“Not as good as the Bronx Zoo. Why not go there?”
“Insurance. Zoos have all kinds of restrictions. I figured if you people would cooperate, I’d have a better opportunity to get the shots I want.”
Clearly Jerry had already given Laz the run of the department, but that didn’t stop Don from expressing reservations.
“Most of our spiders are being used in long-term ecological experiments, Mr. Laz—”
“Greg to you, Don. Listen, I don’t want to foul up your research program. I thought maybe you would have some spiders you were not working with at this time. For my purpose, the larger the better.”
“What would you want to do with them?”
Laz fingered his beard and grinned amiably. “I’m glad you asked. This is just an idea of mine, but I’d like to see if we could work it out somehow. Did you see the early James Bond movies?”
The question surprised Don. “Who hasn’t?”
“Exactly. Everyone and his brother has seen them sometime. Myself, I’ve seen them all three or four times. That’s the result of too many long-haul jet flights. Don, what I’m saying is this: the shot everyone remembers is Sean Connery waking in the night to find a tarantula crawling up his arm. He has to lie dead-still while it creeps across his chest. Remember? Then he leaps up and beats it to death. I figure it would make an impact if we could re-create that scene — but with a difference. When the tarantula is nicely on its way, the guy puts out his hand for it, picks the thing up, sits up, and tells us spiders needn’t scare people at all. What do you say — do you buy it?”
“I guess it’s visually dramatic,” Don said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“You have tarantulas in your lab?”
“The name ‘tarantula’ is generic for any of the larger mygalomorph spiders from the tropics. We have some that I guess would meet your requirements.”
Laz grinned. “Big and hairy. You’ve got the picture, Don.”
“You came to the right people.” Jerry beamed.
“There’s another thing,” said Laz. “Don, I want to ask you to appear on my show. I’d like you to do the Sean Connery bit”
Don laughed. “You’re kidding. You need an actor for that.”
“I’ve never used an actor yet,” said Laz. “I happen to know you don’t mind handling spiders, because I’ve already asked Jerry. That’s why I wanted to meet you. All you need do is sit up and say something reassuring about spiders. There’s a fee for this, of course.”
“Sorry. Not interested.”
“You’re not? What’s the problem, Don?”
“Look, I’m an ecologist, not a circus performer. Plenty of people don’t object to handling spiders. Why don’t you ask someone else?”
Jerry pushed his coffee cup aside. There was a hard edge to his voice. “Just a minute. Let’s not rush this. Greg, I assume you will run the usual credits at the end of each program, listing organizations that cooperated in the making of the film?”
“Of course, Jerry.”
“And you would probably list this department?”
“Emphatically.”
“Thanks.” Jerry turned to face Don. “Listen, I hope I don’t have to spell out to you what this could do in promoting our work. We’re talking about a series commissioned by one of the major networks. Millions will see it. You’ll be introduced as a doctoral candidate at this university, this department.”
“Yes, but you heard what he wants me to do. Christ, I hope we aren’t that desperate for publicity.”
“Are you questioning the way I run this department? Because if you are—”
“I’m simply saying that I can’t see how this relates to my research.”
Without raising his voice, Jerry said, “The hell with your research.” He turned away and put his hand firmly on Laz’ s forearm. “Be assured of our full cooperation, Greg. This is a project we’ll be proud to be associated with. Now, if you have time, I’d like you to look over the department, meet the inmates — the eight-legged ones, that is.”
“Jerry, that’s a nice offer, but not now. I’ll tell you why. I have a small production team — two cameramen in particular — who will want to check everything out before we start shooting. You people are in for a bellyful of TV. I make it a rule to keep the disruption to a minimum, so, if it’s okay with you, I’ll do the tour later in the week with my team.” He carefully refolded his napkin and placed it on the table. “Besides, I sense that you gentlemen have things to discuss.”
Over the weekend, Meg Kellaway had an illuminating discussion with Nancy Lim, who had the room opposite. Serene and self-composed, Nancy was her opposite in more ways than one. Before this, they had sometimes exchanged a few civil words in the corridor, no more. Nancy had been born in Hong Kong, lived most of her life in the Bronx, and was majoring in mathematics, and that was all Meg knew.
This Saturday afternoon, a time when the dormitory practically emptied as students went out shopping or to the movies, the air-conditioning was shut down for maintenance work. The noise made it impossible to study inside, so Meg took her file to the nearest lawn. She knew she would get no work done in direct sunlight, so she had joined Nancy on the one shaded bench in sight, under an elm tree. As it turned out, she did not open the file. Nancy launched into a series of penetrating questions, establishing that Meg had no date for the weekend and was at a loss to sustain a steady relationship with the guy she most liked to be with, Don Rigden.
Meg found herself confiding in Nancy some of her innermost hopes and fears. People were always saying she was transparent, but that wasn’t true. Because she was an extrovert and talked easily, it didn’t mean she told the world everything. Yet Nancy’s questions drew confidences from her that she had scarcely admitted to herself. They were precise, direct questions and they seemed to be leading somewhere helpful, so she answered them.
Yes, she had gone bananas over Don the night she saw him dance at the Amnesty International party last year. It was physical at first, a strange taste in her mouth, a weakness in the legs, a raising of her body temperature. An urge to touch him had overpowered her. Before the end of the evening she had joined the crush at the bar and brushed past him simply to gratify the impulse.
No, she doubted if he had noticed; her purpose was to indulge, not advertise herself. But in the weeks that followed, she had externalized her feelings and joined the pack of Don Rigden’s female pursuers.
Had she got to know him personally? Nancy asked. Christ, yes. And was the man equal to his dancing? Meg answered that he was proud and brilliant and articulate. And unattainable? Meg laughed lightly and said she had spent two weekends in his apartment. Then, was he disappointing as a lover? On the contrary: he was sensational. In that case, what exactly was the problem? The problem was that five weeks had gone by and Meg had taken every opportunity to signal her devotion to Don, but he had not invited her back. She was desperately afraid she would lose him. Was he making it with someone else? Meg thought not. Was there anyone else he wanted? How could she tell? Was there anyone he had denied wanting? Meg pondered the question for a moment and said there was only one who had come up in conversation, a girl he worked with, called Sarah Jordan. But she definitely wasn’t Don’s type.
Nancy’s mathematical training showed in the dazzling clarity of her thought. As lovers, all the men in the world fall into seven categories, she told Meg. Don, whom she knew (who at the university didn’t?), was in Category Four. Sally did not disclose the character of Categories One to Three or Five to Seven, but she said a lot about Four. Four was the Peacock. Superior and self-aware, the Peacock lived in the satisfying knowledge that he could, when he chose, devastate everyone in sight with a brilliant exhibition. The greatest actors, athletes, artists, and singers were unquestionably Peacocks. The world admired and envied them. Women worshiped them. Yet it was well to note that many came up against problems in everyday life. They were prone to unhappy relationships, erratic behavior, and alcoholism. For a Peacock, when he is not displaying his tail feathers, is a negligible creature.