Mythology 101 (3 page)

“That’s physics,” Rick put in.

“Whatever,” said Keith. “Wise men discovered physics, right? The need for a better building to house books and study aids, and provide more room for their users, in my opinion, far outweighs the wishes of a few jocks for a fancier field house.”

“Very alliterative,” called Lloyd from the center section. He never took a side. There was some applause as Keith sat down. Rick grinned, and they both looked to the other side of the room. Carl rose to his feet.

“What about the kids that come here on athletic scholarships?” he demanded. “Don’t they get a voice?”

“Don’t they have to earn diplomas?” Keith asked, counterpointing his question. “Just like anyone on a Math scholarship, the idea was that by the one outstanding talent they displayed, they were awarded a sum of money to continue their education by being more deserving than anyone else with that talent. In the opinion of the judges, of course. Ask my mother how I missed out on the Rhodes Scholarship.” There were jeers.

“But I see what you’re asking, Carl,” Keith put on a reasoning expression that particularly irritated the other and Keith knew it. “Don’t they deserve to have a forum in which their particular talent can be brought to the attention of such people as football scouts?” He paused. “Well … no, not really.”

“What?” Carl sputtered, starting to speak. “Why not? It’s …”

Keith neatly cut him off. “The job of the college is to educate students and fit them out to seek their fortunes afterward. Having them available for scrutiny by scouts is a side benefit. Too bad there isn’t a place for kids who are not dumb, but not academically inclined, just to go and offer themselves for professional sports teams. Like theater auditions. As it is, this is the way the system works. Why should the academically inclined, for whom this campus really exists, suffer for the ten or so who will go on to earn six-figure salaries in pro ball?”

Rick poked him sharply in the ribs from behind with his toe, and Keith clamped his jaw shut, remembering too late that Rick was a P.E. major, and had hopes of one of those big breaks. “What Mr. Wizard here means, of course,” growled Rick, “is that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. To coin a phrase.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Carl asked sarcastically. “What you’re saying is that the athletes don’t deserve a good place to practice their skills. I disagree with you! You do need a particular place to do gymnastics or play football. The gym is too small. The pools leak. The lights are bad, and there aren’t enough of them. The old building needs to be replaced, and a modern one with good lights, good floors, good plumbing, has to be built.”

“Aha,” Keith crowed triumphantly, jumping up. “Old? You call a gymnasium only twelve years old, old? Gillington Library is a hundred and fourteen. It had a minor face lift in the forties, when there was a lot of new construction here, but not a thing since. Haven’t you ever heard the floor creak when you were looking for a book in the stacks, and wondered if it was going to collapse under you? Those of you who’ve been in the stacks for books, that is. The rest of you won’t care if the building moves,” a mischievously deferential bow to Rick, who had mentioned a quiet corner he and his girlfriend frequented. Dodging a kick this time, he went on. “If they ever have to make emergency structural repairs to Gillington in the middle of mid-terms, you’ll wish you had voted to renovate it. You can prevent that disaster by voting for the reconstruction now.”

Recognizing the need to rally newly awakened support, Rick swallowed his pride and exclaimed, “Think about it. I’m studying business, for the years after I don’t want to play soccer anymore.”

“Or can’t,” Carl put in.

“Watch it, Mueller,” Rick snapped, becoming serious. Carl acceded sullenly to the warning and fell silent.

“Where would the new library be built?” Francine Daubiner wanted to know. She was one of the undecided.

“The Dean says that it would be built on the foundations of the old one, just as the Sports Center would go up where the P.E. building is now.” Keith had all the facts handy in his notebook. “Neither one could cost more than three million dollars, nor less than one million. Dean Rolands insisted on a reasonable range for the project. The other structure would follow in three to six years, depending on need and availability of cash.”

“Part of that money would go for several computer terminals,” Venita said, after examining the list Keith had submitted to the secretary. “Sounds like they’ve got some other projects tucked in there.”

