taken," Shea ground out.
"Yes, there is need for more experienced direction," President Athanael said easily. "Dr. Shea, we really must insist that you do your best to persuade Dr. Chalmers to oversee the effort, at least in the capacity of a consultant."
"It would also help if you could persuade Dr. Bayard to resume correspondence," Incise advised.
Shea sighed. "I'll try my best, gentlemen—but it may be very difficult to contact Dr. Chalmers."
"Can't you reach him by telephone?"
"No," Shea said. "I'm afraid there aren't any, where he's gone. You might say it's a rather remote location."
"So that's all I'm supposed to do," he told Belphebe over a predinner martini, in tones of exasperation. "As though all I had to do were to mail a letter or send a telegram!"
"Naetheless," she said, smiling proudly, "you have triumphed, Harold."
"Triumphed?" Shea did a double take. "How do you figure that?"
"Why, because your Institute will continue, and the University will not even insist on hiring new men to replace our friends," Belphebe answered. "That is what you had said you did dread, is it not?"
"Why yes, now that you mention it," Shea said slowly, with a thoughtful look. "I did, didn't I?"
"Then surely you have triumphed in averting both catastrophes." She squeezed his hand, eyes glowing.
Shea squeezed back, with a very fond smile. "I'm awfully lucky I met you." She was tall and slim, with red-gold hair trimmed in a long bob. It went splendidly with the green dress she was wearing, somehow suggesting the forest that was her natural home. Shea reflected once again on his amazing good luck in finding her, and the unbelievable phenomenon that she had actually fallen in love with him. "Maybe we can't begin to plan for the future yet, but at least the present is safe—for a little while."
Belphebe frowned. "Odd words, for a knight-errant. "
"This knight-errant has suddenly begun to be more interested in security than in adventure," Shea said sourly, "and his native universe is certainly higher in the former, than any of the others he had visited."
Belphebe smiled, touching his hand, her face glowing. "Wherefore so huge a transformation?"
"It has something to do with having a wife at home," Shea admitted. "I tell you, dear, when Archangle hinted that the "project" might be eliminated, it sent a chill through me. He implied that the Institute might need an overall replacement of personnel, myself included. I never would have thought the hint of losing my job would send me into such a panic."
Belphebe frowned. "That is not good."
"No, because there are always more jobs, right? But it's comfortable here, and Garaden is a good town for ..." He caught himself; child-rearing was a topic they had not discussed. Much. "... a good town for a young couple. I'd just as soon not have to move."