Disorderly Elements (2 page)

“It's not as big a problem as it seems, you know,” Margaret said. “I'll just fix things up with a clinic. I'll only be away a couple of days—”

“What? You don't want to have an abortion, do you?”

Margaret seemed confused.

“Well, I thought…I assumed that you…well, you know…”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Wyman snorted. “If you don't want to bring up the child, I will.”

“You want the child?” gasped Margaret.

“Of course,” Wyman said. “Why shouldn't I?”

“I think I'm going to faint,” Margaret said.

“Two more cappucinos, Giuseppe,” Wyman said. When Margaret had recovered, Wyman explained his plans. “It's quite straightforward,” he said. “I'll return to College and work there until retirement. The income isn't as good, but it's enough to manage.”

“What about your alimony payments?”

“They will continue,” Wyman said. “It's not as if I have a great deal of choice, though I suppose they might be reduced a little.”

“A lower salary, alimony and now the baby. Michael, are you really sure you can manage all that?”

“I'll find a way. The College is quite good about these things.”

“I hope so,” Margaret said. “If they're anything like the Firm, we'll be in a real mess. Why didn't they give you a pension? It's the least you're entitled to.”

Wyman sighed.

“I've explained this before. The arrangement with the College doesn't permit it. Officially, I was lent out to the Firm by the College. In theory, the College is my real employer.”

“But they changed your status to Honorary Fellow.”

“A technicality,” Wyman said, waving his hand. “The fact is, no contract was ever signed by either side. It's a gentleman's agreement.”

“In that case,” Margaret said, “let's just hope that your College is run by gentlemen.”

“It is,” Wyman said. “There is one more thing…”

“What's that?”

“I'm not sure how I should put it…it's to do with how you, er…fit in.”

“Fit in?” Margaret's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Michael, are you trying to propose to me?”

He grinned sheepishly.

“I suppose I am. Not very good at it, am I?”

“No, you're not.”

“Well, er…perhaps you'd like to think about it.”

“I'll do that,” she said solemnly.

“Jolly good. Heavens above, is that the time? I really must get back.”

He stood up and fumbled in his pockets for money for the coffee. Margaret gazed at his obvious embarrassment in silence until she could restrain her laughter no longer.

Wyman looked at her indignantly.

“I fail to see any cause for laughter,” he said.

“A
ND NOW,” SAID THE MASTER, “we come to the final item on the agenda of Open Business: heating costs.”

He looked round the table at those present. College Council meetings took place every fortnight during the academic term, and most of those involved found them insufferably dreary. When Michael Wyman had worked full-time at the College, he had usually found a convenient illness or distressed relative to prevent him from turning up. A few dons, however, enjoyed these sessions. The meetings provided an excellent forum for power games, outlandish proposals and verbal flatulence. Many dons had built their careers on such dubious foundations, and Council meetings were therefore entirely to their taste.

Council meetings were divided into two agendas. First came the Open Business, where the College Fellows discussed the more mundane aspects of College affairs, such as student matters, complaints about the food and arrangements over social functions. Two undergraduates were present to represent the interests of the Junior Combination Room, the College's student union.

After the Open Business came the Reserved Business. The undergraduates would leave the room, and the dons could get on with the serious business of stabbing backs and wrangling over the College finances. Everyone was therefore anxious to end the Open Business as swiftly as possible.

“I believe that the Bursar would like to give us his proposals about the heating costs,” said the Master.

“Yes,” said the Bursar. He was an emaciated man with half-moon spectacles and impetigo, but despite this he had great dignity.

“In view of the ever-rising cost of fuel, I feel we have no option but to raise the heating charge on next term's undergraduate bills. I propose that we increase the cost by fifteen per cent.”

“Thank you,” said the Master. “Do any of the Fellows have any comment to make about this proposal?”

There was silence.

“Splendid. I assume we are all agreed, then. Perhaps the undergraduates present might have something to say.”

