by Bob Cook
“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 ca
me 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.
“The arrangement is not wholly without precedent,” he said. “There was a Dr Austin who was employed by Military Intelligence. It was understood that the Foreign Office would provide us with some financial compensation, which would cover his subsequent return to the College.
“Unfortunately, Austin died in rather mysterious circumstances, so the arrangement was never concluded. Does not something of the sort apply to Dr Wyman?”
“I know of no records showing compensation for Wyman’s departure,” said the Bursar.
“There were no such records for Austin,” Hume said. “It was a gentleman’s agreement between us and the Government.”
“That proves nothing,” snapped the Bursar.
“The Bursar has a point here,” said the Master. “And it does not seem to me that the Government has behaved towards us in a gentlemanly fashion lately.”
“Exactly,” said the Bursar. “We are continually reminded by the Government that circumstances are not what they were thirty years ago. The same argument should therefore apply in Wyman’s case.”
Hume frowned and tapped his pipe against an ashtray.
“I think you will find,” he said, “that Wyman is not eligible for a pension from his present employers. He is expecting to receive one from this College. If we deny him it, we will be acting dishonourably, irrespective of whether or not we are under a contractual obligation.”
There was another murmur of disquiet among the dons.
“Those are strong words,” said the Master. “I do not feel there are grounds for calling the Bursar’s proposals dishonourable.”
“I can think of no other word to describe such proposals,” said Dr Hume, “if they mean leaving a Fellow of this College without a pension or any recognition of his work.”
“Since the bulk of Wyman’s work has been for the Government,” said the Bursar, “it is they who should recognize his efforts and achievements, such as they are.”
“If Wyman had retained his full Fellowship, we would not be arguing about him now,” Dr Hume said. “An ordinary Fellow has life tenure, and his position is assured. Wyman only exchanged his Fellowship for an Honorary Fellowship because it was an administrative convenience from our point of view. Had he known that everything could be sacrificed by making this move, he would never have agreed to make it. He will have every right to feel cheated and, I repeat, we will have acted dishonourably.”
“Nevertheless,” said the Master, “I am inclined to agree with the Bursar. Whatever arrangements were made concerning Wyman would have been an act of goodwill between us and the Foreign Office. Since all goodwill towards us seems to have vanished in the Government, I feel we are entitled—and in this case, obliged—to adopt a similar attitude ourselves. Does anyone have any other views to offer?”
There was a hint of defiance in his question, and the dons knew better than to challenge it. It would have been like trying to play on after checkmate had been called.
“In that case,” said the Master, “I presume the Bursar would like a vote on his proposal.”
Chapter Four
FEIGL’S CELLAR BAR lay on the outskirts of the East German city of Erfurt. It was not the sort of place frequented by nice ordinary people who wanted a quiet drink in comfortable surroundings. On the rare occasions when nice people turned up at Feigl’s they usually left after their first drink.
There were unpleasant rumours about the sort of people who frequented Feigl’s. Most of them were true. Like every town, Erfurt has its pimps and racketeers, and Herr Feigl seemed to know what kind of beer they liked. After a hard day’s criminal work, Erfurt’s villains liked nothing better than a mass of lager and a game of cards in the cellar bar. The evening of May 5 was no exception.
By half past nine most of the tables in the bar were taken, and the air stank of tobacco fumes and alcohol. Five separate card games were in progress: each of them provided a forum for various transactions and complex negotiations. The card-players growled, cackled and cursed as bottles tinkled, coins clattered and plans were laid.
At 10 P.M. Josef Grünbaum walked in. He was a large, burly man in his middle fifties. If every face tells a story, Grünbaum’s ran to twenty volumes. It was scarred and leathery, chiselled into shape by a lifetime of cynicism and violence. Somewhere beneath his Neanderthal eyebrows, two little red eyes stared at the barman.
“A beer, Herr Grünbaum?”
“Yes.”
One of the card players noticed Grünbaum’s arrival and there was a chorus of greetings.
“Evening, gentlemen,” said Grünbaum. His voice was slightly slurred, indicating a few beers elsewhere.
