Chapter 7
Keith spent most of Monday night in the company of his RA and several other members of the Student Government, on an act which required the utmost secrecy. It was a mission of mercy on behalf of Dan Osborne. He was a member who was attending the University on an athletic scholarship, and had won the first place medal in the regional swimming competition for the 440-meter race. Danny was ecstatic over his victory, and had been seen all day walking as if on air. The other members decided that it was up to them to keep him from getting a big head over his success, and maybe walking right out of the atmosphere before he noticed. It was for this reason that they were engaged in transporting his Volkswagen Scirocco from the parking lot to the bottom of an empty swimming pool at one o’clock in the morning.
They decided it was worth it to help him out, since the chances that the administration would blame Student Government for such a prank were suitably small. Pat, shaking off his lethargy for once, decided to help out. He was a friend of Danny’s, too.
One of the guys in on the joke was an Engineering major. With the help of an architecture student, Sharon Teitelbaum, they had constructed a pair of jointed ramps that hung over the edge of the pool like a set of badly broken skis. Mere Business and English majors, like Keith and Pat, were delegated to be pallbearers and help carry the car out of the lot.
Once in the loftily-named “natatorium,” Rick sprang the door lock and took off the emergency brake. With four men on either side, they eased the car down the ramps.
“There,” said Rick with satisfaction. “It’ll take him hours to figure out how we did it.”
“Let’s leave the ramps in the office,” Keith suggested, “so it won’t be too hard to find them.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Pat sniffed. “People who are intelligent enough to understand machinery don’t become gym teachers.” Rick hit him solidly between the shoulder blades and he choked.
“Knock it off, Shakespeare,” Rick growled in mock ire, “or I’ll put you through the goalposts.”
“Spoken like a true snob,” Keith accused Pat cheerfully.
“Of course,” Pat answered airily. “P.E. majors stand right ahead of us English majors on the unemployment line.”
O O O
It was quiet and dark in the hallway of the dormitory. There were a few students still awake, but they had their doors closed to keep the noise from stereos, TV’s, passionate discussions or other activities from annoying people who would rather sleep. This floor was nearly empty. The figure sneaking toward Keith’s room had seen everyone leaving over an hour ago. There would probably be time enough left.
With a look over his shoulder to ensure there was no one watching, the figure set down his bag and bent over the doorknob. A quick gleam of metal flashed, reflecting the safety lights at the hall’s T-intersection, and the door creaked gently open. The figure stepped inside the dark room.
O O O
When they tramped back to their dorm room, fortified from Rick’s personal store with beer and potato chips, Keith popped open the door, flicked on the lights with a flourish, and stopped short on the threshold.
“Oh, Pat,” he chided his roommate. “You didn’t tell me you were going to redecorate.”
“Huh? Oh, shit,” Pat said, pushing in past Keith. Books were scattered all over the floor, and papers lay in a chaotic snowstorm on the bed, the desk and the dresser. A broad map of sticky, brown film spread on the wall had obviously issued from the empty bottle of Coke on the coffee table. But the carnage was limited to Keith’s side of the room. There could almost have been a line drawn down the center. Not a scrap of paper or a drop was on Pat’s side. “What happened?”
“Well, if it’s Santa Claus, he’s two months early. And I really woulda preferred coal in my stocking. It’s a lot more subtle.”
“My man, you’ve been pimped. Who have you ticked off lately?”
“I bet it’s Carl. Why else would your stuff be left completely alone? I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Enough,” Pat commanded, blocking Keith from leaving. “It’s after midnight. Carl thinks you’re a royal pain but not worthy of the trouble. Believe me, I’ve heard it all from him at length.”
“But who else?” insisted Keith. He eyed the mess. “I’d better clean it up now. I can’t sleep with that Coke dripping off the wall onto me all night. I’d dream of Chinese torturers.”
“You’d drive them nuts, too. I’ll go tell Rick, then I’ll come back and help,” Pat offered.
“Thanks.” Keith wrung out a washcloth and set to work, grumbling. Pat slipped out of the room. In the stillness, Keith could hear him knocking, and then the low hum of voices. In a moment, Rick appeared at the door.
“Honest to God, Doyle.”
“In the immortal words of Han Solo, Rick, it’s not my fault.”
“It never is. I’ll ask around. Come and talk to me after dinner, okay? I’ll tell Jackson and they’ll change your locks tomorrow. It’s the best we can do.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Keith went back to work on the wall. “Night.”
O O O
His nocturnal activities left Keith feeling worn out all Tuesday. Only anticipation of solving the mystery of Marcy’s study group kept him from declaring a mental health day and cutting Sociology.
When he got to class, he wished that he had cut. Dr. Freleng, in full knowledge that a holiday break was coming and that all the other teachers were loading the students up with work, issued instructions for a new term paper, worth the usual 10% of the grade. Keith walked out of the room reeling with exhaustion and irritation. Marcy smiled at him sympathetically as she left. “See you later,” she called.
“Absolutely,” Keith promised.
O O O
This time, Keith made certain that he was invisible. He had positioned himself in the stacks on Level Eight, thumbing through boxes of crumpled periodicals. Marcy appeared right on schedule and stepped into the elevator. After a suitable interval, Keith shoved his handful of magazines back into the box and slipped behind the fire door.
He crept down the stairs in almost total darkness and into the bottommost level of the library. His mother used to say that if there was justice in the world, he would have been born with cat whiskers as wide as his shoulders to prove that one day his own curiosity would kill him. He wished for those whiskers now, as his head rapped against several metal bookshelves which laughed hollowly at him in the gloom. Odors and fragrances familiar to him tickled his nose in the thick warm air: concrete dust, moldering paper and library paste.