He looked grimly down at the two students. They nodded humbly, and one jabbed the other with his elbow.

“Yes,” said the prodded student. “Er—well, I'm not sure if the—er—undergraduates will altogether approve of this—um—idea.”

“Really?” said the Master drily. “Why not?”

“Well,” stammered the student, “as you probably know, the student grants are only—er—going up by six per cent this year, so—well—it seems a little, um, unfair to put up heating by fifteen.”

“Unfair?” boomed the Master indignantly. “Unfair?”

“Well, unfortunate, to say the least. I mean, as we understand it—and we could be wrong, of course—the national cost of fuel is only going up by five per cent, so—well—it seems a little, um, drastic to, you know, put up the College bill by fifteen.”

“Perhaps the Bursar would care to reply,” the Master said.

“Yes,” said the Bursar. “I understand the students' feelings in this matter, but they must appreciate that we are in an economic recession. Even this College is not invulnerable to economic pressures. As Bursar, I must see things from a slightly broader angle than that of the students.” He paused to let the other dons laugh politely at his little jest. “And so my proposals reflect this viewpoint. However, I have taken the student grant rise into account, and this is why I have only proposed an increase of fifteen per cent. The undergraduates should consider themselves fortunate that the increase was not substantially greater.”

“Thank you, Bursar,” said the Master. “I trust that answers the points you have made?”

He glowered ferociously at the undergraduates, defying them to pursue their complaint. They did not.

“Yes,” said the undergraduates. “Thank you.”

They did not look grateful.

“You may inform the JCR of the Bursar's magnanimity in this matter,” said the Master. “Very well, gentlemen; that ends the Open Business. The undergraduate representatives may leave.”

After the students had gone, the dons relaxed and settled back in their chairs, as if a bad smell had just been flushed from the atmosphere.

“I fear,” said the Master, “that the Reserved agenda will take some time to complete. The main item concerns the College's financial crisis, and proposals for dealing with it. These are outlined in the notes accompanying the agenda, and I trust that we have all read them. Perhaps the Bursar would care to elaborate.”

“Thank you,” said the Bursar. “As we all know, the Government has directed the Department of Education to prune our support grant by twelve per cent. I need not spell out the difficulty this constitutes for the College.”

The other dons coughed and nodded in assent.

“Therefore,” continued the Bursar, “we have no choice but to explore all possible means of reducing College expenditure to compensate for this loss of income.

“Many of the suggestions I have outlined should meet with little dissent. Some, however, are more controversial. I would like to tackle these first, and to gauge the feelings of the Council towards them. I draw your attention to proposal 1(b): the termination of Honorary Fellowships.”

There was a rustle of paper as the dons turned to proposal 1(b).

“Excuse me,” croaked an aged archaeologist. “I seem to have mislaid the relevant sheet of paper. Does anyone have a spare copy?”

The Master gave the old don an impatient scowl, and he passed a copy down to him.

“Thank you so much.”

The Bursar resumed his speech:

“As you all know, Honorary Fellows have special status in this College. Whereas other colleges merely give their Honorary Fellows free access to college libraries and invitations to formal dinners, we also bestow other favours. For example, our Honorary Fellows have full dining rights, unrestricted use of all College facilities, and the opportunity to teach and research if they so wish. Most importantly, they also receive a statutory pension.

“My basic proposal is this: Honorary Fellowships are a luxury which this College can no longer afford to bestow. Furthermore, we are not in a position to afford the Honorary Fellows we already have. Hence, I suggest that the special privileges held by Honorary Fellows be rescinded, and that their status be reduced to that of Honorary Fellows in other colleges.”

There was a rumble of disquiet throughout the Council. The Senior Tutor raised his finger for attention. He was a grave little man who looked like a High Church vicar minus the dog-collar. He spoke in a sombre, fruity voice:

“Are we all aware that these Fellowships were established in 1576? This College is famed throughout the academic world for the privileges accorded to Honorary Fellows. We are the only College that does not bestow them upon cheap novelists, retarded royalty and Labour politicians, and our prestige is enhanced as a result. I fear that more is at stake here than the Bursar supposes.”

