A Ruby Beam of Light

by Tom DeMarco

  “We’ll cover, Homer. No one will know.”

  “I’ll try to be back in time for the awards dinner at eight. I may miss the reception. Tell Chandler I’m polishing up my speech. If we can catch a 4PM flight back, that will do it. That gives us a whole morning and part of an afternoon in Washington. How long could it take to save the world? Not so long. Remember that there are two of us, Albert and me. So the world is pretty safe. I think.”

  “Sure, Homer.”

  He paused, looking down at the desk. “Only, Edward, you take this.” Homer lifted his briefcase. “There are some things inside, instructions you may need in case we don’t succeed so good.” He handed the briefcase to Edward. “You have to keep this, and…” he nodded toward the compass box, “and the other, of course. But don’t worry.” He looked around at the others, making eye contact with each of them except for Sonia, who was turned away. “Don’t worry,” he said.

  Back in his own room a few minutes later, Edward placed the inlaid wooden box and the briefcase on top of the dresser. He went over to the window, then returned abruptly to the briefcase and opened it. There was a folder on top containing sheets of paper written in Homer’s fine script. He lifted up the folder. The rest of the case was filled with packets of twenty dollar bills.

  Just after 1 AM, Albert Tomkis nosed his dark blue Volvo into the curb in front of his P Street home in Georgetown. Homer got out with his shoulder bag. They climbed the steps of the narrow brick town house. There was the sound of keys ringing against each other as Albert felt for the proper one, and inserted it into the top lock. Homer waited sleepily behind him. He was looking forward to crawling into the familiar bed in the third floor guest room.

  Albert turned the key part way and then stopped, puzzled. The top lock appeared to be have been left undone. He shrugged and pushed the key into the lower lock. With a click, the door opened inward. Albert paused, listening for something. He peered in. There was a dim light in the hallway, and a flitting shadow. Homer heard him draw in his breath.

  “Shit, Homer. Run!”

  He grabbed Homer’s arm to propel him back down the stairs onto the sidewalk and then dragged him along the walk toward an alleyway. “Run.” Homer was still more than half asleep. He didn’t want to run. He had to go to the bathroom. His shoe was untied.

  “What? What’s happening? Wait.”

  “Run. Run, Homer.” Albert turned into the alley, pulling Homer. There was a sound of hurried footsteps on the walk behind them. “Run, damn you.”

  Down the alley and over the iron gate into the garden behind the house. Fortunately the gate had a cross bar where Homer put a foot to lift himself over. They stumbled down the lawn. Homer had lost his right shoe at the gate, he could feel the uneven turf through his stockinged foot. Their pursuer shouted something behind them, a sharp, incomprehensible sound. There were lights thrown on inside Albert’s house, then after a moment, a floodlight in the garden. Homer followed Albert at a run all the way to the back fence, a six-foot high wooden structure. Albert leaned over with his hands forming a stirrup for Homer to step into. “Up,” he said. “Quick.” There was a second man rushing down the back stairs from the house, hurrying toward them, shouting. Homer put his foot into Albert’s hands and felt himself catapulted up to the top of the fence and clumsily over. He picked himself up as Albert clamored over behind him. A sudden clumping sound as their first pursuer hit the fence, obviously at a full run. The shadowy figure above them on the fence, then rolling over. He tumbled in a heap at Homer’s feet.

  The man looked up at Homer. “Don’t be an idiot, Tomkis. You’ve got to come with us.”

  “I’m Layton,” said Homer. He paused for only a moment to consider, and then kicked him in the face. The man let out a startled shriek. As he put his hands over his face, Homer maneuvered around his legs and kicked him in the stomach. He had to use his left foot for kicking because the other shoe was gone. Albert was lifting himself up. He had lost his glasses and now detected them under his foot, shattered. “Damn,” he muttered. The second man was suddenly on top of the fence. A glimpse of blond hair in the dim light. He jumped down beside Tomkis, collaring him heavily with one arm. Albert looked up startled.