“All part of information retrieval,” Keith pointed out cheerily. “So, why don’t we make it offic …”

“Okay,” Lloyd stood up, cutting him off. “We don’t have enough people here for the vote, so it’ll have to wait. In two weeks, we’ll have a mandatory meeting, full Student Senate, and finalize what our recommendation to the Dean’s Council will be, and who gets to take it there.” Everyone groaned. “Now come on. Is there any other business? No? Well, then, I declare this meeting adjourned.…”

“Seconded,” Carl said, still glaring at Keith, but warily, because Rick was looming behind the skinny student. The gavel fell, and the room cleared quickly.

***

Chapter 4

Ludlow heard a banging sound coming from the little cluster of administrative offices at the head of the hall. His eyes narrowed and he stopped swabbing the floor to listen more closely. Yes, definitely the noise of metal on metal, like a sliding drawer in a file cabinet. There it was again. Maybe one of the old lady librarians working late. He could complain to her about not reporting the leak in the ceiling that was sending a dribble of rusty water down the pale tan tiles of the floor.

The sound repeated itself, this time more frenzied.

Ludlow crept closer to have a peek around the edge of the doors through the narrow pane of glass that ran the length of the knob side, carefully still mopping so it looked like he was working, not spying. No one in any of ’em, and the lights were all out. Then where—?

The banging ended with a frustrated rattle practically under his ear. It was coming from the supply room. An intruder, certainly a thief. He tried the solid wooden door, shaking it gently. It was locked. The deadbolt boomed ominously in the door jamb. As soon as whoever it was heard him, operations within the supply room ceased. He unreeled the heavy ring of keys from its retractable lead on his belt and shouldered open the door, leveling the mop handle like a shotgun.

With a gasp, the intruder whirled, opening wide green eyes on him. Ludlow was disgusted. It was a kid. A little kid, with a head full of wild red curls, wearing a short, shapeless dress and socks but no shoes. She had her hands full of Xerox paper reams and felt tip pens, some of which cascaded to the floor in her surprise.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “How’d you get in here? Never mind. You’re coming with me. I’m calling the police.”

The child didn’t speak. Instead, clutching her booty, she lunged under his arm toward the door. Ludlow blocked her exit easily with the mop handle and reached for her. She backed up, her solemn gaze remaining fixed on his face.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ludlow asked. He felt not unkindly toward the child. After all, he had five of his own at home. But you had to teach ’em what was right and wrong. And why the hell was she stealing office supplies, of all things? Didn’t look like the usual college thief. Was she one of the teacher’s kids? They’d have to come and get her from the Campus Security office. He opened his mouth to ask.

Swiftly, the red-haired child darted around his other side. Ludlow flung the mop away and grabbed for her with both arms. Squealing, she twisted free of his grasp, danced a couple of paces away, and pointed a hand at him.

Ludlow started after her, but found he was restrained by his belt, which was attached to the retractable key ring. The supply room door key, on the end of its tether, was still inserted in the doorknob. He pulled at it, but it wouldn’t come free. He shook the knob angrily. The little girl, watching cautiously, started to back away up the corridor, the boxes of pens and paper in her arms. He snatched at the buckle of his belt, seeking to undo it, but unaccountably, the buckle tongue seemed to adhere solidly to the frame. There was no way for him to unfasten it or wriggle out of it.

The child turned around and fled. Ludlow, giving up on the hope of catching up with her, twisted and pulled at the key. It wouldn’t budge. In fact, now it wouldn’t even turn. He attempted again to undo his belt. The buckle held itself fast.

With a groan, Ludlow sat down on the floor, and wondered whether it would be more humiliating to unfasten the hinges and drag the door with him until he could find a way to dislodge his key, or to sit there and wait for someone to come along with a pair of shears and cut him loose from his belt.

***

Chapter 5

When Keith returned to the dorm room later that evening, Pat was there alone. Crumpled wads of waxed paper and foil from the college deli were piled up on the coffee table next to a fat biology textbook. “Do you have a test, Pat?” he asked. “I would have brought dinner in for you if you’d have mentioned it. Or at least kept you company.”

Pat grinned wryly and rubbed his eyes. “Thanks. I’d rather study by myself. It’s quieter without you.”

“Everyone says the same thing.” Keith threw a pillow at him.

