Sabotage (7 page)

Big Game Week was imminent. Excitement and rancor fermented, leading to a climax that would determine who celebrated and who languished. Stanford marked the week with an all-school pep rally, a bawdy theater performance called
Gaieties,
a reading called the “Bearial at the Claw” of macabre wishes against Cal's mascot, Oskie the Bear, and gleeful irreverence designed to inject venom into the hearts of participants. For Rachel and Ichiro, it was the most exciting week of the quarter.

Earlier that year, Stanford had achieved victory against the University of Southern California in a remarkable upset. Austin had been coming home from San Francisco at the time. He'd spent the day in the city participating in the university's notorious team-based scavenger hunt. On the returning Caltrain ride he'd received regular updates from a Trojan friend who was watching the game live at the Coliseum. The messages, initially bombastic, took on a sour tone by halftime. In the fourth quarter, they continued to deflate into despondency and, after the final pass, anguish.

Despite jubilation at the Farm over the recent upset, the most meaningful challenge still loomed. The Cardinal had trounced a daunting opponent, but no archrival. The Big Game's victor remained yet undetermined. Losing to Berkeley meant losing the Axe, a symbolic trophy dating to the late 1800s. The Axe was awarded each year to the winning team—that is, unless someone stole it.

This had happened multiple times; one heist was famous. Leery Berkeley authorities had fortified defenses, stowing the Axe in a bank vault and guarding it in an armored vehicle for appearances during rallies. On April 3, 1930, soon after a spring rally at Cal's Greek Theater, four Cardinals posing as Berkeley photographers had bombarded Norm Horner, the grand custodian of the Axe, with camera flashes. Mayhem had ensued. The “photographers” seized the trophy while other Cardinals in disguise hurled a smoke bomb into the heart of the chaos. The thieves sprinted toward one of several cars waiting to whiz off in random directions. Stanford's charlatans had caused further delays by organizing false search parties pursuing decoys. Though some of the Cardinals were found out, the plan had succeeded. Stanford's twenty-one conspirators, later known there as the “Immortal 21”—or the “Immoral 21” at Cal—had reclaimed the Axe.

Generations after the heist, the rivals prepared to face off again.

“So,” Rachel said. “Game day plans?”

“Sure,” Ichiro said. “Win.”

“And if we don't?”

“I don't waste brain space on irrelevant hypotheticals.”

“Pretty cocky given the strength of Cal's team. You willing to bet?”

“You'll bet
against
the Cardinal?”

“I'll take an insurance policy in case we lose.”

“Austin, what do you make of this? Rachel seems to have little faith in our team.” He looked lost in thought. Ichiro nudged him. “Hey, space cadet, back me on this or you'll owe me a rib-eye.”

“Careful, Rachel,” Austin said. “When it comes to games and betting, you'd be surprised what Itchy's capable of.”

“You guys seriously need to come up with a new nickname.”

Ichiro, Austin's roommate, was a second-year doctoral student in mathematics and a competitive programmer. Like Austin and Rachel, he had completed his undergraduate studies at Stanford. His education had been fully funded through a scholarship afforded him by a Japanese electronics company. While he was a senior in high school, the company had awarded him the gold medal in its annual game coding competition. Throughout his academic career, Ichiro had earned a number of other honors. In the world finals of the ACM International Collegiate Programming Contest, he had earned nineteenth and fifteenth place in consecutive years, following second and first place in the Pacific Northwest regionals. His team had earned honorable mention in the William Lowell Putnam Mathematical Competition, placing fifth. He had earned silver and gold medals in the International Olympiad in Informatics, placing seventh and second. He also participated in a number of Internet coding and problem solving contests, and coached teams back at home.

