They could be monitored, fitted with response triggers to check anyone asking a certain type of question or adjusted to file the details of all making inquiries. That risk he preferred to avoid.
As Lahee fell silent Dumarest said, 'Thank you. You've been most helpful and I appreciate it.'
'Glad to hear it.' The man moved the scatter of books and papers before him, gathering them into a neat pile, the sheet he had marked close to one hand. 'Would you say half the booth fee was fair?'
'It seems reasonable.' Dumarest looked at the books, noting their age and condition. The covers were frayed, the spines cracked and gaping, pages obviously loose-rarities here on Ascelius where there was a vested interest in the elimination of old textbooks and manuals. Undegraded only because of their owners' care. 'May I?' He reached for them before Lahee could object. 'If you're hungry eat,' he suggested. The food he'd bought was still untouched on his plate. 'A bonus.'
'You'll be careful?' Lahee was anxious despite the hunger which drove him to the food. 'Those things are my living.'
'I'll be careful.'
Dumarest gently turned the pages. Only one book held anything of real interest, but he scanned it as casually as he had the rest. A list of names, subjects and the colleges at which they had been associated dating from some fifteen years earlier to four years from the present. Most of those listed would still be teaching, some could be dead, one in particular certainly was.
Dumarest looked at the name, the college at which the man had taught, one of the answers he had come to find.
Clyne was old, matched only by Higham, beaten only by Schreir. An equal partner in the Tripart which formed the acme of scholastic renown on Ascelius. The original building had long since been overlaid by massive extensions; the rooms, dormitories, laboratories and halls spreading and rearing to form towering pinnacles surmounted by the proudly arrogant flags of emerald blazoned with a scarlet flame. A throbbing hive of industry with teeming students studying as they slept and as they ate on a rigid, three shifts a day schedule. A machine designed to instill knowledge and to set the stamp of achievement with acknowledged degrees.
At times Myra Favre thought of it as a thing alive; the data-stuffed computers the brain, the atomic power plant the heart, the students and faculty the corpuscles flowing through the arteries of corridors, the pulsing nodes of chambers. An analogy born from her early study of medicine before she had realized her lack of suitability for the field, just as she had later learned that physics was not for her, nor geology, nor astronomy. She had wasted years before she had found her niche in administration and friends and good fortune had established her in her present position.
'Myra?' Heim Altaian smiled from the screen of her communicator. 'Just an informal word. Convenient?'
A shake of the head and he would break the connection to wait for her return call. Returning his smile she said, 'Go ahead.'
'Just thought we could discuss a few things. How are you on available space?'
'Short as always. Why do you ask?'
'I've an idea which could expand your potential. Registrations are low on some of our non-industrial subjects and I thought we could arrange a mutually beneficial exchange. Higher number takes over the smaller. Agreed?'
'In principle, yes.' She maintained her smile. 'You know I'm always willing to cooperate, Heim. Why don't you send over a list of classes and numbers and I'll run a comparison check before making a final decision. Of course you won't send me any deadbeats and debtors, will you?'
'Only honest to God paid-up students, Myra. You know you can trust me.'
As she could trust a predator, she thought as the screen went dead, her smile dying with the image. Altaian would unload all the rubbish he could, and she would do the same to him if given the chance-classes which had proved to be failures, instructors not worth their salt, students who hovered on the edge of debt. Always it was the same after a new intake and always there were problems which had to be solved one way or another. A part of her job was to solve them. Another was to insure the financial profitability of the university. Fail on either and Clyne would have a vacancy for someone to fill her place.
'Madam Favre?' Her secretary appeared, a young, well-made girl with a thick tress of golden hair draped over one shoulder. 'You asked for a report on the latest enrollments.'
'Bring it in.'
The resume was as she had expected-high enrollments in the usual courses, less on the non-industrial, a few hopeless subjects which must be pruned or compromises made. Pursing her lips she studied the details. Professor Koko would have to face reality or subsidize his classes from his own pocket, and knowing the man, she could guess at the reaction her ultimatum would bring. Another argument she could do without and there would be more if she agreed to Altman's suggestion and switched students from Clyne to Schrier. Yet the books had to be balanced and no dead weight could be tolerated.
Had she failed?
The fear was always present and each time after a new intake came the moment of truth. If student enrollment was low in certain subjects then she was wrong to have agreed they should be included in the curriculum. If tutors proved unpopular, the same. Too many mistakes and she would have demonstrated her failure to make valid judgments. One too many and her career would be in ruins. And she was too old to start again.
Unconsciously her hands rose to her face, fingers searching for the telltale signs of flaccidity she knew must soon become obvious. As yet she looked as she had ten years ago but the years were passing and each worked its measure of destruction. In another ten years visitors would cease to regard her as a woman almost too young to hold her responsible position. In another twenty they might regard her as too old.
'Madam?' The secretary again and Myra almost snapped her irritation before she remembered to smile. The girl meant well and it wasn't her fault that she owned such an attractive face and figure. Not her fault that she was young. 'Doctor Boyce asks you to call.'
'Make the connection.' Myra waited, fuming at the ridiculous protocol which demanded that she, the inferior, contact the Dean, the superior, even though his secretary had made the initial contact. Why the hell couldn't he have just rung direct? She arranged her face as he looked from the screen, her smile a blend of pleasure and deference. 'Dean! This is a pleasure!'
His smile was as mechanical as her own. 'One shared, Myra. We don't talk often enough but you know how it is. At times I wish we could find some method of extending the day. To be brief I've been checking the enrollments and I'm not too happy. You have the matter in hand, of course?'
'Of course, Dean.' Inwardly she wondered who had been carrying tales. The secretary? It was possible-that baby smile could mask a scheming brain. 'It is merely a matter of simple adjustment. In a few days, I assure you, the stockholders will have no possible grounds for complaint.'
She saw by his expression she had hit the target, but he was quick to refute such mundane considerations. 'My concern is for the academic side, Myra. The standards of Clyne must be maintained. We want no stupid nonsense such as other establishments indulge in simply to attract large enrollments. Reuben, for example, with their one-semester guaranteed-degree course in anatomical manipulation. Or Professor Pell who-' He broke off, remembering, fearful of saying too much. Higham was of the Tripart and Pell taught in Higham. 'I won't go into detail, my dear, but you can appreciate my concern. I just thought I'd let you know the atmosphere, so to speak.'
'Thank you, Dean.'
She was still being formal despite his attempt to get on a more friendly footing and he was old and wise enough in his craft to sense that he could have pressed too hard too soon, yielded too quickly to the promptings of those who had no interest in the university but the profits it brought them.
'I knew you'd understand, my dear.' His smile was one of fatherly concern. 'The pressure of work-how well I know it! Perhaps you should take a short rest. A few days away from the grind if you can manage it. Sometimes a break enables one to obtain a fresh point of view.'
'Yes,' she agreed. 'I guess you're right. Thank you for the advice.' Her smile told him all was forgiven. 'And thank you, Kevork, for your concern and interest.'
He could shove that right where it would hurt the most, she thought as the screen died. The interfering old bastard! Had it been her secretary? Cleo was ambitious but had she the ability to be so guileful? Had it been
