Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (26 page)

 
          
"Katie's
preg, so I didn't want her out in the streets today. Good thing, too. The pigs
were vicious."

 
          
Colin
wondered why Thorne hadn't called Claire to bail him out if she was already
involved with the demonstrators, then decided he must not want to implicate
her. Asking a policeman's wife to come and bail out a hippie peacenik was
something that might be embarrassing for Peter. Thome's sense of tact surfaced
at the oddest moments.

 
          
"Congratulations.
I don't suppose you two would think of getting married," Colin said in a
tone of resignation.

 
          
"Why
should I marry Kate in particular?" Thorne seemed honestly surprised.
"I
—
ouch,"
he said, squirming around in the seat.

 
          
"Are
you sure you don't need a hospital?" Colin said.

 
          
"Claire's
a nurse," Thorne reminded him.

 
          
There
was silence for a while as Colin drove toward the free clinic on College.

           
"You can't just assume the
government is the good guys forever," Thome said after a few minutes.
"You've already been presented with the evidence. You have a
responsibility
—
"

 
          
"You're
a fine one to lecture me on responsibility," Colin said in exasperation.
"You claim to have the ultimate secrets of life and death
—
and you're prostituting
those arts to make yourself into a media circus. No one takes you seriously,
Thome
—
haven't
you noticed? For all that you claim to venerate it, you're turning the occult
into a sideshow, a joke."

 
          
"People
remember jokes, Colin," Thorne answered. "Nobody listens these days
unless you've got clowns and dancing girls. I'd rather give birth to a living
tradition than be curator to the mummy of a dead one."

 
          
Is
that what you think of us?
Colin thought. Was that what Jonathan had
thought
—
why
he'd gone to follow Thorne instead of setting his feet upon the Path?

 
          
"Come
on, Colin," Thorne said coaxingly, when Colin said nothing. "Join us.
Or oppose us. But do
something.
Do you really want to spend the rest of
your life being the psychic advisor to the Berkeley Bunco Squad, unfrocking
table-tippers for fun and profit? You're protecting people who don't deserve
protection. If they're gullible, fleece them."

 
          
Thorne's
words struck uncomfortably close to home, raising the specter of the Thule
Group once more in Colin's mind. Toller Hasloch had been the first to say there
was a war on for the soul of
America
, and Colin believed that
more deeply than Thorne could ever know. But he knew that if he spoke of his
fears, Thorne would dismiss them as Old Aeon, not worth anyone's trouble.
Sometimes the young could be as blind as the old.

 
          
"Social
Darwinism doesn't make a very good match with antiwar protest," Colin said
irritably. "There are a lot of problems in this country, but its business
is still to protect the weak and ensure justice for all. I don't think I'm prepared
to toss out two hundred years of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights just
because you say the government is corrupt."

 
          
"Isn't
it?" Thorne asked cryptically. "You ought to check for yourself. Keep
up with your old war buddies a little more, my friend."

 
          
Colin
didn't bother to pursue the remark: he was too exasperated. Fortunately, they
arrived at their destination before either of them had time to say anything
more.

 
          
The
Bellflower Clinic was one of the new so-called free clinics, which existed to
provide basic medical care to an ever-growing rootless population of love
children and transients. Patients paid whatever they could afford
—
or didn't pay at all
—
and operating expenses were
covered by grants and donations. Claire volunteered her time here for a few
hours each week.

 
          
Blessing
his luck, Colin found a parking space behind the clinic. Before Thorne could
even get the door open, Katherine Jourdemayne came running through the back
door toward him.

 
          
Thorne
had said Katherine was expecting a child, but her figure was still as slim and
girlish as ever. She flung her arms around Thorne and hugged him fiercely, as
though she'd never expected to see him again. Thorne winced, but did not push
her away.

 
          
"Are
you going to be all right?" Colin asked, coming around to Thorne's side of
the car.

 
          
Thorne
was leaning on Katherine. Claire, who had followed Katherine more slowly, reached
them now and inspected Thorne's face critically.

 
          
"Hello,
Colin. Hello Thorne. The victor home from the wars, I see," she said
tartly. "Does it hurt much?"

 
          
Thorne
smiled his lopsided grin at her. "You know what they say, Claire."

 
          
"Well,
come inside," Claire Moffatt said. "We'll get you cleaned up."
She glanced questioningly at Colin.

 
          
"I
think I'll head on back to the campus. I've had enough excitement for one
day," he said. And if he stayed, he was sure to argue with Thorne again,
an argument neither of them could win.

 
          
But
as he drove back toward the campus, Thorne's words would not leave his mind.
Was
he doing all that he could
—
and should
—
be doing to further the Light in this world? Though he took
pleasure in teaching, he was not teaching the things he had been taught. He
assisted those who were already on the Path. He did not place their feet there.