He thrived on strategy games. His dissertation research would examine multiple interfaces between computer science and game theory. The past two years, he had worked as a teacher's assistant in Programming Abstractions, an introductory course in the Computer Science Department. Students tried hard to be assigned to his section. He wasn't sure if it was his funny accent, Hawaiian shirts, or admittedly lax grading style. His undergrads sometimes joined him on Friday afternoons to play bughouse chess, a variant with double boards and four players; captured pieces could be placed on a teammate's board, and the game ended at the first checkmate. He was never good enough to compete formally, but the mental sport fascinated him. It was fast, chaotic, unpredictable, aggressive, and the tides could turn with a single placement.

Ichiro and Austin had met as sophomores in a project-based class designed for collaboration among computer science, physics, and aeronautics students. There they created computerized aircraft models, which they flight-tested using simulation software built from scratch. When their third team member dropped the class, the two were forced to pull a series of all-nighters at the lab, trading shifts napping in sleeping bags to meet deadlines. Their friendship had grown out of mutual dedication to the project. They'd often celebrate milestones at The Counter, a design-your-own burger joint on California Avenue. It was there they had discovered something else in common—carnivorous palates. Henceforth they traded favors using the promise of steaks as currency. Denominations varied according to tenderness and flavor. One or the other would often find the word “YOMAR” written in his lab book:
You owe me a rib-eye.

Also a second-year grad student, Rachel had been one of Ichiro's closest friends since they were undergraduates. The two remained inseparable, though she and Ichiro were made of altogether different stuff. Rachel had been an English major, expending most of her energy on creative journalism. Her cheeky, nuanced column for the
Stanford Chronicle,
“Muse Me,” had made her famous among humanities students, as each week she'd offer reviews of philharmonic performances, theatrical productions, and art exhibitions in San Francisco. Ichiro had sought her out as a freshman in response to her blurb in the
Chronicle
advertising services as a “proofreader for engineers and other English-challenged students.” He had needed help with an essay for a required writing course. He remembered two things about his first encounter with her. First, her candor—“Your words really jump off the page, perhaps to escape torture”—and second, the way she made him want to come back with new essays that might actually impress her.

“If you could learn to profit from your mistakes,” she'd said of his second attempt, “you'd be a rich man.”

Their banter was usually fueled by the division between brain hemispheres. The majority of disputes were contests in the merits of logic and science versus language and creativity. Without mathematics, he would argue, man could not have engineered civilization. She would say that it wasn't for lack of math that the Tower of Babel fell.

“Typical fuzzy logic,” he once said, “citing fiction to promote fiction.”

“And what would life be without stories and art to ignite the soul?” she'd retorted. “How else could you fathom the depths of your own humanity?”

“The deepest part of me is my belly button.”

“Then good luck trying to ever fathom the depths of a female.”

Equations were Ichiro's fascinations; people were hers. She took another's shyness as a challenge, a challenge to open a person and learn what was inside. She had a gift for earning trust. She also spoke her mind with little filter, and her brazenness could make Ichiro uncomfortable. If ever he seemed timid or anxious, she took outright pleasure in making him confront his nerves. She had even been known to push Austin's envelope at times.

Now she was looking at Ichiro, who seemed to be reading her thoughts.

“Austin, you're in another world,” she said, turning to face him. “Care to invite us?”

“Sorry, guys,” he said, coming into focus. “Just thinking through a puzzle.”

“Is it Professor Clare? Did he give you an assignment right after the exam?”

“In a way.”

“Only he would do that.”

“The stories you tell,” Ichiro said. “Strange bird, that man.”

“But the best professor I've had,” Austin said. “And the clearest, until now.”

By the time lunch ended, he felt rejuvenated, his mind at least temporarily relieved. But, as he'd expected, when he left his friends, nagging questions edged back into his thoughts.

The uncertainty was too great. Before he could decide, he had to talk to Malcolm Clare one more time.

*   *   *

Austin arrived at his aeronautics class early and chose a seat at the front. Clare never entered. Instead, a lanky grad student, arms poking out from an oversized sport coat, took center stage in Hewlett Auditorium.

He paced without direction, appearing to shrink into corners as the students entered and chattered away, paying no attention to him, his presence as unassailably awe-inspiring as the flakes of chalk dusting the floor.

