After Sarah had made it blazingly clear she resented being palmed off on a student straight from graduation after she had completed two years’ graduate research, Jerry had tried his peacemaker bit. He had poured Sarah a scotch and confided that this boy was by far the best brain of his year, certain, if he chose to remain an academic, of heading a department before he was far into his thirties. Jerry’s plan, he told her, was to put the careers of his two most brilliant students into overdrive by inviting them to work on closely associated projects. That way, the university would stake out an area of investigative research identifiably its own, and Sarah and Don would be assured of top priority in funding and resources. Okay, if the concentration of two minds on similar problems led occasionally to a little friction, the outcome might just be some sparks of pure genius.
The heady mix of flattery and scotch had proved too strong for Sarah. She agreed to meet Don Rigden before the end of the week and work something out. But she had pressed her seniority hard. Don had fallen in with her proposal to restrict the area of cooperation to well-defined limits, leaving them free to pursue their researches independently. Maybe he had figured she would soften in time, but she was guarding her rights like a union boss.
Henry Dickinson said, “He dropped down again.”
“I saw. Keep still, and we may see the female examine the web.”
“Can’t they hear us talk?”
“It’s unlikely. They develop the senses they need most. They have a strong sense of touch, so they may pick up our voices through vibrations, but that won’t bother them.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making a note of the time.”
“Why?”
“Routine. When you monitor animal behavior, you have to keep a record.” This was a distortion of the truth. The mark she had made in her notebook was of no scientific interest. If the boy had not been there, she would not have bothered. The mating ritual of Argiopidae was fascinating, but familiar. The significant thing had been locating them in the cellar. But by giving the impression she was proceeding with her research, she hoped to convince Henry that she was indifferent to their predicament. In reality, she was sick with fear. She hated being trapped. She always slept with her bedroom door ajar. As a child, she had sometimes been punished by being locked in her room. It was worse than a beating.
“Hey, Don, we didn’t see you at lunch.” Meg Kellaway’s agitated voice carried across the campus lawn, causing heads to turn. Brown-haired and pretty, with a pert, pink-cheeked face that could not have altered appreciably since she was ten years old, she got to her feet and tried to look taller by standing on her toes and waving.
He stopped, turned, and nodded.
Meg ran barefoot across the lawn to him, smiling, brushing grass clippings from her white jeans. Her impulsiveness made her fun to be with, but you could get too much of it.
“Where were you? You’re always there Tuesdays.”
He started walking again and she went with him. “I, er, had to meet someone for lunch.” He didn’t want to make too much of this.
“Secrets, huh? Who was she, Don — that redhead I saw you with on Madison Avenue last week?”
“No.”
“Julie Greenberg?”
He shook his head, irritated by the interrogation and its implication that sweet-smiling Meg was tolerant of his friendships with other women, as if a couple of weekends in his apartment had made her a privileged person.
“I know! That sexy grad student you do research with.”
“Sarah Jordan? She has never—”
“Stupid — I know! I’m bugging you. She’s a man-hater. Everyone knows that.” Meg sighed. “Ninety-nine girls in a hundred would give their right arms to work with Don Rigden, and who gets him? Miss One Hundred! It’s a gas, a real gas. Say, you weren’t having lunch with her, were you?”
“If you want to know, Miss Jordan spent this morning somewhere in a burned-out building in the East Village observing spiders.”
“Ugh.” She shivered. “Nasty.”
“Dangerous.”
Her eyes widened. “Poisonous ones?”
“The buildings, I mean. They’re unsafe. There could be an accident.”
“I guess she knows she’s taking a chance.”
“I told her myself.”
“You did? Hey, I think you really go for this chick.”
“I’d have said the same to you, or anyone else. I work with the woman. A simple observation about safety isn’t like making a pass, you know.” He was increasingly irritated by Meg, which was sad, because she could be charming and adult. Not many equaled her in bed.
“It’s all in the way it’s done, honey,” she told him. “Okay, case closed. I obviously caught you at a bad time. Will I see you before the weekend?”
“I’ll be around.”
She flushed, but she deserved no better.
He relented enough to tell her he had had lunch with Professor Berlin and the dean. “I wasn’t baiting you. Imagine how it would have sounded if I had told you right off.”
“You are moving in exalted circles. Can I inquire what it was about?”
“Sure. It’s no secret. Some people from TV will be visiting our very own Henry Hudson University next week. I’ll be meeting them.”
“Wow! Like Barbara Walters?”
“Just some guy called Laz who makes science documentaries. I don’t get to see the tube too often, but I was told he had a series running on NBC last winter. Something about human aggression.”
“I heard about it. What’s he coming here for?”
“Guess I’ll find out Tuesday. For Jerry Berlin, it’s the Department of Ecology at the top of the Nielsen ratings, no less. Mr. Laz may have other ideas.”
They had reached the revolving door to the Department. He turned and glanced at the clock tower. He had less than two minutes to end this conversation. He didn’t intend to keep Sarah Jordan waiting. If he were late for their meeting, it was a sure thing she would have chosen this time to be there punctually.
He raised a hand toward Meg’s hair. She looked surprised, then swayed a fraction closer.
“Der fliegende Sommer,” he said.
“Sounds pretty. What does it mean?”
“‘The flying summer’ — the name Germans give to those minute spiders that use their threads to go kiting through space. You had one on your hair.” He opened his hand and showed her.
“My God!” She jerked away and dipped her head, raking it frantically with her fingers. “I hate spiders. They terrify me. Kill it, Don. Please kill it!”
He brought his hands together, allowing the spider to escape covertly between his fingers. “Gone.”
Meg straightened and tried to tidy her hair. “Sorry — I can’t stand them.” She was embarrassed now.
“There are prettier things around,” Don said to help her. “You okay now?”
“Thanks, I’m fine. See you.”
“Sure.” He went to find Sarah.
After nearly two hours there was a development on the web. From her recess in the brickwork the female put out a foreleg and tested the signal thread like a concert violinist. The grouped pinpoints of red that were her eyes glinted out of the shadow. Then, in a movement of electrifying speed, she darted to the center of the web and froze there. It vibrated from end to end.