“What have you got for us, Josef?” asked a man at the back.
“Four thousand ballpoint pens, for starters. Any takers?” There was a murmur of interest.
“How much?”
“Two thousand marks the lot.”
There was a pause as the drinkers considered the offer. “What else have you got?”
“I know where to pick up some fruit. Bananas, oranges. Maybe a few lemons.”
“Where?”
Grünbaum grinned smugly.
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” he said. “If anyone’s interested, I’ll work out a price. Think about it, gentlemen.”
East German black-marketeers thrive on the sort of goods that Grünbaum had for sale. Even such mundane items as Biros are a scarce commodity in the DDR. Grünbaum had the knack of obtaining anything from carcasses of meat to boxes of sewing needles. He boasted that he could get anything, provided the money was right, and his clients were seldom disappointed.
Grünbaum succeeded because, unlike most of his competitors, he knew how to handle officialdom. His skill in the use of bribery meant that most of his activities were unimpeded by the police, and even though he was one of the most notorious operators in Erfurt, he had never been arrested.
This is not to say that Grünbaum was without enemies; there were a number of other racketeers who would have been quite happy to send Grünbaum to the bottom of the river Gera with a pair of concrete leg-warmers. Also, there was the ubiquitous Captain Mach of the Volkspolizei, the “People’s Police”, who had formed a deep-seated hatred for Grünbaum. This hatred was fuelled by Mach’s awareness that most of his superiors were in Grünbaum’s pocket, and that any charges laid against the black-marketeer would almost certainly be dropped.
Grünbaum liked his role as a disreputable Mr Fixit, and he played on it to the full. He boasted that his “friends in the Party” could supply him with anything from false visas to secret information. He even hinted at dealings with “friends abroad”, though most of Grünbaum’s associates regarded this as the rhetoric of an inflamed ego. Others were not so sure.
A voice piped up at one of the tables.
“I’ll take the ballpoints off you, Grünbaum.”
Grünbaum shook his head.
“No you won’t. Not until you’ve p
aid me for those shoes. Six hundred marks, Frege, remember?”
“You’ll get your money,” said Frege.
“I certainly will,” Grünbaum said. “You’ve got until the end of the week.”
“You never said anything about a time limit,” Frege said angrily.
“If you can afford to buy the pens, you can afford to clear your debts.”
“That’s a dirty trick, Grünbaum,” Frege shouted. “You said I could take my time—”
“You’ve taken it. Now I’d like my money.”
“You’re a fucking Jew, Grünbaum!” Frege yelled. “A miserable, fucking Yid.”
The other drinkers fell silent. Grünbaum’s eyebrows knotted together in a frown.
“You’d better watch your tongue, Frege,” he said. “I won’t hear that sort of talk from anyone. Even from a young idiot who can’t hold his beer.”
Frege got up from his table. He was a large man, even bigger than Grünbaum. Despite his size and an advantage of twenty years’ youth, most of those present did not highly rate his chances against Grünbaum. The older man was immensely strong, and although much of him had turned to flab, he could still put his fist through a door if he felt so inclined.
“Fucking Yid,” repeated Frege. “All that bullshit about your connections and what a big man you are, but you still have to scrape the pfennigs out of the gutter to pay for your beer. You’re just a fucking Jew, that’s what— ”
He was interrupted by the arrival of Grünbaum’s fist on his jaw. The blow sent him spinning back, and he hit the floorboards with a crash.
“Now shut up and go home,” Grünbaum said.
The drinkers laughed and watched Frege get to his feet. The expression on Frege’s face indicated that Frege did not feel like going home.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Frege demanded. “You think you own this place, don’t you?”
He picked up a chair and hurled it at Grünbaum. Grünbaum swept it aside with his right arm as Frege’s left fist ploughed into his nostrils. Grünbaum replied with an upper cut that glanced past Frege’s ear, and he felt a sharp pain in his solar plexus as Frege’s right found another target. He lurched forward and smacked his head into Frege’s face.