He cleared his throat. No one heard him. He held up a hand, whistled, and waved, swelling his body to fill the space, and failing. Capturing the attention of perhaps ten percent of his audience, he began speaking.

“Hi, class.” He backed against the whiteboard. “My name's…” Voices died throughout the room. Austin watched in pain, half-expecting him to pronounce the words Ichabod Crane. “I'm Walter … Rosekind. As you know, I'm one of the TAs for this class.” His voice cracked, and he hesitated to regain it, cowering under the collective glare of the class. “Yesterday, I received an email from Dr. Clare informing me of an unanticipated and extended research leave. He didn't say where he was going or when he'd return. He asked that I instruct the class until … further notice.”

For the most part, the students showed little surprise. The call for a substitute might have generated curiosity if it were any other professor, but Clare was impossible to predict, last-minute disappearances not beyond him. A few students looked disappointed, but they took the news at face value—except Austin, who realized the departure didn't jibe with yesterday's conversation.

“Let's begin. Forgive me: Where'd we leave off?” A student raised her hand and filled him in. “Okay. Thanks. Let's … ah, let's go back to the subject of torque.” He began scribbling on the whiteboard.

When class ended, Austin approached the front of the room.

“Thank you for subbing,” he said. “Must have felt like standing in for a rock star.”

“Hope everything was clear,” answered Rosekind.

“Yes, it was,” Austin assured him. “Listen, Walter, I need to ask you something. What did Professor Clare say in his email to you?”

The TA frowned. “I told you. He said he was leaving for research purposes. Nothing beyond that.”

“Any mention of his destination? Do we know if he's still in California?”

“No. I don't know anything. All the TAs are baffled. Professors shouldn't jump ship like this.”

“Clare's an eccentric with a lot of irons in the fire. I'm curious if he left any clue as to which of his projects pulled him away.”

“Zilch,” Rosekind said.

“What was the tone of his email? Did it sound urgent?”

“Not really. His message was plain. Matter-of-fact.”

“Did he sound like himself?”

The grad scratched his forehead. “Uh, we don't communicate by email very often.”

“How do you usually talk?”

“By phone or in person.”

“Give it your best shot. Based on your communication with him, did he sound normal?”

Rosekind shrugged. “Sort of. His statements were straightforward. Reading between the lines, I got the feeling … yeah, things seemed normal.” He then huffed, “But burdening a TA with an advanced class is not acceptable. I'm going to talk to the Provost.”

“Be careful.”

Austin felt his stomach sinking. Clare had told Austin he would hold nighttime office hours all week.

“Careful about what?”

“I'm not sure, but I have a feeling it might be better for you to let this rest for now, and keep teaching as normal.”

“You can't be serious,” Rosekind said. “He can't just, without warning, saddle me with part-time professorship or extended subbing or whatever you want to call it. He's placed the class on my shoulders. It's not reasonable.”

Austin agreed, but in light of the dangers Clare had alluded to, it would probably be best if this episode stayed as quiet as possible. “I understand your frustration, but you might not want to make a big scene.”

“Why not?”

“I have a feeling that whatever Clare's up to, it's worthwhile.”

Recognition leapt into Rosekind's speckled face. “You're the guy who almost got a hundred on the midterm. What did he want to talk to you about yesterday?”

“I'm afraid that's between us.”

“Figured you'd say that. Come on, I'd like to learn Dr. Clare's whereabouts as much as you would.”

Austin concealed his growing impatience. “He wanted to congratulate me, and ask if I might help as a research assistant. One more question for you. When did you receive his email?”

“I don't know. Recently.”

“What time exactly?”

“Who are you, the Grand Inquisitor?”

“Hey, we're on the same side here.”

“I don't have to answer to you. It's none of your business.” Feeling the heat of the fire he'd kindled, Austin inched back a few steps. His retreat seemed to achieve its desired effect. Rosekind sighed. “Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt.” He opened his laptop to check his inbox. “If you must know, I got the email at six fifty-five p.m. yesterday.”