Mars

trouble wherever it might arise.

'I think you owe Mr. Ferraro an apology,' said the dean, with a friendly smile.

Jamie said nothing. Ferraro said nothing.

'Your blue book is university property, you know. Technically speaking, you had no right to take it.'

Jamie’s throat felt tight and dry. 'I had a right to see what’s in it. I had a right to discuss it with my teacher.'

Nodding, the dean said, 'That’s why we’re here. To discuss the contents of your test. Mr. Ferraro, can you explain where this young man went wrong in his ideas about Othello?'

Slowly it dawned on Jamie that the dean had no intention of dealing with his 'theft.' Ferraro mumbled through a series of excuses about Jamie’s test; the gist of it was that Jamie had no appreciation for the work of Shakespeare.

After several minutes Ferraro ran out of words. The dean nodded again and put his smile back on. Folding his hands on his desktop, he said, 'I think we have a failure of communications here. Let me propose a compromise. Mr. Waterman can get credit for finishing the course without attending the remainder of the classes. Will that make you both happy?'

Ferraro glanced at Jamie, then looked away.

'What grade will I get?' Jamie asked.

'I think a gentleman’s C will do it,' the dean replied.

Jamie shook his head. 'That’ll pull down my GPA.'

The dean’s smile turned waxy. 'Your grade point average can survive a C, I think.'

'Considering your failing mark now,' Ferraro said, 'you ought to be grateful for a C.'

'I’m failing because you didn’t read my test.'

'That’s a lie!'

'Now, now,' said the dean soothingly. 'Mr. Waterman, if you’re unhappy with a C I’ll allow you to retake the course next semester. That’s as far as I intend to go.'

Jamie accepted the C only until the next election of student council members. For the first time in his life he had a cause: his own cavalier treatment by the faculty and administration. He had to open up to his fellow students, learn how to smile and greet them, learn how to listen to them as well as tell them his own story. His 'theft' became a campus cause celebre and easily swept him to a seat on the council. He hated every moment of the campaign, hated the false smiles and fake good cheer, hated shaking hands with people who had ignored him only a few weeks earlier.

But he gritted his teeth and endured it. And won.

Once on the student council, Jamie found that there were much more important problems to deal with than Ferraro. Student housing, the quality of the cafeteria food, student access to computer time — these were real and pressing problems for all. He forgot about Ferraro. Almost. He became the hardest-working member of the council.

In his senior year Jamie was elected president of the student council. When he learned that his most trusted friend was suffering through Ferraro’s course and that the midterm would again be on Othello, very quietly Jamie asked his friend to copy out his old Shakespeare blue book and hand it in as his own. The student received a B- plus. Jamie confronted Ferraro in his cramped, book-strewn office with the evidence. No one knew except the assistant professor, Jamie, and his student henchman.

Jamie’s old C was upgraded to a B-plus. He graduated with honors. All his friends congratulated him, but Jamie took no pleasure in his victory. The memory still troubled his dreams.

ROME

The meeting was raucous, almost chaotic. Six dozen of the world’s top scientists, representing disciplines in geology, biology, physics, chemistry, and astronomy, were behaving like six dozen unruly children.

Father DiNardo ran a hand over his shaved pate as he tried to close his ears to the din of the arguing voices. Emergency meeting indeed, he thought. This meeting is becoming an emergency in its own right. Not even Brumado himself can keep order in this crowd.

The meeting was taking place in an auditorium graciously offered to the Mars Project by the Italian Institute of Aeronautics. Heavy drapes were drawn across the windows of the big chamber, but DiNardo knew Rome so well that he could practically see through the drapery. The railroad terminal was across the Via Praetoriano, and beyond that monument of nineteenth-century architecture rose the tired old seven hills, with the ancient Forum and Colosseum hinting at the glory that was Rome. The Vatican was all the way on the other side of the huge city, as far away from the Institute of Aeronautics as possible.

DiNardo longed for the quiet of the Vatican. Even with tourists streaming through St. Peter’s, it would be quieter and more orderly than this near riot. But then, most of these men and women had interrupted their usual work to hurry to the Eternal City. DiNardo wondered how composed he would be if he had been suddenly called to an urgent meeting and had to spend nine or ten hours on an airplane and then more hours of sweaty rigor getting his baggage through customs.

He groaned inwardly as a florid-faced man, whose lapel badge identified him as a geologist from Canada, tried to outshout an intense young astronomer from Chile who had interrupted him.

Alberto Brumado, standing at the center of the long table that had been placed on the stage at the front of the auditorium, suddenly banged his fist on the table so hard that the six men and women flanking him on either side jumped with shock.

'You will both sit down,' Brumado shouted into the microphone before him. 'Sit down. Now!'

The room suddenly fell silent. The Chilean astronomer sank down into his chair. The florid geologist glared at him for a moment, then he sat down also.

Brumado ran a hand through his disheveled hair. 'Our tempers are overcoming our good sense,' he said, in a more normal tone. 'We will take a fifteen-minute break. When we return, I suggest that we each try to remember that we are men and women of science, not politicians or street hawkers. I will expect a rational discussion, with the normal rules of order and politeness to be strictly obeyed.'

Like sullen, guilty students the scientists filed out of the big auditorium. Leaders of their fields, all of them, DiNardo knew. World-class researchers. There were at least four Nobel Prize-winners in the group, by the priest’s informal count. The best of the best.

He headed for the men’s room, one flight down. He had to push his way past the crowd at the refreshment table, noting absently which nationalities were lining up for coffee, which for tea. The Americans went mostly for soft drinks, of course. With ice.

Sure enough, Valentin Grechko was already at one of the urinals. The Russian physicist had a reputation for drinking tea constantly and then racing for the toilet. DiNardo pretended to be finished as Grechko turned toward the sinks, zipping the fly of his dark blue trousers.

Grechko smiled with tea-stained teeth when he saw DiNardo. The two men bent over to wash their hands side by side. The priest saw in the mirror above his sink that he should have shaved before coming to this meeting. His jaw and skull were dark with stubble. Then he glanced at Grechko’s face.

Director of the Russian Space Research Institute, Grechko was well into his sixties, his sparse hair totally gray. The jacket of his dark suit seemed to hang on him, as if he had recently lost weight. Is he ill? DiNardo wondered. The quizzical little smile that Grechko always wore was still in place; he seemed to be bemused by the world constantly. Yet he had clawed his way to the top of the Russian scientific hierarchy, a member of their academy and head of the institute that directed their space efforts.

As they shouldered their way out of the men’s room Grechko asked, 'You have recovered fully from your surgery?'

'Oh yes,' said DiNardo, unconsciously running a hand across his side. 'As long as I am careful with my diet I am in fine condition.'

The Russian nodded. DiNardo noticed that their suits were almost the same shade. Except for my collar we might have gotten our outfits at the same place, he thought.