  The blond man pushed Tomkis back against the fence. He was leaning into him with his back to Homer. I am a man of science, Homer thought, not a cop. Not an adventurer. I am nearly eighty. I need to take a leak. Who could fault me if I just gave up? He thought this as he moved forward. Homer reached up between the blond man’s legs and grabbed his balls, squeezing hard. He lifted him up by the crotch. The man let out a strangled cry. As he crumpled over, his pale, surprised face slid down past Homer’s chest. Homer lifted his left knee into the face. There was the crunch of nose cartilage breaking against his knee cap. The man fell down writhing on top of the prone form of his companion. Homer grabbed Albert by the arm and led him through an arbor, over another low iron fence and out onto Wisconsin Avenue.

  13

  SAVING THE BACON

  From their room at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, Homer and Albert placed a call to the State Department. Albert’s plan was to get a message to the Secretary of State, get him to call back, and then arrange to join him at the White House. The Secretary would be their entree to the President. The way to get a quick, secure message to the Secretary, he said, was through Tracy Laxalt, the young woman who ran the Caribbean desk at State. Albert thought it best to have Homer initiate the contact, rather than risk having his own voice recognized.

  “State Department, main switchboard. Good Morning.”

  “Yes, Good Morning. Ms. Laxalt, please, the secretary to the Under Secretary for Caribbean Affairs.”

  “Yes sir.” Click. Click.

  “State Department, main switchboard. Good Morning.”

  “Um, yes. I…Good Morning. Ms. Laxalt, please.”

  “Yes sir.” Click. Click.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Laxalt?”

  “No, this is the main switchboard. Didn’t I just talk to you?”

  “I think so. I’m trying to reach Ms. Laxalt.”

  “Well, she’s probably terribly busy. She can hardly be expected to pick up her own phone. I’ll switch you to her secretary.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  Click. Click.

  “Miss Laxalt’s line.”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to Miss Laxalt, please.”

  “I am sorry, sir. Miss Laxalt is away from her desk just at the moment. This is her secretary.”

  “You’re the secretary to the secretary to the Undersecretary?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, will she be back soon? It’s important that I speak to her.”

  “She’s away from her desk. That’s what we say when someone is away. So you don’t go into whether she’s in the ladies room or at a meeting, or whatever. But I think she’s at a meeting. Or whatever. I do believe, though, that she is at a meeting, however I can’t be sure of that. But it would be safe to say. There are so many meetings that she has to…”

  “Could you take a message, then? Or will she call in?”

  “…There are just so many meetings that she has to go to as part of her work. That’s just the nature of the job. But, yes, I could give you a message, I suppose. Let me see if I have one here.”

  “No I want to give you a message.”

  “And she does call in. At least she usually does. If she does call in, I could ask her then if there are any messages, I guess.”

  “I want to leave a message. If she could call me. That’s the whole message. Homer Layton at the Four Seasons Hotel. 524-6900. Layton. It’s urgent.”

  “Why don’t I just take that message and give it to her when she calls in? She’s sure to be calling in. I’m writing your name on this little pad…”

  “Layton. 524-6900, room 228.”

  “I’m writing up a pink message slip.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There now. And th
e message is for…?”

  “Miss Laxalt.”

  “Oh, of course. Well, I’ll just give it to her when she comes back. And if she calls for messages…”

  “Thank you.”

  “If she calls in, well I’ll read this to her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And then she will call you right back.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Probably tomorrow. Or Friday. Have a nice day, sir.”

  Senator Hopkins had reserved the Flamingo Meeting Room for his policy mapping session. There were sixteen persons present, including Sonia, Edward, Maria and Loren. These four were present in body only. They had been up for most of the night, working over Homer’s lists and dividing up the tasks that he’d left to be done, if and when he gave the word. Kelly and Claymore were standing by now in the living room of the suite, in case Homer should call. Claymore had brought a box of modeling clay which he was forming into a likeness of Kelly’s head and shoulders. Absorbed in his work, he seemed the picture of perfect contentment. Kelly and her emerging clay portrait, on the other hand, both appeared a bit strained. Kelly had the morning news on. She would get word to the others immediately if anything broke.

