On, Off

Printer’s ink?

“I wish I could help you more,” she said a little later, “but I really can’t ever remember seeing one of those bags. Nor have I ever visited the first floor, except for the elevator foyer.”

“Who are your friends?” he asked.

“Sonia Liebman in the O.R. No one else, really.”

“Not Miss Dupre or Miss Vilich on your own floor?”

“That pair?” she asked scornfully. “They’re too busy feuding to notice my existence.”

Well, well, a useful item of information at last!

Who next? Dupre, he decided, and knocked on her door. She had the southeast corner room, which meant windows on two sides, one looking over the city, the other looking south across the misty harbor. Now why hadn’t the Prof grabbed it? Or didn’t he trust himself not to waste time looking at a gorgeous view? Miss Dupre, who was definitely not gorgeous, also had enough steel, he judged, to resist what lay outside her windows.

She rose from her desk to tower over him, something she clearly enjoyed doing. A dangerous hobby, madam. You too can be cut down to size. But you’re very clever, and very efficient, and very observant; they’re all there in your beautiful eyes.

“What brought you to the Hug?” he asked, sitting down.

“A green card. I used to be a deputy administrator in one of England’s regional health care areas. I had responsibility for all the research facilities in the area’s various hospitals and red-brick universities.”

“Uh – red-brick universities?”

“The ones they send the working-class students to – my sort. We don’t get into Oxford or Cambridge, which are not red brick, even when their new buildings are.”

“What don’t you know about this place?” he asked.

“Very little.”

“How about brown paper dead animal bags?”

“Your inexplicable fixation upon dead animal bags has been noticed by many more than me, but none of us have any idea what their significance may be, though I can guess. Why not tell me all the truth, Lieutenant?”

“Just answer my questions, Miss Dupre.”

“Then ask me one.”

“Do you ever see the dead animal bags?”

“Of course. As the business manager, I see everything. The consignment before the last one consisted of an inferior product, which led me to go into the matter exhaustively,” said Miss Dupre. “However, as a usual event I don’t see them at all, especially when occupied by a corpse.”

“At what hour do Cecil Potter and Otis Green finish work?”

“Three in the afternoon.”

“Does everybody know that?”

“Naturally. From time to time it leads to complaints from a researcher – they sometimes assume that the whole world exists to service their needs.” Her pale brows flew up. “My answer to them is to say that Mr. Potter and Mr. Green work animal care hours. The circadian rhythms of animals like attention within three or four hours after sunrise. Evenings matter less, provided they have been well serviced with food and clean premises.”

“What other jobs does Otis do apart from animal care?”

“Mr. Green’s day is largely taken up by his duties in the upstairs animal rooms; his other duties are not terribly demanding. He does the heavy lifting, maintenance of light fixtures, and the disposal of hazardous wastes. It might surprise you to know that female technicians ask Mr. Green to fetch them cylinders of gas. We used to let the girls move their own until a full cylinder was accidentally knocked over and the pressurized contents escaped. No harm was done, but if the gas had not been an inert one -” She looked rueful. “There are also times when one of the researchers works with substances giving off gamma radiation. That requires the erection of barriers consisting of lead bricks – very heavy.”

“I’m surprised that in this Hilton of a place everything is not piped in or laid on.”

She rose to her feet to tower. “Have you anything more to ask me, sir?”

“No. Thanks for your time.”

How do I get on the right side of her? he wondered as he walked up the hall to Tamara Vilich’s office. She’s a fount of information that I need badly.

The Prof’s secretary’s office had a door that directly communicated with his own office, Carmine noted as he entered.

“Do you realize,” Tamara Vilich said with a touch of acid in her voice, “that leaving us until last has created considerable inconvenience? I am late for an appointment.”

“The penalties of power,” Carmine said, not sitting. “You know, I’ve heard more stilted language and technical jargon today than I usually hear in months? I’m inconvenienced too, Miss Vilich. No breakfast, no lunch, and so far no dinner.”

“Then get on with it! I have to go!”

Desperation in her voice? Interesting. “Do you ever see the dead animal bags, ma’am?”

“No, I don’t.” She looked fretfully at her watch. “Damn!”

“Ever?”

“No, never!”

“Then you can keep your appointment, Miss Vilich. Thanks.”

“I’m too late!” she cried in despair. “Too late!”

But she was gone, running, before Carmine could knock on the communicating door.

The Prof was looking more worried than he had that morning, maybe, thought Carmine, because nothing’s happened since then to soothe his anxieties or satisfy his curiosity.

“I will have to inform the Board of Governors,” Smith said before Carmine had a chance to speak.

“Board of Governors?”

“This is a privately endowed institution, Lieutenant, that is supervised from on high by a board. You might say that we all have to sing for our suppers. The generosity of the Board of Governors is in direct proportion to the amount of genuinely original and significant work the Hug produces. Our reputation is second to none, the Hug has indeed made a difference. Now this – this – this singularity happens! A random event that has the power to affect the quality of our work drastically.”

“A random event, Professor? I don’t call murder random. But let’s leave that aside for a moment. Who’s on this board?”

“William Parson himself died in 1952. He left two nephews, Roger Junior and Henry Parson, in control of his empire. Roger Junior is Governor-in-Chief of the Board. Henry is his deputy. Their sons Roger III and Henry Junior are also Board members. The fifth Parson member is Richard Spaight, director of the Parson Bank and the son of William Parson’s sister. President Mawson MacIntosh of Chubb is a Governor, as is the Dean of Medicine, Dr. Wilbur Dowling. I, as Chair Professor, am the last,” said Smith.

“That gives the Parson contingent a strong majority. They must crack the whip hard.”

Smith looked astonished. “No, indeed! Anything but! As long as we produce the kind of brilliant work we have done for fifteen years, we have a virtual carte blanche. William Parson’s will was very specific. ‘Pay peanuts and you get monkeys’ was one of his favorite maxims. Therefore we do not pay peanuts at the Hug, and our researchers are infinitely brighter than the macaques downstairs. Hence my concern over this singularity, Lieutenant. Half of me insists it is a dream.”

“Professor, the body is real and the situation is real. But I want to digress for a moment.” Carmine’s face assumed a look that most who saw it found disarming. “What’s going on between Miss Dupre and Miss Vilich?”

Smith’s long face puckered. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes.” No need to mention Hilda Silverman.

“For the first nine years of the Hug’s existence, Tamara was both my secretary and the business manager. Then she married. I assure you that I know absolutely nothing about the husband, except that after a few months he left her. During the time they were together, her work suffered terribly. With the result that the Board of Governors decided that we needed a qualified person to head our business affairs.”

“Was Miss Vilich’s husband a Hug-ite?”