Pat caught it dexterously with one hand and pitched it back, catching Keith in the middle of the chest. “How’d the meeting go?”

“I think Carl went away to bury his shame or something. I was a big success. The assembly was overwhelmed by the thought of all those poor, homeless books with no place to go, evicted by the evil football team. The jocks’ll scream, but the other appointees will be on our side. Lloyd cut the meeting short before we could call for the vote. I suspect him of being a secret athletic supporter. I think the motion’ll carry next time, when we do vote on it. Required attendance by all delegates.”

“That’ll be popular,” Pat said cynically. “You’d have to drag me there in chains. Well, anyway, here,” he said, and tossed some papers in his direction. He gave Keith an apologetic glance. “I went over that Sociology paper of yours again, and unless you can convince him that your idea is a radical new theory based on existing data, I’m afraid you’ll have to rewrite it completely with real facts. It’s okay the way it is if he’d go for it, but he won’t. That’s just my opinion, of course.”

“Terrific,” said Keith, dropping his notebook on the bed. Then a memory struck him. “Hey, Pat, where’s that paper I showed you earlier?”

“I just gave it to you.”

“No, the other one. Marcy Collier’s paper. Had a C on it, not an F. I thought I left it right here before the meeting,” Keith pointed to his bed.

“Sorry,” said Pat. “I haven’t seen it. Are you sure you didn’t take it with you?”

Keith struck the side of his head with the heel of his hand. “Right. That must be it. I left it in the meeting room. What a mind. If medical science could locate it.…”

“Get it tomorrow, and shut up.”

“Yes, my leader.”

O O O

“I owe you an apology,” Keith panted, catching up with Marcy the next day after Sociology class let out. “I have looked everywhere, but I can’t find the essay you lent me. It isn’t like me to lose things like that. I’m usually trustworthy, honest.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” Marcy assured him. “I got it back. It’s in my apartment somewhere.”

Keith dashed a hand across his forehead melodramatically. “That’s a relief. I think I must have left it in the Inter-hall Council. My brain is deteriorating in my old age. But you got it back, for sure? Some kind soul brought it back to you?”

“Uh huh. Thanks for caring. I always throw out essays when I finish with the course anyway. And I’m sure not going to want to keep that one.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Would you like to study together this evening?” Before she could refuse automatically, he rushed on. “How can I whisper sweet nothings in your ear if I never have it all to myself? Lend me an ear. This approach worked for Marc Antony. On the other hand, look what happened to him.”

She giggled, no longer nervous. “Oh, all right. I think I have an extra ear around here someplace.”

O O O

“No, I’m sorry,” Marcy said, meeting his eyes seriously. They were studying at the kitchen table in the apartment Marcy shared with three other girls. “I can’t give you any of their names or tell you where to find my subjects. I promised. Freleng asked me the same thing for my essay. I finally made something up. I’d rather sacrifice my grade than hurt my … friends. I don’t want to do the same for you; you’d know I was lying.”

Keith’s shoulders collapsed in disappointment. “Well, look, maybe if I told you what I want to talk about, you’d arrange for me to meet one man or woman.”

“Go on,” said Marcy, opening a bottle of Coke steaming with frost. She shook droplets of water out of two glasses sitting in the yellow rubber dish drainer and filled them.

“I have a theory about legends, that they have a base in reality. One of the most interesting things about them is that … thanks … they’re everywhere. And they have a uniformity that intrigues me. Before mass communication, something got into the storytelling around the world that has little or no variation wherever you go. Dragons, for instance. On whichever side of the planet you ask, dragons are big, intelligent lizards. Most of them can fly. They eat meat. They hoard treasure. Chinese dragons are like Celtic dragons, and so on.” He took a long swallow of Coke.

Marcy giggled. “You want to ask my people about dragons?”

“Nope,” said Keith, warming to an interested listener. His smile seemed to wrap most of the way around his thin face. “What was called ‘Second Man,’ in
Antiquary
, back in 1926. I read your paper pretty carefully. Your subjects aren’t pygmies, are they?”

“No.”