The Bursar smiled unctuously.

“I am more than sensitive to College tradition,” he said. “But I fear that this is one tradition that is no longer within our means.”

“The Bursar's got a point,” said an Australian mathematician. “Besides, who are these Honorary Fellows? A lot of them work elsewhere and get paid by other universities. Shouldn't they be getting this sort of recognition from their own places?”

This drew a murmur of assent from many dons.

“I suppose we had better examine a few individual cases,” said the Master, “however distasteful that may seem.”

“Yes,” said the Bursar. “I have prepared the list. Firstly, let us look at Dr Michael Wyman. He is, I believe, a philosopher specializing in—” he consulted his paper “—philosophical logic. As I understand it, he has taught here for a total of nine terms in nearly thirty years. He works principally for the Foreign Office, and his Honorary Fellowship entitles him to return here whenever he retires from that job. He will also receive a full pension from this College.”

“What precisely does Wyman do for the Government?” some body asked.

The Bursar replied hesitantly:

“He is involved in security work of a highly sensitive nature. I think we had better concentrate upon Wyman the philosopher, rather than Wyman the civil servant.”

“Perhaps,” said the Master, “Dr Locke would care to tell us about Dr Wyman's professional standing.”

Attention was turned to Dr Locke, the Director of Studies in Philosophy. He was an arid gentleman who struggled to overcome middle age with the aid of a low-quality hair dye. His face, perched above a paisley bow tie, had the colour and texture of a walnut. When he concentrated, his expression would fold into a variety of agonized contortions, as if he were permanently strapped to Torquemada's rack.

“Indeed,” he said, “Michael Wyman's academic career has been somewhat…unfortunate. He was easily the most brilliant undergraduate of his year, and he promised to be an outstanding logician. Unfortunately, he developed a passionate interest in modal logic.”

He paused.

“Why was that unfortunate?” asked the Master, half regretting the question.

“Because that was the area he chose to cover for his Ph.D. thesis. Two months after the thesis was completed, in 1953, W. V. Quine, the Harvard philosopher, published a book entitled
From a Logical Point of View
. This book did much to discredit assumptions popularly held at the time. One paper in that book, entitled ‘Reference and Modality', effectively demolished the entire foundation of Wyman's thesis. There were many other casualties, of course, but Wyman was probably the youngest. Quine's essay destroyed Wyman's morale, and he was too immature to recover from the blow.”

“I see,” said the Master.

Locke nodded, and ground his dentures in further con centration.

“Yes,” he said. “Wyman carried on working, of course, but he never regained his former zeal. He was quite a good teacher, I think, and his lectures were highly spoken of. The impetus, however, was gone. Then in '54—or was it '55?—late '54, I think, Wyman was recruited by one of the intelligence bodies.

“The College came to an arrangement with some Government department. Wyman was to be given the status of an Honorary Fellow, and he would return here when he became bored with playing James Bond. I don't know much else about the arrangement.

“Wyman has returned here occasionally, and he has done a spot of research and teaching. He has produced two papers: one was a reply to somebody's theory of reference in
Mind
, and the other was entitled ‘Notes on Necessity'. They were adequate.”

“Does anyone here know the precise details of the arrangements concerning Wyman?” asked the Master. “Apart from his Honorary Fellowship, I mean.”

“I believe,” said the Senior Tutor, “that given the peculiar circumstances of Wyman's departure, there is as little documentation on the subject as possible.”

“Surely that is to our advantage,” said the Bursar triumphantly. “Our commitment to Wyman is minimal.”

But Wyman did not remain undefended. Help came in the form of Dr Arthur Hume, a wizened old English don who lived inside a dense cloud of pipe-smoke.