 
          
But
how could that be wrong? Colin knew
—
no one better
—
that there were shades and
degrees of Tightness, but a sense of his own lack was a far cry from embracing
Thorne's accusation that he was doing nothing.

 
          
There
were no easy answers, Colin thought as he sat down at his desk again and
contemplated his paperwork. The silver sword paperweight gleamed from atop a
stack of files. No easy answers
—
and no quick ones. Impatience was one of the surest routes
into the Shadow.

 
          
He
pulled out his pipe and fiddled with it for a few moments. Once it was well
alight, he picked up the paper at the top of the stack and began to read.

 
          
It
was hard to believe he'd lived here for five years, Colin thought idly, walking
up the steps of his bungalow a few hours later. The paperwork had been held at
bay for another week or so
—
there were times when he thought that the university would
be just as happy if he never taught a single student, so long as the paperwork
was all in order. And every year it seemed to increase.

 
          
Five
years
—
long
enough to put down roots, to come to love the Berkeley Hills and to begin to
understand its citizens' passionate worship of
San Francisco
. He was building a sound
career in academia, with life insurance, a pension plan, and all the rest. It
was security, of a sort. But was this really the shape he wanted his life to
take?

 
          
Colin
pulled the car into his driveway and parked. There were no easy answers, Colin
reminded himself yet again. And nothing that had to be dealt with urgently.
There was no need for him to take any action in haste.

 
          
He
walked into the house, pausing to retrieve his mail from the box beside the
door. There was a long cream-colored envelope from the Rhodes Group. They
wanted him to come to work for them
—
a friend of Claire's
consulted for them already, and Colin had met one of the directors at a seminar
a few years before.

 
          
It
was a tempting proposition, but he wouldn't reach nearly as many people
pursuing pure research for the Rhodes Group as he did teaching parapsychology
at
Berkeley
. And mainstream acceptance
of parapsychology was more likely to be achieved by academic affiliations than
through a small though well-respected consultancy.

 
          
If
he weren't just deluding himself that this was even possible. What difference
was there between "psychic" and "superstitious" in the
public mind? Colin shook his head, feeling suddenly bone-weary. He put the
letter aside to answer later.

 
          
There
were the usual litter of bills and solicitations in the rest of the mail, along
with a personal letter and one from the university.

 
          
He
took the two envelopes into the kitchen and set them on the counter, looking
around for the teakettle. The housekeeper had been here today, with the result
that the kitchen was formidably neat and Colin couldn't find anything.
Eventually he located what he wanted and turned back to the letters.

 
          
The
one from
Berkeley
was from the dean of
faculty's office. Colin tore the heavy envelope open, wondering why it hadn't
come in the interoffice mail.

 
          
He
scanned the dense academese through once, then reread it more slowly.

 
          
It
was a Notice of Intent to Censure. He was being condemned for his radical
(read: antiwar) activities as well as for teaching materials and presenting
views in his courses that ran counter to the expressed position of the board
—
whatever that might be this
week
—
as
well as potentially undermining the character of the students to whom the
university stood
in loco parentis.

 
          
It
seemed that General Ashwell's labors had borne fruit at last. There was to be a
hearing, at which Colin would be given the opportunity to respond to these
charges. Depending on the outcome of the hearing, the letter he held in his
hands would be placed in his personnel file ... or not. The date of the hearing
was next Wednesday, which gave him precious little time to prepare a case.

 
          
The
insistent whistling of the teakettle brought Colin back to the here and now. He
crumpled the letter angrily into a ball and flung it into the trash, but such a
gesture did not affect the facts. He supposed that tomorrow he'd have to start
asking around and find out what one did in these cases. The last complaint that
had gone into his file hadn't been conducted with quite this much ceremony.

 
          
Trying
to focus on the immediate, Colin poured his tea and took it into the living
room to drink. It was only then that he remembered the other letter and had to
go back into the kitchen to retrieve it.

 
          
It
was from Nathaniel Atheling. Colin's heart sank as he opened it, already
half-certain of what he would find. The Seal of the Lodge was embossed in
bright gold at the top of the folded sheet of vellum, and beneath it a few
brief words in Atheling's ornate Spencerian script.

 
          
Colin
was called to
London
, to attend a meeting of the
Inner Order.

 
          
Such
meetings were rarely convened; the last one had been over twenty years ago. The
Lodges worked independently and quietly, without either the internal politics
or the empire-building of some of the more public White Orders. For the Visible
Head of the Order to send out a summons of this sort meant that matters were
grave indeed. There was no question but that he must go at once.