“Caucasian?”

Marcy thought for a minute, then decided that one piece of information wouldn’t reveal anything extra. “Yes,” she said.

“Terrific! I’m Irish, you know,” Keith began.

She looked critically at his hazel eyes and red hair. “I would never have guessed.” He certainly had the gift of gab. She found that there was something appealing about him, in a face that exclaimed “egghead” instead of “jock.” She probably wouldn’t call him handsome. Handsome to her implied square jaws and athlete’s muscles, not sinews and those slim, clever-looking hands. Maybe “cute” was a better word. But he looked like he would be a lot of fun to have around. Not her type, but not not her type.

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere, ma petite,” said Keith. The ruddy eyebrows bobbed up and down. “I want to know about the little people. The fair folk. I’m trying to figure out where they went when they disappeared.
If
they disappeared. Another legend says that all the Irish are related to the Fair Folk. You can say I’m just doing a genealogy of the Doyle family. No, don’t say that. I want to know if they died out, or if they went underground, or what.” He drank deeply from his glass and set it down with a satisfied sigh. “Is there anything unusual about your subjects that you’re not telling me?”

Marcy was taken aback. Did Keith really have that kind of perspicacity, or was he just guessing? “
I
don’t think so,” she said at last, fingertip drawing rings around a minute puddle of spilled Coke. “Please don’t be offended, but I think they’d think your paper is frivolous.”

“So does everyone else,” Keith admitted without rancor. “But it’s not just a paper to me. My R.A. says I’ve got a mania. Okay, so I’m very interested in writing a paper on it for Sociology class, but I don’t have to. Your subjects have a strong genetic tendency toward being short, right? Is there mixed fairy blood, or just recessive genes with no place else to go? Who knows? You pay more attention to stories with a personal application, you know. Some people are proud of the idea that they might be related to the fair folk. Like myself, for example. If they’d just talk to me about legends, the things they heard while they were growing up.…”

“I don’t think they would,” Marcy interrupted hastily.

“Well, answer me this: are they all from the same village, or county?” Keith persisted.

“Yes. Maybe. Their coloring’s alike. It’s like yours.”

“Are they Irish?” Keith leaned forward.

“I think so, but …”

“Great! Please, please ask if I can talk to any of them. I care. I won’t publish anything if they don’t want me to. It’s to satisfy my own curiosity,” he finished earnestly. “If they say no, well, I’ll respect their privacy. If they say yes, I’ll respect their privacy. Either way. The fact that you haven’t thrown me out yet or called me crazy encourages me.”

“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll ask.”

“Blessings on you. I owe you a soda or something else wholesome. How about tonight?” She turned her head shyly away from him. “Aw, come on,” Keith coaxed. “Is it your boyfriend? I’m no threat. I’m just a friend.”

“No, it isn’t that,” she insisted, louder than necessary. “I have to meet with my study group.”

“Hey, you mentioned that yesterday. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Can I come, too? I’d like to study with you. Get to know you better.”

She bounced out of the kitchen chair as if spring-loaded, and started to rinse out their glasses at the sink. “It’s a closed group.”

“You said that before too, but they have to get members from someplace. Is it a sorority club? Women only?”

“No. Are you kidding? I’d rather have real friends.”

What brought that confession on? Keith wondered. He studied her face. No, she wouldn’t fit in with sororities. She was the right kind of pretty and the right kind of smart, but her skin wasn’t thick enough. All his predatory instincts had been knocked on the head once he’d started listening more carefully to her. She aroused all of his natural protectiveness. Keith felt himself to be more effective as a big brother than a boyfriend. Not that Marcy was falling all over herself for him. As much as he hated to concede the field to the virtuous unknown, whoever he was, Keith hoped the guy was worth it. But she was darned good at changing the subject. “I’ll be your best friend,” he volunteered.

“Oh, cut it out,” she snapped, her back to him. “I don’t need pity.”

“I know; I’m sorry. Look, do you want to go for a walk, or to a movie, or get married, or something?” he asked in mock desperation. “I can’t leave until you’re not mad at me anymore.”

