My jeans and T-shirt were the right choice, as I fitted right in. No one paid the slightest attention as I wandered along, snapping photos and recording any comments that came to mind. Actually, I felt a bit self- conscious recording myself. I never knew quite what tone to take. I was the only person who would hear my words, but I couldn't get the right breezy, informative quality. To myself, I always sounded like a dork.
There was a dynamic atmosphere at UCLA that lifted my spirits. Scaffolding here and there demonstrated that much building and refurbishing was going on, but it wasn't just that. The whole campus was alive with people thinking, things growing, changes to the world being made. I felt a pang that I hadn't gone to university myself. Maybe I could have made some difference, like so many of these students and faculty had, or were going to in the future. How would that feel, to be the first at something?
I sat down on a stone bench to consider what I might have studied, if I had gone on to higher education. I'd aced English at Wollegudgerie High, so maybe something in the literature line. Then there was the environment and ecology, because I loved everything to do with nature. Or perhaps something closer to hard science…
'Excuse me.'
I looked up at a good-looking bloke who obviously knew how good-looking he was: black hair, good tan, soulful dark eyes. He gave me an oily smile. Perfect white teeth, naturally. 'Are you alone?'
I cast a glance at the empty stone bench. 'No,' I said. 'I have a row of invisible friends.'
With one slick move he was sitting beside me. 'A sense of humor, I like that. By the way, my name's Clifford Van Horden III, but those close to me'-pause to widen smile-'call me Cliff.'
'G'day,' I said. 'I'll have to ask you to move. You're squashing one of my friends.'
Cliff's smile wavered for a moment, then he chuckled. 'Very funny. Love your accent. What is it? English?'
This was a mortal insult. English people hated being labeled Australian as much as Australians hated being labeled English. Something to do with the Aussies' convict background.
'If you don't mind,' I said, 'I'm from Oz.'
Cliff's smile definitely sagged. I could see from his expression that he was wondering if his luck was bad, and he'd been trying to pick up a total drongo. He recovered to nod knowingly.
I pointed to the koala on the front of my T-shirt. 'Oz is the diminutive form of Australia,' I said.
He examined my bosom. I had nowhere near Fran's breastworks, but what I did have Cliff seemed to appreciate. 'So you're an Aussie, are you?'
Stone the crows, this bloke was dense. And he couldn't pronounce Aussie properly either. 'It's
'Great, great. But you haven't given me your name.'
I checked my watch. Yerks, I had to get moving, or I'd be late for my lunch with Pen Braithwaite and Professor Wasinsky.
I got to my feet. 'Sorry, Clifford Van Horden III,' I said, 'but I have to leave you.'
'But I still don't know your name.'
'Call me Judy,' I said. 'I'll leave it to you to guess the rest of it.'
The Ackerman Union was full of noise-chattering people, clattering plates, music blaring. I followed instructions and found myself in front of a heated glass counter containing many pizzas, all looking mouthwateringly tasty. Mind you, they'd have to be good to equal Gino's Wollegudgerie Pizzeria.
When Pen Braithwaite had suggested meeting here, I'd asked if Professor Yarrow might see us together and later wonder why. She'd chortled at the suggestion. 'Jack Yarrow be seen dead in a student union? Hah!' Apparently the chances were a snowball in hell's.
'Over here!' bellowed a familiar voice from a nearby table. Pen Braithwaite waved wildly. She'd pulled her hair back in a ponytail, but it seemed to have a life of its own, as many springy tendrils had escaped. She rather overwhelmed the man sitting beside her. He had a soft, cuddly body and wore a tattered brown cardigan. His face was long and amiable, reminding me of a particularly mild-mannered sheep.
'You've got to beat back the hordes around here to even get a sniff at a table,' Pen declared, gesturing at the milling students. 'Lunch is on me-no arguments. You and Rube hold the fort while I join the queue. Pizzas all round, eh?'
She marched off, then suddenly about-turned and marched right back. 'You're not a vegetarian, are you?'
'Not lately.'
'Good. Vegetarians are often quite odd. Perhaps you've noticed that.' She marched off again.
'G'day, Dr. Wasinsky,' I said. 'I'm Kylie Kendall, your pretend graduate student.'
Dr. Wasinsky shook my hand. His fingers were soft, but his grip was firm. 'I go by Rube, no exceptions, even for respectful graduate students.' His voice was light and melodious, and he sounded amused.
I slid onto an extremely heavy and uncomfortable metal chair. 'Do you sing?' I asked.
He blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. 'Why yes, in a choir. It's my secret vice.'
'Tenor?'
'Indeed.'
A burst of noise, overwhelming the general cacophony, erupted near the pizza area. Apparently an impatient student had been incautious enough to cut into the queue waiting to be served. Normally nothing much would have happened, I imagined, but this ferrety bloke had chosen Pen, perhaps thinking she wouldn't protest like someone younger would. Big mistake.
The ferrety student slunk off, Pen sent a triumphant look in our direction, and Rube said fondly, 'She's a force of nature, Pen is.'
'She is dynamic,' I said diplomatically.
'Jack Yarrow hates her. He's a detestable individual, but I can hardly blame him. Pen takes every opportunity to mock the man, and Yarrow cannot abide being laughed at.'
'No sense of humor?'
For a sheep, Rube suddenly looked quite fierce. 'No sense of humor, no sense of honor, no sense of what's right and proper. That's why I was glad to offer my help. Yarrow's ridden roughshod over too many people. He deserves to be brought down a peg or two.'
'If I can prove he plagiarized Oscar Braithwaite's quokka studies, what will happen to Professor Yarrow?'
Rube threw up his plump hands. 'In a just world, it would impact negatively on Yarrow's reputation, but it isn't a just world, at least not in academia.'
He leaned over the table, his expression severe. 'You've heard of the recent accusations against respected historians? That they stole others' work and passed it off as their own?'
I vaguely recalled reading something about this, so I murmured 'Hmm' encouragingly.
'So what happens?' Rube went on. 'There's a brouhaha for a while. The academic in question wrings his hands and says lax attribution is the problem, not deliberate plagiarism-no, of course not!' He sat back in his chair, disgusted. 'And Yarrow will brush it off the same way, and go on as before.'
He brooded on this for a moment, then brightened to add, 'But of course, his colleagues will know the truth. He'll be subtly damaged but damaged nonetheless.'
'Pizza delivery!' Pen Braithwaite approached with a tray held high. She slapped down on the table a large plate absolutely loaded with pizza slices, then plunked down three red cans of Coke, paper serviettes and drinking straws. 'Coke OK, Kylie? You don't go for the Diet stuff, do you?'
'Crikey, no. I drink Coke-Coke.'
Pen whacked me on the shoulder hard. I'd check for a bruise later. 'That's the ticket! None of that chemical muck.' She sat down heavily, and snatched a slice of pizza. 'Dig in, you two, or there'll be nothing left.'
She wasn't kidding. The contents of the plate disappeared fast. Of course, Pen had a large body to fuel, but even so, I had to admire her ability to eat rapidly but quite neatly.
The last slice demolished, she sat back and grinned at me. Indicating Rube with a jerk of her head, she said, 'What do you think of my man, eh?'
Rube got a bit pink. 'Pen…'
'Dynamite,' said Pen appreciatively. 'And I'm an expert in the field.'
Hell's bells! She had the expression of one about to fill in graphic details about her and Rube, details I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear. 'About Professor Yarrow…' I said.