A humming white line of light grew down from the ceiling and stopped noisily at the floor. Steel doors clashed open, and Marcy appeared out of the book elevator clutching her green notebook. She felt around her head for the nearest bookshelf and started forward, guiding herself with her free hand. The elevator closed behind her, cutting off the light. The confident tap of her shoes on the concrete floor passed Keith and went on down the row. He prayed that he could follow her without bringing down Dewey decimal system numbers .3440 to .785 on top of himself on the way. He sank catlike to all fours. Maybe he could crawl after her. Maybe not. It always looked easier when babies did it. He struggled along the floor, trying not to make any noise.
There was a fair amount of dust on the floor his movements stirred up, which he promised his twitching nose he would sneeze at later. His knees informed him that he was too old for this manner of locomotion. His ears informed him that he was doing a pretty good job of shadowing without making noise or being noticed. Marcy was keeping a slow pace ahead of him. A sudden light gleamed in her hand. Keith’s heart jumped. If she had a flashlight she wasn’t using until the last moment, Keith was going to have to do some fancy explaining. Certainly he was at a disadvantage: what could he say? “Hi, doll. Of all the library stacks, in all the universities, she walks into mine. Oh, what am I doing on the floor? I dropped my next line.”
She stopped. Keith could see at last that the light she held came from a key. It shone faintly green against the keyhole of a low door behind the last row of bookshelves. Probably one of those key lights. A miniature flashlight would be vital down here, but the sure way she had found the door spoke of long familiarity. The door opened inward, and Marcy disappeared into a sudden riot of light and noise. It boomed shut behind her.
“Nuts,” he said to himself. “Now what do I do?”
On hands and knees, he crawled carefully over to the door and felt over its surface for the keyhole. He found a polished square with a slot and put his eye to it. He could see nothing. It was as black as the room he was in. They, whoever they were, must have blocked it to keep light from leaking out and betraying the presence of the room on the other side. And what was that room? Keith didn’t know of any further excavation or construction in Gillington Library. The perimeter of the stacks stopped where he was standing, or rather kneeling, right now. This must be really top secret.
He could feel the bass hum of conversation vibrating the door under his fingertips. Leaning close, he set his ear gently on the rough wood and closed his eyes to concentrate. Several people were talking, though their words were no more distinguishable than if they had been speaking under water. One tenor voice, its tone proving its owner to be seething with irritation, overpowered the others, and then went on alone somewhat more calmly.
Definitely the faculty advisor, Keith decided. But for what subject? Or purpose? There was something about this situation which made his imaginary whiskers bristle out. Why meet in the sub-sub-basement of the library, when at this hour three-fourths of the classrooms on campus were empty? And what about that key Marcy had? Its green light was unlike that of either phosphorus or any LEDs he’d ever seen. Must be some really neat mechanism. He was intrigued. Something very interesting was going on here. His thin nose twitched with curiosity.
And dust, Keith discovered in a panic. He was going to sneeze. His eyes watered as he pinched his nose to hold back the explosion. He rocked back on his heels until the impulse passed, and then hunkered down once more against the door. The room on the other side of the wall had fallen silent. Keith blinked in the dark with surprise. No voices, not even the faculty advisor’s. Had everybody left through some other door? he wondered, holding his breath and straining for any telltale sound. No, if that place had a second entrance, Marcy wouldn’t have to come down through the stacks, risking the librarians’ wrath. No, he reconsidered, it was probably all set up with the librarians. Maybe he could coax one into telling him all about it later. He gently cuddled his ear closer into the rough wood, leaning his weight inward.
A second later, he was measuring his length on the concrete floor of a brightly lit room, shaking stars out of his head. Marcy was halfway to her feet, about fifteen feet away from him, fingertips over her mouth, staring at him in shock. Right now he felt as surprised as she looked at his unexpected appearance. Her books sat atop the kind of wood and metal desk Keith called an “iron maiden,” for its deserved reputation of discomfort comparable to the medieval torture device. There were fifteen or so occupied iron maidens in the room. From his undignified vantage point, Keith also recognized Carl Mueller. Aha, you scum, he thought. There were other college students there, but most of the rest of the class were adolescent kids, and they were all gawking at him. If this was the “study group,” what were they doing here? Were they what the mystery was all about? Was Marcy ashamed to admit that she talked about her homework with a bunch of genius midgets? Or was it something more sinister, like a government think-tank?
A figure introduced itself between Keith and the rest of the room. Keith’s eye traveled upward—not too far—past a pair of short legs, a protuberant belly and a barrel of a chest, to a round face bethatched and bewhiskered with hair of bright carrot red going white over the ears. Pointed ears! Keith’s jaw dropped open. He blinked and twisted his neck to change his angle of view. An optical illusion? No, they were pointed, all right, and about five inches high. That was impossible! They must be made of latex, like theatrical artists used. And then again, maybe not. He opened his mouth to say something, but the man stopped him with a curt gesture of his hand. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles sat on the bridge of a pugnaciously turned-up nose behind which iris blue eyes regarded him icily. By all that Keith knew or imagined, there was a living leprechaun standing there looking down at him. “Top o’ the morning to ye,” he cried cheerily.
“Gut efening,” said the leprechaun. He was the owner of the tenor voice he had heard through the door. “Vould you care to get up?”
***