  Loren took his place at the conference table. Their being here was part of Homer’s plan. It was essential to keep up appearances. This was as important as any other part of the plan. Senator Hopkins and the others were to be kept in the dark about what might be happening. The most likely thing, was that this scare would blow over, and then it would be a terrible embarrassment if they were found out to have let any part of it leak. Loren nodded to the Senator and to Professor Porter, the only ones of the rest of the group whom he recognized. He was trying to appear normal, trying to remember exactly what normal was. Normal, normal, normal.

  There was a neat little folder of papers in front of his place, and an identical folder in front of each of the other places. Loren opened his to see an agenda and some position papers. One of the papers was a study of university tuition and fee schedules through the year 2099. Under the folder was an empty yellow pad. He got out a pencil and jotted down three things that had occurred to him in the elevator. Homer’s contingency plan seemed to envision some sort of an expedition. It spoke of provisions for 200 people, though who those might be Loren had no idea. But if they were going off with a crowd, there were other things they’d need. He began to make a list of first aid supplies required. Or had Homer already listed first aid supplies in one of his own pages? No matter, Loren knew better what was likely to be useful.

  At the head of the table, Chandler paused for effect. A long pause. He liked to begin only when his audience was positively begging for the suspense to end. Ted Pinkham, the university Proctor, and Chancellor Lawrence Brill, he noticed, were waiting eagerly for whatever he had to say. What a pair of dedicated and loyal followers those two were. He had assembled a truly impressive team for Cornell over the past year, with just a few remaining laggards to be weeded out over time. And the little working group he’d convened here this morning would certainly be a credit to any university. He scanned the ranks of his brain trust now. Too bad Layton had bowed out. Still, it was amusing to have his three assistants at one’s disposal, ready to be put to work. Chandler suspected that they represented more than half the raw think-power in the room that morning. He glanced at Dr. Duryea, immediately to his left. She was scribbling furiously on her pad. Probably jotting down ideas prompted by the agenda points he had provided in the handouts. Barodin and Martine were also writing. Dean Sawyer was staring off into space, no, now she was writing something on her pad as well. Chandler congratulated himself. The crew was so eager that the work was already beginning. Time to weigh in and provide some clear leadership.

  “Ahem. Well, good morning ladies and gentlemen. I see that we’re all ready to begin. I’m going to start with a question. The question is, What Matters?” A well-timed moment to let that sink in. He smiled encouragingly around the table. “By that I mean, what specifically is it that propels a university, or any human endeavor for that matter, toward greatness? Doctor Barodin, perhaps we could begin with you.”

  “Huh?”

  “What matters? What are the characteristics concomitant with greatness?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

  “Uh huh. Exactly. We don’t really know what the concomitant characteristics are, do we? And that’s why we have convened this ‘brain trust,’ as I think of it this morning, to examine that question in some detail, and to come up with radical new answers to guide us through the entire century.” He looked down again at Barodin, who was bent back to his pad, taking notes. The Senator turned to Sonia. “Doctor Duryea, what do you think the characteristics are?”

  “Characteristics?”

  “Yes. What are they?”

  She had thinking of adding a few dozen backpacks to one of Homer’s lists; he seemed to have given no thought to how any of what they were buying would be carried. Chandler was waiting for her response. Sonia made an effort to concentrate on his question. “Umm…What are the characteristics? The characteristics of, that is, the most characteristic ones.” Her mind was a blank. “Well, that is a good question.”

  “I daresay. But if you had to put your finger on just one, just to get us started, what would it be, Doctor Duryea? What is the most necessary thing for us to attain our greatness?”