She turned around to retort, and he clasped his hands under his chin in supplication. He rolled his eyes up. So did she. “Do you always offer to marry everyone who’s mad at you?” Marcy giggled.

“Only the women,” Keith answered, animated again like a Jack-in-the-box. Marcy shook her head, and glanced at the clock. Keith felt hope returning. “It’s not an Honors group,” he said impulsively, “or a sorority group, so if you sponsored me, could I join you? Maybe just once. I’ll even sponsor you to Student Council, although I’m not so sure that’s a favor.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll ask.”

“Two sodas!” Keith exclaimed. “And a movie. They’re showing
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes
tomorrow night. You’ll love it.” Now he noticed the flowered clock over the sink. “Oops, I’m late for my next F. See you in Flunking with Freleng tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me.”

O O O

Keith appeared at the apartment the next evening clutching a bunch of daisies before him. A tall blond girl in sweat pants let him in. She gave him a disinterested once over and left him on the threshold, and walked back into the hallway.

“Marcy!” she called, and Keith heard her go on in a lower voice through the thin wooden walls, “your nerd’s here.” He chuckled, noticed another girl, one with brown hair watching him from the kitchen table, and favored her with a toothy Archie Andrews grin. She clicked her tongue in disgust, and went back to reading her magazine. Keith flashed a wink in her direction, and surveyed the rest of the apartment.

There was a war of styles going on in here, and it looked like Modern Pop was going to win by accumulated clutter. Posters, mostly those of pop music groups, were taped over the dusty green walls everyplace but the light switches and windows. Boxes of records flanked a mighty stereo system and a VCR. One of the girls who lived here had money. By comparison, the basket of skeins of yarn, spinning wheel and embroidery frame in one corner, and the modest bookshelf under the windows, took up scarcely any space at all.

“Thanks a lot,” came Marcy’s voice faintly.

Another mumble from the other girl, of which Keith could only discern, “trouble with …”

“Look,” said Marcy’s voice, growing louder as she came out of her room, “I don’t care what he says.” She emerged into the foyer checking the fit of her dark green sweater and pale green slacks in the hall mirror. “Hi.”

“Hello, there,” Keith said appreciatively. “You look very nice.”

The sweater was embroidered with roses and the slacks were very flattering to her figure. He gave her an encouraging grin. She looked down self-consciously, as if the combination was accidental. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Shall we go down to the Student Union first?
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes
starts at eight.”

“As long as it isn’t
Reefer Madness
and
The Groove Tube
again.”

Keith held open the door, and they stepped out into the bitter cold of the night. “It all depends on the vagaries of the studio distributor. Don’t you know that’s their subtle little way of telling us that the feature didn’t show up?”

When the film ended, which did after all turn out to be
Attack of the Killer Tomatoes
, they walked over to Frankie’s, a little bar and grill on the corner not far from the auditorium that was heavily frequented by the student population of Midwestern. Keith was enjoying her company enormously. In spite of her shyness, Marcy made conversation easy. “Sorry I can’t take you anywhere classier,” Keith said apologetically. “My roommate borrowed my car. I agreed to let him have it before I remembered we were going out this evening.”

Marcy flinched. “Don’t call it ‘going out,’ okay?”

“Whatever you want. It doesn’t mean anything,” Keith was upset at her discomfort. “I’m just your friend. Say,” he demanded, with a lightning change of subject, “is Marcy short for anything?”

“No,” Marcy stopped, and hopped uncertainly onto the new train of thought. “It’s my whole first name. I think it’s out of one of those cutesy comic books my mother used to read when she was little. It was almost Barbara, or Barbie for short, except my aunt had a daughter three months before I was born, and they named
her
Barbara. Thank God.”

“Sounds terrible. You were lucky. My full name’s Keith Emerson Doyle, because my folks are big Emerson, Lake and Palmer fans. My dad was heartbroken when I didn’t want to take piano lessons. Or guitar. Or drums.”

“Did you take something?”

“Yup. Clarinet. For a year and a half I sounded like leaky plumbing, and then suddenly, I could make music. Dad forgave me, and started listening to more jazz.”