  “Um, survival?”

  “Yes. That is certainly necessary. But let us be more positive for the moment, and not just think about survival. What is the very foremost of the qualities concomitant with greatness? It is…come now people, who will break the ice? The foremost quality is…? Chancellor Brill?”

  “Excellence, Mr. President.”

  “Aha. Excellence. And there we begin. Dean Sawyer, perhaps I could ask you to keep some notes. Write ‘Excellence’ down as the first item of the list of qualities. Now Chancellor Brill, take it from there. Give us your own view of steps in the achievement of true excellence.”

  Brill pushed back his seat and stood up. The others turned to look at him. The university’s second highest ranking officer was barely five feet tall. Maria Sawyer was struggling to keep a straight face. Whenever Lawrence Brill stood up, she had an almost uncontrollable urge to shout out ‘stand up, please.’ That was mean. Try to be serious, Maria. The man can’t help it that he’s short. He can’t help it that he’s greasy and a terrible sycophant. Chancellor Brill was the only one who ever called Senator Hopkins ‘Mr. President.’ She suspected that that was how he got to be Chancellor.

  Brill deepened his voice. “Excellence. Our president has begun with a question, and I shall begin with one as well. Where is it that a critical lack of excellence poses a significant threat to our fair university?”

  It was a rhetorical question. He had his own answer and was ready to present it. But Senator Hopkins answered for him: “In the faculty.”

  “Exactly. Precisely and exactly correct!” ’Brill looked delighted at the Senator’s interjection, though the answer he had been about to supply himself was a totally different one. He had wanted to suggest that the fault lay with the student body. But what the hell. He could adapt. “The faculty. That is where our attention must be directed. Thank you for that, Chandler.”

  “Quite.”

  Brill went on, making it up on the fly. “Present company excepted, of course, our faculty lacks excellence. And what is our most pressingly needed action to assure excellence in the faculty?”

  “More money,” said Professor Porter. “Much more money for salaries. Much much more.”

  “Mm. Well there is a suggestion. Not the only one, of course, but it is definitely a suggestion.” He looked crestfallen. “Uh. Mr. President?”

  Senator Hopkins took the floor again. He wore a grave expression. This was not at all what he’d had in mind for the opening discussion. He focused on Porter what he hoped might be a withering gaze, without seeming to be. “Yes. That was a suggestion, of so
rts. And we’ll hear some other ones, I trust, as well.” He was trying to think of Porter’s name. In his own thoughts and notes, he referred to the various department heads by their subjects. So Porter was ‘English’ and the tall fellow beside him was ‘PolySci’ and the woman on the other side was ‘Economics.’ They all had names too, but it was a bother to remember them. Fortunately, Candace had written some notes for him that associated the names with the departments. The problem was that he hated to put his reading glasses on while he was speaking, and he couldn’t read his notes without them. In the Senate, you could just refer to the ‘honorable gentleman from Louisiana’ and never worry about names, a much better system.

  “The honorable gentleman from the English Department has suggested more money. I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that as we move along on into the future, there will indeed be more money paid to faculty members. So that point is covered, I daresay. But more germane to our needs of the moment, I think, are the steps that we might take to foster a true sense of professionalism.”

  “Professionalism is the word, Mr. President. Exactly the word,” said Chancellor Brill.

  “Yes. I think it is.”

  “We are all professionals in this room, of course,” Brill went on, “and all we really ask is that the others be professionals as well. Instead of bellyaching all the time and dicking around with protest committees and all that. That is not professionalism.”

  “So true,” agreed Proctor Pinkham, wearily. “Marching around with students and carrying pickets and chanting things is not professional. It’s not ethical, and it’s not moral, and it shouldn’t even be legal. So it certainly is not professional.”

  “Quite.” Chandler had slipped his glasses on for a quick glance at Candace’s notes. “And that ties directly in with Professor Potter’s request for more money…”